Drusilla gazes adoringly at her son as he relays his three-year-old’s wisdom with a great deal of self-importance. Amara had been shocked when she learned who the child’s father is. Popidus is a Pompeiian grandee and one so ancient Primus must be many years younger than his legitimate grandchildren. The old man does not recognize Drusilla’s son as his own.

Sitting with her friend, watching the child play in the garden, Amara could almost imagine that her life is now one of blissful security. But even though he is absent, she can still feel Rufus’s hands holding her up—and knows he has the power to let her fall. It is his money which brought her here, he pays for Drusilla’s time, and Amara knows she would never have won such a valued place in her friend’s life if she had a less prestigious lover. When they meet at the Venus Baths, Drusilla is always surrounded by other, less powerful concubines. Amara is one of many women in her orbit.

Time alone with Drusilla is precious but Amara doesn’t dare linger. She needs to prepare herself for Rufus’s visit in the evening. He has been busy this past fortnight with his family celebrating the Parentalia—a domestic festival commemorating the ancestors—which left him little time to see Amara. The festival has been an uncomfortable reminder of her peripheral position in Rufus’s life, and her own orphaned, rootless status.

Amara rises, murmuring her excuses about Rufus to Drusilla, who accompanies her to the door. Drusilla leaves Primus behind with some reluctance, even though she will be free to join her son again in a matter of moments.

“Do you think Rufus would be pleased if you gave him a boy?” Drusilla asks the question just as Amara is poised to step out onto the street.

“I’m not sure,” she says, startled. “I don’t think so.” It is hard for her to explain why, but she is almost certain Rufus would not like to see her as a mother. She is still scrupulous at avoiding pregnancy.

“It is always a gamble,” Drusilla nods, no doubt thinking of the heartless Popidus. “Don’t forget to mention the harp tonight. Go well, my love.”

Drusilla slips back into her home. Amara stands on the threshold, loneliness creeping up on her. When she was enslaved, she would visit Drusilla’s house with Dido. They would leave together too, walking the streets hand in hand back to the Wolf Den. The grief hits her so hard that for a moment she doesn’t think she will be able to keep her composure. I have my freedom now, Amara tells herself. That’s all that matters. She strides out onto the pavement, her face cold, betraying nothing of the loss she feels.