Amara stares into his eyes, knowing she cannot miss anything, that she will not have a second chance. “I want you to tell me where you buried her.” The briefest flicker crosses his face. On another man, it would look like shame. Felix tries to push her hands away, to stop her looking at him, but she only grips hold of him more tightly. “No,” she says, still staring into his eyes, wanting to see a different answer. “Not Dido. Not even you could have done that. You can’t have done. Not on the rubbish dump.” Amara is willing Felix to deny the accusation, yet still he does not. “You must have buried her,” she repeats, her voice rising with hysteria. She lets go and shoves him hard in the chest. “Tell me you didn’t leave her there!”

“So I was supposed to do you a favor, was I? Straight after you screamed to the world that you wanted me dead?” Felix grabs her by the shoulders. “You expected me to pay to cremate the body of a slave, just because you cared for her? Why the fuck should I?”

Amara looks at his hard, unrepentant face, and all the grief and rage she has suppressed for so long erupts, obliterating any semblance of self-control. She screams at Felix, pushing him away from her, cursing his name, demanding the gods erase him from the face of the earth. He stares, uncomprehending, and she realizes that she is shouting her tirade in Greek, that in this moment, she cannot find the words in any other language. She seizes the chair, the nearest object to hand, and when he darts out of her way, she smashes it into the shelves behind him. Jars splinter, money cascading out onto the floor. Her violence builds momentum, driven by the fury in her heart. More jars are hit, this time exploding over her head. Amara swings again, smashing straight into the wall so that the chair legs splinter.

The door bursts open, and Philos is in the doorway, a look of terror on his face. “Get back!” She screams at him, spinning round. “Get back!”

Philos stays where he is, Juventus behind him. He holds his hands up. “Amara, it’s me,” he says in Greek. “It’s me.”

She starts to become more aware of her surroundings, that she is no longer shouting, but crying, her chest heaving, holding out the ruined chair in front of her like a weapon or a shield. Felix is near her, his knife drawn.