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Back The House with the Golden Door Save as PDF
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR
  3. PRAISE FOR
  4. Dedication
  5. 75 CE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. FLORALIA
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. LEMURIA
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. NEMORALIA
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 76 CE
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. EPILOGUE
  59. AFTERWORD
  60. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The waiter leaves, and Amara smiles at Rufus who is still staring at her. “I don’t think you hate everything I learned there,” she says softly, slipping her shoes off under the table then lifting her leg to touch him, caressing his thigh with her foot.

She feels relief when his lips part, the coldness of his expression replaced by desire. For now, at least, he still wants her. But Amara also knows that, for Rufus, lust is a weak tie in comparison to love. She has no doubt that they are on the downward descent, and the fall, when it comes, could be rapid.

31

“Whoever loves, let him flourish

Let him perish who knows not love

Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love”

—Pompeii graffiti

The heat of the baths soothes every sinew, loosening the tension in her body, and rivulets of condensation slide over her skin in a soft-fingered caress. Steam rises from Amara’s hands as she holds them out in front of her. She turns the palms upward, interlacing her fingers, then parting them. Her hands belong to her; her body belongs to her. After the horror of being owned, this will never feel anything other than remarkable. She closes her eyes and leans back, feeling the hot tiles press against her spine, and thinks about Philos, remembering the last night they spent together. It seems impossible, now, that there was ever a time her body did not grant her pleasure, instead only giving it to those who used her.

She breathes in the steam, taking the hot air deep into her lungs. Every detail of Philos is clear in her mind: his movements, his gestures as he talks, the way he laughs or looks at her. How expressive he is in private, so different from the total self-effacement he is obliged to show as a slave. And everything she now knows about his life, all the memories they have exchanged: the fables his mother told him as a child, his long friendship with Vitalio, her father’s compassion for the sick, the way Dido sang. He has become more precious to her than any other living being. Amara feels the tension returning, knotted like a serpent in her chest, coiled around her heart. It is unbearable to know Philos is enslaved. That he has no control over his life.