—Roman maxim

She holds her hands up as if in prayer, steam evaporating from her skin. The water laps at her neck as she lies back into its warmth. Laughter and female voices surround her, a confusion of sound echoing off the stone. She filters it out, focusing on her fingers, turning them, watching the water drip down, the steam rise. They could be anybody’s hands, she thinks, they could belong to anybody. But they belong to Felix.

Then another’s fingers interlock with hers, breaking her reverie. Victoria drags her upward, out of the water.

“Amara! You’re getting your hair wet! You can’t lie back like that!” Victoria’s nails pinch her skin as she tries to revive the curls now plastered to Amara’s shoulders. “They’re like rat’s tails. What were you thinking?”

Anxiety surges through her. So much rests on this afternoon; she cannot believe her own thoughtlessness. “I don’t know, I . . .”

“It doesn’t look so bad.” Amara turns to face Dido who has slid over to join them, a slight frown on her gentle face. “You can hardly notice.”

“The men aren’t here for hair anyway.” It’s a less friendly voice this time. Drauca, Simo’s most valuable woman, is watching them from across the narrow pool. She rises up out of the water, lifting her arms, and sways. The dark waves of her own hair glisten like a raven’s plumage. Behind her, through the curved windows, the sea looks flat and gray. It’s impossible not to stare. Amara thinks of the statue of Helen of Troy back in Aphidnai, back when she had another name, another life.

“Venus Pompeiana!” Victoria gasps, grabbing Amara in exaggerated astonishment.

“The goddess walks among us! Oh, shield my eyes from such glory!” Drauca scowls, dropping her arms with a splash. Victoria laughs. “As if nobody else here has a pair of tits,” she says. Though not loud enough for Drauca to hear.

“She is beautiful though,” Dido says, still staring at their rival. “And she’s been here before, hasn’t she? Maybe the men will prefer her, maybe—”

“Apart from Drauca, what do they have that we don’t?” Victoria interrupts, casting a scathing look at Drauca’s three companions. They are taking up most of the pool, splashing about with theatrical laughter, more posed than playful. “You can tell they’re all barmaids. Maria has arms like a litter-bearer.”

Amara isn’t sure they have the right to sneer, given their own lowly status as brothel whores. She-wolves. A familiar knot tightens in her stomach. “I wonder what the men will be like,” she says.