They lie beside one another on the bed. Philos does not try to undress her as he usually would. Nothing about his body language suggests he is in the mood. Amara moves closer to him, aware of how much she hates to be pitied, how it only makes her feel smaller. “Will you hold me?” she murmurs, as if asking for comfort rather than offering it.

The familiar warmth of his body is soothing. She presses close to him, tucking her head under his chin, and he responds by caressing her back. Slowly, Amara feels him relax against her. His breathing deepens, and as the silence stretches on, she starts to worry they might both fall asleep.

“Rufus was modest about his childhood today,” Philos says, his hand still lightly stroking her shoulders. “He was the most endearing boy. I’ve often wondered who he might have become, if he had been born to a different family.”

It is the first time Philos has spoken of the man who owns him in such an intimate way. Amara is surprised but does not show it. “How old was he when you first met him?”

“He must have been about seven. I used to help him with his studies. He’s right that he wasn’t any good at reciting. The hours it would take him to learn just a few lines of verse. Enough to make you despair.” Philos sighs. “Love warps people’s memories. Or maybe he didn’t want to tell you about all the times his grandfather hit him when he read badly. That was why I used to help. He was only a child. I hated seeing him cry.”

“You love him,” Amara says, her shock making it sound like an accusation.

“No,” Philos replies. “I loved him. There’s a difference.”

“When did you stop?”

“It happened very gradually. You can’t just name a day with these things, can you? Children start to learn who matters. Over time, I stopped being the older boy who helped him to read and became another object owned by his family. The sort of object you might see being beaten around the head by a sandal, and turn away in embarrassment.”

“That was you? He knew and told that story in front of you?”

“Even I don’t know if it was me. It was a very violent house, Amara. It could have been any of us. I don’t recall every beating.” Philos is no longer caressing her back; he is holding her tightly, and she can feel the tension returning to his body. “Perhaps it was after Faustilla that I started to despise him. When I could no longer pretend he was the child I had known.”

“Vitalio’s daughter?” Amara asks, perplexed. “The serving girl he had an affair with?”

“An affair isn’t the way I would describe it.”

“You told me she was in love with him.”