Amara had been too upset to reply. She has avoided Philos since then, though she still took his advice. She wore her white dress when Rufus returned, lavished him with affection, professed her boundless loyalty, enthused about the house. She even apologized for her own grief, fearing that it might have marred all he had done for her. Rufus was gracious in reassuring her that he understood. He never mentioned her friend by name and neither did she.

Amara doesn’t have to name Dido to think about her. When she is alone, she spends time standing in the atrium at the same place where Dido stood, trying to take comfort from the fact she was here, in this very house—she saw it, she touched it. Amara remembers their conversations, Dido’s kindness, her surprising boldness when she performed, the way she sang, with a grace like no other. But at night, she cannot blot out her last memory, the blood on Dido’s face, the pain and the horror.

Amara realizes her hands are shaking. She puts Pliny’s letter away. Dido deserves more than private mourning. From her desk drawer, Amara takes a crude wooden carving, a small statue of the goddess Diana, armed with her hunting bow. She wraps the figure in cloth, ties around the label she has written. I am the gift of Gaia Plinia Amara, Liberta.

She gets up, walks down the stairs, looking across the open space. In the garden, painters will soon be starting work on a large fresco. Rufus had seen it as a delightful sign that she is so thrilled with the house, that she wants to make it special for them both, make it somewhere suitable for him to stay. He had been less certain about the myth she chose. It will be Acteon turning into a stag, while his own hounds tear him apart. Wouldn’t she prefer scenes from the legends of Venus, rather than Diana? Perhaps the virgin goddess isn’t quite the thing for a love nest? But Amara laughed, teasing him. We can always have Venus in the bedroom.

She steps down into the atrium. A young woman is waiting by the pool. Amara hurries over. The girl is early, and Amara knows she has very little time to herself. It is Pitane, the waitress from the Elephant, the one who owes Amara for her abortion.

“It’s beautiful,” Pitane says, looking round. “How well you’ve done! I can’t believe it!”

“I’m sorry you can’t stay longer or have some wine with me,” Amara replies. “But I know what it’s like. I’m grateful you spared the time to come at all.”

“It’s no trouble,” Pitane says. “I’m on a run for supplies. They’ll never notice.”