Bitterness wells up in Amara’s heart, like sap from a hemlock stem. That’s true enough, she thinks. “I promise it will pass,” she repeats. “I promise you’ll forget him.”

“Could I come with you tomorrow?” Victoria asks. “When you go to pay him? Just to explain that I forgive him. And say that I hope . . . I hope he forgives me, too.”

Amara thinks of Felix, his utter lack of concern for Victoria, his endless brutality, and cannot help but feel irritated by her friend’s lack of sense. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says. “But I can tell him for you if you like.”

Victoria looks up at Amara, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Would you? You promise me?”

Amara smooths the tears from Victoria’s cheeks, cupping her face in her hands. “Of course I will,” she lies. “I promise.”

16

“Now that I know you, you’re much cheaper, lighter,

And yet desire in me flares even brighter.”

—Catullus, Poem 72

“You want go in here?”

Britannica is looking doubtfully at Amara, the pair of them loitering by the doorway of a tavern. Asellina’s bar is on the busiest stretch of the Via Veneria, and even in the middle of the day, the noise inside is raucous, hot air billowing from the door.

“It’s the only place Fabia would agree to meet,” Amara says. “And besides, we can see Nicandrus again.” Britannica scowls, unsentimental about the idea of meeting old friends. “I need to know what Felix is up to before I see him,” Amara adds, exasperated at having to coax her own slave into doing as she asks.

Britannica shrugs, a gesture of half-hearted agreement. They scan the street, making one last check that nobody they know is in sight, then duck to enter, trying to avoid the metal phallus hanging over the door. The Briton is so tall she still manages to hit it. The chimes clank out a warning, bells quivering. Heads turn. Some drinkers only glance over, curious, before returning to their own business, but a number laugh and whistle.

“Here to slum it ladies?” one shouts. “Want the taste of a real man?”

“Fuck off,” Britannica says. “You no man.”

The drinker hesitates, torn between wanting to defend his honor and alarm at the speed with which Britannica’s hand has slid inside her cloak, reaching for her knife.

“You’re an ugly bitch anyway,” he mutters, slouching down lower in his chair.

“None of that, thank you.”

A woman is standing by Amara’s elbow. She must have crossed over from behind the counter. Her face is shining from the heat of the oven, and she has an unfriendly expression.

“We didn’t mean any trouble,” Amara says in a low voice. “Are you Asellina? We’re here to see Fabia, a friend of Nicandrus.”

“That old bag of bones,” Asellina replies. “She’s over there, by the stairwell. Claims friends are buying her lunch.”