It’s a quieter street than the one she used to live on—the brothel stood at a fork in the road, facing one bar and a stone’s throw from another—but even so, stepping out on to the pavement always makes Amara feel like she has slipped from a still pond into a fast-moving stream. She weaves her way past the billowing cloths that flank her doorway, strips of red, yellow and orange fabric flapping in the breeze. The house Rufus rents for her is fronted by a clothing store, one of several on the street. The shopkeeper, Virgula, nods as she passes, unperturbed at having a concubine for a neighbor. After all they both share the same landlord, a friend of Rufus who Amara is yet to meet.

The road is narrow but Amara owns her space on the pavement, her gaze cutting through to the middle distance, forcing others to let her pass. A man weighed down with an armful of leather goods huffs but stands aside. Amara does not acknowledge him. The days she had to meet any man’s eye on the street are over.

It’s not long before she reaches Drusilla’s house. Pompeii’s most desirable courtesan does not live far away, her road runs in parallel to Amara’s. It’s why she knows Rufus will tolerate her making the journey alone. This house is not rented, Drusilla owns it outright, and the beautiful glass workshop that fronts it is also hers. Amara lingers, looking in. The glassware becomes increasingly intricate the further inside you venture. Plain cups and scent bottles stacked on the counter give way to jugs shaped like fishes and an urn dripping in green grapes, a pair of nymphs acting as the vessel’s arms. Amara’s eyes are always drawn to the same place. A shelf carrying small statuettes of the gods. She thinks of the beautiful glass Pallas Athene from her parent’s house, wonders who owns it now.

Amara feels her heart lift as she steps across the threshold into Drusilla’s atrium. The porter inclines his head as she enters: she is always welcome here.

“There you are!” Drusilla calls down, leaning over the indoor balcony, her face dimpled in a smile. Amara beams back. Drusilla is—bar Dido—the most beautiful woman she has ever known. The pale yellow linen tunic she is wearing brings out the warmth of her skin, and her black hair frames her face like a laurel wreath. She could be Hesperia, Amara thinks, goddess of the setting sun.

Amara hurries up the stairs. She always enjoys Drusilla’s company, even more so when they meet without their lovers present, when she knows everything her friend says is genuine. They embrace on the balcony, admiring one another’s outfits, then head to Drusilla’s bedroom where she keeps her harp.