Amara spends at least an hour answering all Livia’s impertinent questions, and when she arrives back at the house, a little flushed from the wine, Rufus is waiting for her. He stands by the pool, Philos and another of his servants, Vitalio, beside him. Vitalio is clutching a large basket, nobody having instructed him to set it down.

“I wasn’t expecting you today, my love,” Amara exclaims, running to greet him. Rufus kisses her and lifts her off her feet in an exuberant embrace. She is conscious of Philos close by, even though she cannot see him. Rufus sets her down but does not remove his hands from her waist.

“Aren’t I allowed to surprise you?” Rufus stares down at her, the lines from his smile crinkling around his eyes.

“Always,” she says, smiling back.

“I’m going to take you to someone very dear to me.” Rufus draws her arm into his, walking toward the door. “A visit outside the city walls.”

Philos and Vitalio follow silently behind. Juventus steps back to let them through, no danger of him leering at her in the master’s presence, his eyes look to the floor. Outside on the street, Virgula bows as they pass, Rufus acknowledging her with a gracious tilt of his head. Philos slips ahead of them, and to her dismay, Amara realizes that wherever they are going, Philos must have been ordered to walk in front while Vitalio is behind. She will have no option but to stare at her lover for the duration of the journey.

Rufus and Amara attract respectful glances as they pass, people giving them space on the pavement. She is aware this is for Rufus, not her, but the shine of his status casts a wide protective glow. Nobody gives space to Philos. His sole purpose is to alert others to get out of his master’s way. In the harsh glare of the sun, his tunic looks even poorer than it does at home. The dark material is wearing thin at the shoulders; there is a small rip he must have carefully repaired at the back. His stance is always upright—Philos does not stoop like so many slaves—but without wealth and its attendant power, even his good looks give him no authority. If she did not already love him, Amara realizes, with a sense of shame, that she would barely notice him.

They walk through town to the Vesuvian gate, the blue mountain rising slowly above the rooftops as they approach. It is not the main trading route into town, and the street has space for them to walk comfortably. Beyond the walls, Amara knows there are vineyards and villas, a wealthy enclave outside Pompeii.