They walk downstairs to the first of Amara’s private rooms off the atrium. Martha has already set out the dressing table. It is impossible for Amara not to think about her friend and fellow she-wolf Victoria when she takes her place in front of all the perfumes and cosmetics. She remembers all the cheap bottles Victoria used to line up so carefully on her windowsill at the brothel, the pains she always took to look her best. Victoria is so vivid in Amara’s memory, the tumble of black curls over her shoulders, her husky laugh and the drawl of her sarcastic remarks, that it seems impossible she will not walk in to the room, demanding her own turn at the table. Martha starts to brush out her hair. Amara picks up a delicate glass jar, shaped like a flower, unstoppers it and holds it to her nose. Jasmine. It is the only scent Rufus likes her to wear. Martha huffs as Amara puts it down again and pulls at the comb. All this movement is ruining her attempts to style her mistress’s ringlets.

When she has finished, Martha holds out the silver mirror. Amara always prefers to do her own makeup. She takes the kohl, redoes her eyes where it has smudged, but doesn’t smear any paste on her skin. It was unaffordable while she worked at the brothel and now Rufus is used to seeing her barefaced. The only time she painted herself for him, he hated it. All the words he uses to describe her—lovely, delicate, naive—she takes as instructions rather than compliments. It doesn’t matter that she worked in a brothel, that she outwitted the most violent pimp in Pompeii, or that she could move mountains with her rage. This is not what her lover wants to see, so she hides it all.

“Thank you,” Amara says. “You can start work in the kitchen now.”

“But don’t you need me to come with you?” Martha looks nervous. “Master said it’s better you don’t walk out alone.”

It is one thing having a discontented maid, Amara does not want a spy as well. “The streets do not frighten me,” she replies, with a cold smile, knowing the girl will understand her. “I am quite used to walking them.”

Martha bows her head, cheeks flushing, no doubt cursing the day the Romans dragged her from her homeland to serve a whore. Amara leaves her and walks across the atrium to the huge wooden door. Juventus hesitates a moment before letting her out unaccompanied, glancing round to see if Philos, the steward, is there to grant permission. “Philos is with the Master today,” Amara says impatiently. “Perhaps you will let me out to attend the harp lesson Rufus has paid for?”

“Of course, Mistress,” Juventus says, stepping aside.