“I know you’re trying to get rid of me.” Felix smiles back, as if they were friends sharing a joke. “Perhaps proposal was the wrong word. A promise might be better.” He pulls her a little closer, growing more confident when she does not try to resist him. His body is so close she can feel the heat of him. “You are a whore who caught the eye of a rich man, who has nothing of her own. And you owe your former master several thousand sesterces. I don’t think you are in a position to turn down anyone’s generosity, especially not mine.” Felix is staring into her eyes, and Amara has no choice but to stare back, not wanting to provoke him by looking away. “We’re the same, you and I. And I know you see it.” He pulls her so close, the smell of his pomade, shot through with sweat, is overpowering. “That’s why I’m not going to fuck you yet, even though we both know you wouldn’t fight me off—you’d just let me take whatever I wanted. Because that would be safer than explaining all those bruises to posh boy.”

Rage finally overpowers Amara’s fear, and she tears her arm from Felix’s grasp. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

“Yes,” Felix says, finally stepping out of her way. “You are.” He laughs, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Let’s just add it to your account, for when the final payment is due.”

Amara knows, the moment she steps into the small waiting room where Juventus and Philos are waiting, that Philos has noticed her agitation. His eyes widen, full of unasked questions, and she can do nothing but turn her face aside.

They leave the flat, walking down Felix’s narrow staircase, heading back onto the street. Still Amara and Philos can say nothing to one another, the tension from her silence growing between them, but when they reach the Via Veneria, Philos turns suddenly to address Juventus in dialect. Amara waits, perplexed, unable to understand a word. The doorman nods then slopes off toward the Forum, the opposite direction to home.

“What did you say to him?” she asks, shocked by the unexpected dismissal.

Philos has already started walking again, forcing her to keep pace. “Rufus wanted me to run an errand for him,” he says. “Something to take back for the gem cutters. I just sent Juventus instead.” They pause to let a group of chattering women pass, obviously on their way to an afternoon’s hot soak at the baths. “Don’t look at me, Amara,” Philos says, lowering his voice. “But please tell me he didn’t hurt you.”

“He didn’t hurt me.”

“What’s wrong then?” And in spite of his order not to look, he glances at her.