Amara’s stomach is too knotted to eat. Philos has his back to her, facing the road, his skin no doubt burning as he stands in the sun. “You must have been very fond of your grandparents,” she says to Rufus. “What an honor this is.”

“I’m coming again with the rest of the family tomorrow,” he replies, tucking into the olives. “But I suddenly wanted you to see them too.”

“Thank you,” Amara says, touched, in spite of herself, by his affection.

“Grandfather is the one who got the family into politics,” Rufus continues, looking round at the glittering walls, spitting a stone into his hand. The tomb is painted with symbols of wealth, silver work and jewelry heaped on imaginary shelves. “He was duumvir at one time. People still talk about the games he put on at the arena.” Rufus reaches for a vial of watered-down wine, offering it to Amara first. She takes a sip. “He could be quite a difficult man, but he meant well. He told the most wonderful stories. I used to love to listen to him as a boy, the way he would describe Icarus falling from the sky! I felt I had wings myself, hearing him describe it all. And he adored the theater. Father never cared for it much, so Grandfather would take me.”

Philos is standing beside Vitalio, entirely still. Amara knows he can hear every word. “And your grandmother?” she says, hoping to steer Rufus off the topic of Terentius.

“Oh, she was very grand,” Rufus says. “From a much older family. If she hadn’t been, I suspect Grandfather wouldn’t have listened to her half as much as he did. He became a little . . . eccentric as he got older. I used to feel a bit sorry for the slaves who got in his way. One time, he was hitting some poor boy around the head with his sandal in the garden, and Grandmother came rushing out yelling at him, so he stopped. I thought she was annoyed at the punishment, but it was the sandal that upset her. So the boy got hit twice—once with the sandal, and then again with the whip.” Rufus gives a rueful laugh, inviting her to smile with him at his grandparent’s foibles. “The older generation.” He shrugs. “They’re all a bit strict like that.”

Amara is grasping her bread so hard it has partly disintegrated between her fingers. She remembers what it felt like when Felix slapped her, or Thraso. The rage at being unable to retaliate, forbidden from defending a body which is not even yours. Terentius must have hit Philos like that. Perhaps Philos was the boy in the garden, with the sandal. He is still standing beside Vitalio, both of them unmoving at the edge of the tomb.

“Are you alright, little bird?” Rufus asks. “You look upset.”