A familiar word jolts her back into the present. Chremes. Even with an Italian accent mauling her native Greek, the name hits Amara with unpleasant force. It is her first master, the man her mother sold her to in Aphidnai, who used her as a concubine before allowing her to be sold on as a whore. Except here, on the stage, he is a different Chremes: an old man troubled by his son’s relationship with a prostitute. Amara tries to concentrate, her palms sweating. Rufus does not know what the name might mean to her; she has never spoken of Chremes to him.

Bacchis the courtesan enters the stage to whistles and laughter. The actress’s mannerisms are exaggerated, and she is swathed in bright green robes, beads hanging from her wrists. A troupe of dancing girls follows her. From so far away, Amara cannot catch all the words, but she hears enough. The woman is obsessed with amassing money, terrified of her looks fading, playing a part for as long as she can. Amara looks at Drusilla, but her friend appears undisturbed, smiling as the indignities of their lives are laid bare. Amara turns back to stare at Bacchis, mesmerized by this unkind version of herself, appalled that this might be how Rufus sees her.

A more innocent girl on the stage professes her love for a single client, hands pressed to her heart in sincerity. Amara feels a rush of relief. In Rufus’s imagination, surely this fragile creature is her, not Bacchis. The story settles back into the familiar tale she has heard from her lover a thousand times before, as well-worn as cart grooves in the road: the virtuous girl, snatched into prostitution, freed by her generous patron who marries her when the reality of her high birth is revealed. Amara has never found it comforting, having no high birth to fall back upon, and now it reassures her even less.

Amara finds herself thinking of what Philos said to her. Only fools think life is like a play, with any hope of holding on to your virtue. Philos is a very different man from Felix, but both, she realizes, are more like she is than Rufus will ever be. It is not difficult to imagine her old master’s scorn at the tale being performed on the stage. Her cheeks burn as she remembers their last meeting, the suggestions she made. There are times she cannot believe the game she is playing with Felix. That she would even contemplate doing business with him seems like madness, even if she is in his debt. And yet, Felix knows how to protect himself. He will never be like Myrtale, or worse, like Fabia. And should Rufus drop her, Amara may have little choice over who she associates with. Better to be Felix, or his ally, than to starve.