She unravels the scroll of Hesiod’s Theogony and starts to read, aware that Demetrius is still staring at her. Her heart beats faster. Amara has lived by the use of her wits and her body for too long not to comprehend that if she did not love Philos, or have to endure Rufus’s contract, Demetrius would represent an opportunity. Julia has told her intriguing details about his life; that Demetrius is a freedman, that he is high in the emperor’s favor, and above all, that he is astoundingly rich. He is not, unlike Philos, a man she could ever imagine desiring, even with his aura of power—he is too old. But he does not repel her either. Julia has left many sly hints about the querulous concubine her old friend keeps in Rome, and her suspicion that he means to replace her. The thought that Julia might be angling for an alliance makes Amara uneasy.

She has only just started to relax into the text and forget that she is being gazed at when a shadow crosses the parchment in front of her. Demetrius is leaning toward her. She hesitates, unsure whether to carry on reading, then he takes her chin between his finger and thumb, pressing down on her bottom lip. It is unlike all the other times he has touched her. Amara’s reaction is visceral. She pulls away, her body instinctively withdrawing from a man she does not love or trust. A man who is not Philos.

“Are you so very besotted with your young patron?” Demetrius asks, not looking offended by her reaction but not moving further off either.

“I am loyal to him,” she replies. Still Demetrius does not move, clearly not finding this a compelling answer. She looks at him, this powerful man who was himself once enslaved, and understands what will convince him. “There is also a contract.”

“Ah.” He sits back, his whole manner changed. “Now that is a pity.” He turns from her and stares out to sea, at the endless expanse of blue and the mountain beyond. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, please continue.”

Amara does as he asks. Time passes, the shadows lengthen, and in spite of his protestations about protecting her voice, Demetrius does not move, until finally, Alexios the visiting Greek scholar joins them. He interrupts Amara’s reading, keen to speak to his fellow guest. She takes the hint and excuses herself.

In her room, she sits down on the bed. It is eight days since she left Pompeii. She pulls her legs up onto the mattress and holds her arms around herself, wishing Philos were holding her instead. There are times, in this house, when Philos does not feel real. The thought that they might ever build a life together seems so preposterous while she’s in Misenum—it may as well be a dream. A knock at the door startles her.