At last, the goddess reaches the narrow road that leads to the temple. The plaster Venus dips and jerks as the slaves carry her over the uneven stones. The women follow, squeezing into the passageway. The mud is even deeper here, and Amara doesn’t like to imagine what might be in the damp sludge she is squelching through; everyone is packed so closely together she cannot see her feet. Getting through the arch into the temple grounds feels like she is being pressed through a sieve. On the other side, there’s a little more room to breathe.

Amara has never been here before. The precinct is enormous, perhaps half the size of the Forum, and although the temple itself is only part built, the vast colonnade which encircles it on three sides gives the illusion of opening out onto the sky. In spite of the crowds, from this position, high up on the edge of the hilltop, she can see the glittering sweep of the bay, the blue haze of the mountains. She stands, mesmerized. The first time Amara saw the sea was at the harbor in Piraeus, waiting to be loaded onto the cargo boat with all the other goods. The water had looked dark and frightening then, the savage kingdom of monsters which kept Odysseus from his home, just as she was being taken from hers. But here at Pompeii the sea looks different. From this height, it has the illusion of calm, a burnished silver mirror, reflecting the sky.

Blasts from horn pipes and flutes draw her attention back to the ceremony. The slaves have carried their painted Venus up the steps onto the dais and set her in front of the altar. Facing the crowd, the goddess of love’s eyes are thickly lined with black, giving her a staring, watchful look. She is naked apart from gold jewelry encircling her arms and the garlands draped around her neck. Behind her, the temple is a half-finished shell. Worshippers aren’t usually allowed in here, but the priests seem to hope today’s offerings will encourage the goddess to bless the construction work. Amara catches sight of Victoria and Beronice squashed beside Gallus. Beronice is leaning against her lover, and Amara realizes with a jolt of surprise that she is clutching a single pink rose to her cheek.

More blasts on the pipes, and the ceremony begins. A waft of smoke drifts toward Amara and she breathes in. It smells sweet with the tang of cinnamon. Priests are burning incense, making offerings of grain and wine. One miscalculates the strength of the flames and an attendant has to step in to protect the goddess from flying sparks. People in the crowd murmur and exchange uneasy glances. Surely that’s not a good sign? Amara looks up at Felix, but his face is impassive. She supposes he can’t be especially pious, or he would have bought them better garlands.