She recognizes the passion in his face. It is as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, the all-consuming hatred of another, as tormenting as desire. Amara understands, seeing him then, that it is not only tenderness that leads Philos to visit her every night. Perhaps she should be repelled, imagining her body absorbing his loathing for Rufus as well as his love for her. But that is not what she feels. Instead, Amara thinks of the brothel, remembering the times she deceived Felix, how it gave her a pleasure so intense, it made her risk everything she had.

“Show me how much you hate him,” she says.

22

“The praetor should not endure the slave of yesterday, who is today free, to complain that his master has spoken abusively to him, or struck him lightly.”

—Ulpian, Roman jurist

“Is this supposed to impress me?” Felix is holding up the purse, an overpayment on what she is due, with a look of distaste.

“What makes you think I’d want to impress you?” Amara leans back in the chair, as if it were her study rather than his, smiling to belie the coldness of her words. A trick she learned from him. Felix does not smile back, which only amuses her more.

“Ipstilla told me Victoria had been to Cornelius’s house.”

“Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I use my old contacts? The benefit of having a patron, and not being stuck in a cell, is that I can make even more. Just think,” she says, an unpleasant edge to her voice, “you could have shared all that with me.”

The air in the study is close, and her clothes stick to her skin. Felix no longer offers wine when she visits. But his hair, she notices, is still slicked back, his skin smooth from a shave. And is that pomade she can smell? Her mouth twitches in the effort of suppressing her amusement. She looks at him through narrowed eyes, observing. He stares back, unfriendly. “If you want to sit there and brag, I have other business.”

“The new bar?”

“You’re very observant.”

“I thought it was a good way to expand your profits. Makes sense.”

“Glad I impressed you,” he replies, voice heavy with sarcasm. She laughs, this time, and is gratified to see him smile back. It transforms his face, giving the illusion of warmth. He leans over the desk, resting his chin on his hands. “Each time we meet, you speak like a woman with a proposal, yet you never make it. What is it you want from me?”