Cressa’s shoulders start to shake, and Amara knows she is crying, even though she doesn’t make a sound. “What good would that do?” she whispers, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes to stem the tears. “What life can I give a child? Another Paris? A little girl sold as a whore before she’s even grown? It would kill me to watch that; I would rather die.” She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. “And besides,” she says, her voice flat again, “he already told me. Any more babies are going straight on the town’s rubbish heap. He doesn’t make enough from selling a child.”

“Maybe that would be best,” Victoria says. “And it doesn’t mean the baby would die. Look at me. I survived.”

“You don’t understand,” Cressa says. “You have no idea. Do you think because I never talk about Cosmus, that I never think of him? Every second of every day I miss him, want him. Just to see his face. All the time, every waking moment.” She holds her hand to her heart, as if to staunch a wound. “It’s a constant pain, like nothing else. I cannot give another child away.”

Amara and Victoria look at each other, unable to think of any words of comfort. “Maybe the pregnancy won’t work out,” Victoria says in a small voice.

“Maybe,” Cressa replies, drinking her wine. “Maybe.”

On the way back to the brothel, Cressa shakes them both off, choosing to walk alone instead. Victoria takes Amara’s hand, gripping her fingers, like a woman afraid of drowning.

SEPTEMBER

32

“Take me to Pompeii where love is sweet!”

—Pompeii graffiti

Amara takes one of the figs from Drusilla’s table, peeling it, savoring the soft sweetness on her tongue. It is nearly October. Rufus is reclining beside her, his body warm at her back. They have been spending more time at Drusilla’s house, ever since Rufus’s parents returned from their summer at Baiae. His parents do know about her, Rufus has assured her, it’s quite proper for him to have a girlfriend, but it’s probably better neither of them bump into her in the atrium. His mother has funny notions. She thinks a household slave is enough for such things; she doesn’t understand what it means to be in love.

Amara would have been desperate if it were not for Drusilla’s generosity in letting them stay over at her house. Rufus pays her, of course. Amara thinks it must be nice to rent out rooms, rather than your own body. She takes another fig from the table. Tonight is the first time Dido has joined them, and this feels as close to happiness as life can get.