“But we will know.” Amara tries to smile again, to pretend she is not upset, but finds she can’t, and instead, without warning, she is suddenly crying so hard she can hardly breathe. Philos holds her, trying to calm her, but she cannot stop.

“It’s alright,” he says in Greek, stroking her hair. “It’s alright, my love. It’s alright.” Hearing him speak her own language, even mangling it with his heavy Italian accent, reaches Amara in a way that Latin cannot.

“I love you,” she replies in Greek, still crying. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Please try not to be so upset. It will be alright, I promise.”

“Rufus.” Amara finally controls herself enough to says his name clearly. “What if he refuses to let you look after the child? What if he makes you go with him?”

“He won’t. And whatever happens, I promise I will do everything I can to stay with you.” He interlaces his fingers with hers. “With both of you.”

Amara nods, allowing herself to be comforted, letting Philos draw her back onto the bed. She closes her eyes and wills herself to believe she is safe, even though their lives depend on the whims of a man who cares less for her with every day that passes.

38

“Well, well, forgotten her flute-girl days, has she? She doesn’t remember but she was bought and sold, and I took her away from it all and made her as good as the next.”

—Petronius, The Satyricon

The smell of the bar is no easier on Amara’s stomach early in the morning. Britannica forces bread on her, watching while she chews, nodding at her with a look of ferocity that is perhaps supposed to be encouraging.

“Stop staring like that,” Amara says. “You’re putting me off.”

“Better than be sick.”

“Just keep an eye out for Fabia.”

They are sitting half-hidden in the shadow of the stairwell of the almost empty tavern. It is Nicandrus’s voice, loudly ushering Fabia to a table, that first alerts them to the old woman’s presence. By the time he has brought Fabia around the corner, and she sees them, she is trapped, blocked from escaping by Nicandrus brandishing the hot bowl of stew at her back. He gestures for her to sit, and Fabia’s shoulders sag in defeat.

“You look well,” Amara says, as the old woman slumps down opposite. Britannica smiles in agreement, revealing her missing teeth.

“How kind of you to see me, daughter.”

“Are you enjoying your new mistress? A shame you didn’t think to share the happy news of Felix’s betrothal.”

“Please.” Fabia licks her lips, for once not touching her food. “He would have killed me.”

“Victoria may cost me everything. You could have found some way to warn me.”

“It’s Felix. Please. My life means nothing to him. And my Paris . . .” Fabia trails off.

“What about Paris?”