It is painful to think Philos might share the disdain. She knows he will soon be going to his room—or rather his cell—a tiny, dark, cupboard-like space underneath the stairs. Smaller even than her cell in the brothel. But then, he doesn’t have to entertain anyone in there. She pours herself more wine. Amara is aware that Philos must lead a much lonelier life here than he did at Rufus’s house where he no doubt has a whole network of friends, the alternative “family” every slave builds up in service. Perhaps he resents the change to this half-empty house. She has even less idea what the other two think. The porter Juventus will be hunched in his cubbyhole all night, unable to leave his post even for sleep. Martha will bed down in a tiny room upstairs. In her mind, she can see the storeroom at Felix’s flat, the one Rufus paid for her to take as lodgings rather than let her suffer every night in the brothel, in the months before he bought her. Paris must still sleep there, she thinks, picturing her old roommate huddled on the floor. She never cared for him much. Felix’s slave boy and part-time prostitute was very far from being a friend. In fact, Paris and Amara spent most of their time in that room squabbling, but she finds herself thinking of him now with something approaching affection.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” she mutters, free to swear because she is alone. Amara takes another swig from her glass. The wine burns. It is not Paris she misses. Her friends from the brothel are so vivid in her mind they almost feel more tangible than the garden she is sitting in. At this hour, she knows they will be getting ready for the onslaught of customers, joking together to lighten the darkness. She wonders if Beronice still has a pot of gold paste to smear over her eyes, whether she managed to steal any time with her lover Gallus today, or whether Victoria still teases her about it. Amara grips the stem of her glass more tightly. Victoria. The two of them are bound together, not only by love, but a blood debt, a bond as sacred to the gods as it is to men. Without Victoria, Amara would not be alive. It was Victoria who risked everything for Amara, killing a man to save her life. And Amara has never repaid her. Instead, she abandoned her friend to become a rich man’s mistress, leaving Victoria to rot in the brothel.

Guilt sweeps through her, as hot as the wine. She looks at the painting of Dido, little more than a dark shape above. The shadow blurs as her eyes fill with tears. “Goodnight, my friend,” she says to the wall. Amara drains her glass then stands up, leaving everything on the bench for Martha to clear away in the morning.