“But then there’s no proof you no longer belong to him, is there? Won’t that make it harder for me to free you?”

“You wouldn’t be able to do that for years anyway. It would look far too suspicious.”

“But if I don’t free you, what’s the point?”

“The point is I would be with you; I would be a father. That’s more important to me than being free. The child changes everything, Amara.”

“Rufus can’t say no, can he?” Amara has asked Philos this same question hundreds of times. “He didn’t seem to mind the idea of you coming to look after the child; he didn’t say no to me then. Surely, he has to agree. He has to say yes to me. He has to.”

“Don’t get upset,” Philos says, putting his arms around her, pulling her close. “It’s not your fault, whatever he does.”

Philos’s words do not calm her. She can feel the panic surging through her body as she grips on to him, staring into the shadows over his shoulder. Neither of them are worth much to anyone other than each other, and yet, this does not mean they will have a greater chance of escaping notice, or punishment. Amara has not felt this crushing sense of powerlessness since she was herself enslaved, and although it shames her, sometimes she wishes she did not love Philos, that she did not have to face the consequences of choosing a man who is not free.

In the morning, she turns to where he was lying, even though she knows that side of the bed will be empty. She reaches out, placing her hand on the cold blanket. It must be close to dawn. The room is still dark, only the birdsong tells her it is no longer night. She hears the scrape of the front door as Juventus opens it to the street, a familiar, soothing sound. Amara closes her eyes, hoping to drift back to sleep, then opens them wide. Juventus is shouting.

Her feet slap onto the cold tiles. She flings a tunic over her head and hurtles out of her bedroom. Martha is standing waiting for her, eyes wide with alarm. Together, they run across the atrium to the door. Juventus is no longer shouting. Instead, he stands with Philos, both of them talking in low, urgent voices.

“What is it?” Amara turns from one man to the other.

“On the doorstep,” Philos replies. “Don’t look . . .”

But Amara is already rushing to the door. She sees Britannica’s back; the Briton is kneeling over something on the pavement. Amara takes a step closer.

Fabia. The old woman has been dumped on the street, lain across Amara’s threshold in a grotesque parody of a guard dog. She is not moving. Beside her, someone has chalked a message. Infelix. Unlucky.