“Who are we going to visit?” she asks, trying to infuse her voice with excitement, hoping that wherever they are destined to be, Philos will melt into the background, that the day will not be overshadowed by the many shades of guilt she feels toward both men.

“I’m not spoiling the surprise just yet,” Rufus replies. “You’ll have to be patient.”

They draw closer to the edge of town, and the street grows more congested, people lining up outside the cook shops that cluster the gate. Many are chatting together in small groups, some carrying baskets like Vitalio. Amara and Rufus find themselves squashed between the loiterers and a gaggle of small children who are perched on the edge of the pavement, throwing stones at a dog on the opposite side of the road. Before Philos can clear them a path, a man barges over, shouting, smacking one boy round the ear and dragging him back into the line. The other children scatter.

“Is it a day for visiting the dead?” Amara asks, looking uneasily at all the queuing families. Rufus squeezes her hand but says nothing.

The archway provides a moment’s welcome shade before they pass through onto the wider stretch of road. It is lined with enormous graves and monuments, their solemnity undermined by the picnicking families dotted around them. A few are making offerings of food and wine to their dead relatives, but most are chatting and eating. Amara and Rufus follow Philos to a family tomb within sight of the town walls. It is tall and square, face open to the street, its inside hollowed out with a circular bench, while a domed ceiling keeps off the sun. Small, painted statues of the dead stand in niches in the wall. Rufus stops, pointing up at a couple. “My grandparents.”

Philos and Vitalio are standing behind them. She is grateful Philos cannot see her face, or her look of feigned delight at meeting Terentius. “How lovely of you to bring me here,” she exclaims. “I hope they won’t mind me visiting.”

“Grandfather would have adored you,” Rufus says, leading her to sit on the shaded bench inside the tomb. Vitalio leaves the basket beside her, then he and Philos retreat, to stand outside in the heat. “He was such a character.” Rufus reaches across Amara’s lap, drawing out a small bottle of wine. “This is for him, before we leave,” he says, setting it on the stone floor, before gesturing at her for the basket. She hands it to him. It is packed with bread, olives, even some dried figs wrapped in a cloth. Not unlike the supplies she would have taken to share with her parents at their own ancestors’ more modest graves.