Amara is not entirely sure she believes Drusilla when she says she does not love Quintus. It’s hard to dedicate so much attention to pleasing a man without ending up feeling some affection for him. “I keep having to remind myself to ration out the tricks I learned at the brothel,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Leave Rufus a few surprises.”

Drusilla snorts. “That one maneuver you told me about! I think even Quintus was shocked when I tried it.”

They both laugh. Amara settles back onto the cushions, enjoying the freedom of friendship, the license to say what she likes. Her apprenticeship at the brothel was brutal, everything Felix forced her to learn came at the highest possible cost, but now, after she has escaped, it can almost seem worth the pain. “Priscus finished the painting today,” she says.

“How do you think Rufus will react? When he realizes it’s Dido?”

“Philos says he won’t even notice,” Amara shrugs. “She was just a slave to him.”

“You discuss Rufus with Philos?” Drusilla’s voice is sharp. “Is that wise?”

“Philos was my friend before, when we were both . . .” Amara hesitates, not wanting to say the word. “When we were both enslaved.”

“But now you are not and he still is. Philos belongs to your lover. Be careful what you say. He might feel bound to repeat it to his master.”

“I trust him,” Amara says. “I don’t believe he would do that to me.” She hopes it is true. She feels too ashamed to admit the truth to Drusilla. That she is so lonely she cannot bear to be distant with Philos, to admit that he is Rufus’s servant and not her friend. Who else is there in the house for her to talk to? “How is Primus?” She asks, changing the subject.

“Oh!” Drusilla claps her hands, face shining with delight. “He’s doing so well with his letters! Such a clever boy. Come, come, I’ll take you to see him. He will love to show off to you.” She leaps off the couch, holding out her hand. Amara takes it and lets Drusilla lead her down the stairs.

They cross the atrium, heading out into the garden. Primus is roaming through the flowers, prattling about a bee, waving a small chubby hand, watched over by his nurse. He looks so like his mother. The same dimples when he smiles, the large dark eyes. Drusilla flings her arms out and the little boy runs over, hugging her round the knees. Amara smiles. She didn’t even know about the existence of Primus until a month after Rufus freed her. Drusilla guards her child from all but her closest friends.

“What have you learned today?” Drusilla is asking him. “What can you tell Mummy?”

“Bees live in palaces of wax!” he declares, looking up at his mother and then at Amara, as if daring her to contradict him. “They turn flowers into honey!”