Felix slaps Ipstilla hard across the back of the head, and she yelps. She stares at Felix, bewildered, obviously not used to a master with no favorites and no loyalty. “She didn’t brawl in the street like a rabid bitch either,” he says. “Don’t fucking question me again.” They arrive back at the brothel, and Felix greets Paris at the door. “Make sure you take the clothes from them first,” he says, pointing at the women who have returned from the party. “I don’t want them torn.” He clicks his fingers at Amara, and she follows him. She cannot bear to look back at Dido, left behind with the rabble.

“Little dog,” Ipstilla hisses as she passes. “He will tire of you.”

Felix says nothing to her as they walk up the stairs, but before she can head to the storeroom he stops her. “Did the dancers earn more than you tonight?” It is the first time they have spoken alone since he told her about his mother.

“Yes,” Amara says, not wanting to betray any emotion in her answer.

He leans on the wall, looking her over. She can tell from the hatred in his eyes that he will never forgive her for seeing him as she did, that he will always need to diminish her. “Posh boy today, isn’t it? You’d better get some sleep. You look tired. Like Cressa.” He presses his finger to her cheek, testing its softness, as if she were fruit at the market. “Pretty face. Nobody ages faster than a whore.”

Drusilla’s dressing table reminds her of the luxurious mornings she spent with Sarah, at Pliny’s house. Amara is conscious of the favor the courtesan is showing her, allowing her into her intimate space. Drusilla’s favorite maid, Thalia, is dressing Amara’s hair. She has dark brown skin like her mistress, and deft, clever fingers. Drusilla has already explained Thalia’s worth, how expensive it was to find a woman who would know the best styles for her own hair. Thalia listened to it all in silence, without betraying how she might feel, or what it meant to her, being shipped all the way from Axum to Pompeii to make a stranger look beautiful.

“I was only a small child when I came here,” Drusilla says. “I remember almost nothing of my family. My master Veranius became everything to me.” She fingers the gold bracelet on her upper arm. It is the most Amara has ever heard her speak about herself.

“Was that his gift to you?” she asks.

In answer, Drusilla slips the bracelet down her arm and hands it to Amara. It is heavier than she expects, shaped like a snake, its eyes glittering gemstones. Inside is an inscription. From the master to his slave girl. Amara admires it then gives it back. “He must have loved you dearly to have made you such a beautiful bracelet,” she says.