The women are called on to approach the steps. For a moment, Amara wonders if Felix is going to come too, but he releases her arm and gestures for her and Dido to go ahead. Cressa joins them, lips moving in prayer, and they walk forward arm in arm. Amara wonders what Cressa is asking for. She looks down at her own crumpled offering. All the prayers of her childhood were to Athene; she doesn’t know what she should ask her new mistress, doesn’t know how much she believes in the gods at all.

Temple slaves guard the base of the steps to prevent over-zealous worshippers getting too close to the altar. Some of the women are weeping, raising their arms to the statue, milking the moment, others simply drop a sprig and leave. Victoria and Beronice are already at the front. Beronice lobs her rose so hard toward Venus, one of the attendants reprimands her. Victoria is uncharacteristically quiet, unweaving almost all the myrtle from her hair. She kisses it and lets it fall. Cressa lets go of Amara’s arm and pushes ahead. Amara and Dido hang back, uncertain.

“What do we ask for?” Dido whispers.

Amara looks up at Venus. It’s the closest she has been to the statue. Those painted eyes, so black and wide apart, don’t just look watchful but angry. She is not only the goddess of love, Amara thinks, this is a deity who drives men to madness, a destroyer of warriors, author of the fall of Troy.

“We ask her for power over men.”

Amara pulls Dido closer to the steps. She takes her sprig in both hands, crushing it to release the scent. May men fall to me as this offering falls to you, Greatest Aphrodite. May I know love’s power, if never its sweetness. Amara drops her mangled garland on the ever-growing pile of heaped offerings from the desperate whores of Pompeii.

13

“Learn singing, fair ones. Song’s a thing of grace;

Voice oft’s a better procuress than face.”

—Ovid, The Art of Love III

Felix’s women loiter at the entrance to the Forum, trying to decide which way to go. The Vinalia has taken hold like a fever. Clumps of drinkers stand around, while street musicians and performers stoke the excitement, urging people to dance. At the edge of the square, wine sellers are busy behind their stalls, making sure nobody goes short. Their master has given the she-wolves permission to stay out until evening—an unheard of amount of freedom. As if to prove his point, Felix has already abandoned them and wandered off to join a group of men. Amara isn’t sure what to do with herself.

“Don’t just stand there!” Cressa says, shooing her and Dido toward the nearest wine seller. “Make the most of it!” Cressa buys herself two flasks of honeyed wine, keeping one in reserve, while she knocks back the other.