“There is indeed some truth in that line of Callimachus: ‘To little people, the gods will always give little.’ ”

—Artemidorus, The Interpretation of Dreams

Amara has never sat with Phoebe and Lais in the tablinum. There was never the need for the formality, and perhaps too, she did not want to remember Felix, to sense the echo of his position as pimp. The two women stand close together, facing Amara across the desk. Lais looks wary and Phoebe afraid.

“I have canceled all the remaining bookings, including the party tonight,” Amara says. “The risk to you both is too great.”

Phoebe breathes out with relief, but Lais stiffens, understanding the implications. “Are we to be sold?”

Amara sees Lais tighten her grip on Phoebe’s hand. “No. But you will have to leave this house. Drusilla will take you to her new home by the port. Her patron enjoys music, and she believes his household is large enough to absorb you both.” Amara does not add what else Drusilla said: If not, I will sell them. “I’m very sorry. I had hoped that you might both work for me longer, that you might even find patrons.”

“Like you.” Lais smiles, but Amara sees the dislike in her eyes.

Lais’s hatred does not anger Amara; it only pulls her back further into the past. She looks at the women before her, the women she has sold to so many men, and sees herself and Dido standing before Felix. “I pray to Pallas Athene, to the patron goddess of Attica, that you are never separated.” She turns aside, so they cannot see her emotion, and waves her hand to dismiss them. “Josephus will come to collect you this afternoon.”

When they have gone, Amara does not move from her chair. She stares straight ahead, the painted doves on the lintel wavering as she blinks the tears away. The chest below the window to her bedchamber blurs into a dark shape, like a figure crouched on the floor. “Victoria,” she says aloud to the empty room.

Tears stream down Amara’s cheeks, and she wipes them away. It would be so much easier if she could hate her friend, rather than feel this endless, bottomless grief.

Philos still comes to Amara’s room in secret at night, the pair of them now drawn together more by fear than passion. They sit huddled together on the bed, leaning their backs against the wall, repeating the same conversation they have had so many times before.

“I can’t be worth all that much, with this,” Philos whispers, gesturing at the place where his brand lies under the tunic. “He could never sell me at a public auction. That type of mark takes thousands off a slave’s value. I think you should just ask for me as a gift.”