Amara looks swiftly to the side—Virgula’s store is shut, the street still empty—and scuffs out the writing with the sole of her foot. “Is she . . . ?”

“Inside,” Britannica hisses. “We bring her in. Help me.”

Juventus, Britannica and Philos carry Fabia inside, nobody speaking. A dark, red stain is left on the pavement where the old woman was lying. They lie her down in the atrium. Amara kneels beside her and takes her wrist. “Alive,” she breathes.

“We have to stop the bleeding.” It is Martha, standing close. “Strip her. Let me dress the wound.”

Amara stares up at her maid, surprised by Martha’s stillness, her lack of fear. “I will strip her,” Amara says. “Fetch some wine. And whatever linen you think you can use as a dressing.” Martha hurries from the atrium as Amara bends closer to the old woman’s face. “Fabia, can you hear me?” There is no sign of consciousness, but Amara continues speaking to her, as if she might hear. “We are going to remove your clothes. I will get you new ones, if they tear.” Britannica hands her a knife. Amara’s father was a doctor, but her knowledge of how to treat a major injury is still slight. Her hands shake as she rips away the flimsy, blood-soaked tunic.

Fabia’s body is so stained it takes a moment for Amara to find the source. It is a deep cut to her upper arm, still oozing blood. Martha has returned and hands Amara the flagon of wine. She pours it over the wound, pressing the skin to part the lips of skin. More blood seeps out, mingled with the wine. Fabia moans in pain. “Paris.”

Amara goes cold. She does not know if Fabia is calling for her son, or naming the man who attacked her. “You’re safe,” she murmurs, as the old woman slides back into unconsciousness.

Martha is kneeling, inspecting the cut, speaking quietly to herself in Hebrew, a frown on her face as if trying to remember. “I think she has lost too much blood,” she says to Amara. “But I will try.” With the same rough fingers as Martha dresses Amara’s hair, the maid rips the linen, wrapping it around Fabia’s arm above the cut, then picks up a wooden spoon she must have brought from the kitchen. She twists the linen with the spoon to tighten the band, digging deep into Fabia’s flesh. The old woman moans again. “It is to help you,” Martha assures her. “I will loosen it later.” When the tourniquet is in place, she starts ripping up the rest of the linen, bandaging the wound, round and round, until red no longer drips through it onto the floor.

“How often have you done this?” Amara stares at Martha and her swift, brutal movements.