Philos has already left by the time Victoria and Amara set off on their shopping trip. No doubt he was summoned, as usual, to help Rufus or Hortensius in the administration of the family business. Amara thinks of the gem-cutting workshops and jewelry stores that line the outside of Rufus’s house. They have been a source of gifts for her, and a source of curiosity too whenever she dares pass by, but for Philos, every room, every item, must be familiar. Not to mention his knowledge of the accounts. It gives her a strange feeling, imagining all the many things she does not know about his life.

“Where shall we go?” Victoria is asking, bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. “Here on your street? Or somewhere new?” Her face shines bright as Amara’s silver mirror when it catches the light.

“I thought we could go to the Via Veneria. Try one of the bigger shops. The one near Julia’s place has so many Assyrian silks—we’ll be there for hours.”

Victoria seizes Amara’s hand. “Perfect!”

Amara is aware of the sidelong glances they attract, walking along the pavement together, but Victoria does not care. She never seems to have learned that there is no need to fish for male attention anymore, or perhaps she wants to make up for the slight Quintus paid her yesterday. Her eyes are everywhere, hungry for admiration. Amara is not sure whether to be amused or exasperated.

“We’ll never get to the shop at this rate,” she says, after Victoria’s passing causes a row between an outraged woman and her leering husband.

“Think of the tips I’ll make at the Floralia,” Victoria replies, tossing her head. “This is just practice.”

The fabric shop is one of the prettiest on the Via Veneria. Above the open front, paintings from the legends of Venus look down. The goddess of love receives offerings from her servants, a serpent coiled at her feet for good fortune. Unlike Virgula’s place, very few fabrics have been hung out on the street, perhaps too precious to be left to chance. Amara has a sudden misgiving about the price.

Victoria darts in before Amara can voice her anxiety, heading to the counter with the confidence of a woman who has imagined herself doing this for years. “Assyrian silk,” Amara hears her say to the serving girl. “We’d like to see everything you have.”

The girl glances from one woman to the other, sizing them up. Her eyes come to rest on the silver pendant at Amara’s neck, with its perfect amber drop. The first present Rufus ever gave her, the one that still retains the sheen in Amara’s memory of something close to love. “At the back, ladies,” she says, with an obsequious smile.