Amara had been mortified. Then furious. What did he expect? That she would stay as thin as she had been at the brothel when she could barely afford one meal a day? But she had swallowed her anger. Rufus is not unkind, she tells herself. She is lucky to have such a devoted patron. And maybe it wasn’t even a criticism. Maybe he was just noticing. Making an affectionate joke even. Still, she has decided to eat less, to be on the safe side.

The clank of the door rings out, the murmur of male voices. Amara drops her bread and flings off the shawl, swinging her legs up on the couch, trying to make herself look as seductive as possible. A figure is approaching. It is hard to see clearly when the room is so bright and the atrium so dim, but even so, she can tell it is not Rufus. The man is too slight, and his tread not heavy enough. Amara sits back up again, heart thudding with disappointment, as Philos walks into the room.

“The master says he is very sorry not to make it this evening.” Philos does not come too close to her, instead lingering by the door. Unlike Juventus who never misses a chance to eye up his master’s girlfriend when she is in the transparent dress, Philos keeps his eyes on Amara’s face. “He had to have dinner with Helvius.”

“Oh,” Amara says, reaching for her shawl to cover herself again. “And that was definitely the reason?” In another life, when Felix still owned her, it was Philos who had told her about Rufus having a second lover. He promised her back then that the affair with the serving girl meant nothing to his master, and he had been proven right.

“I promise,” he replies. “He really was very disappointed not to see you.”

Amara breathes out with relief. She can see Philos step back, knows he is about to leave. “Won’t you stay and have something?” she blurts out, not wanting to be alone.

“Here?” Philos asks, incredulous. They stare at one another, Amara’s cheeks burning with embarrassment. He lowers his voice. “You know I can’t. What sort of slave eats his master’s food in his own dining room?” With his own concubine, he might add, but doesn’t.

“You’re right,” she says. “Sorry.”