Amara gives a tight smile and picks up a cup, blowing on the hot liquid. Rufus’s allowance is not as generous as they had hoped. Julia knows it and is bending the rules by paying Amara for Philos’s labor, rather than his true owner, Rufus. At Amara’s instruction, the money is given directly into Philos’s hands, not hers; she remembers how it felt when she was enslaved, not entitled to anything she earned. Philos is supporting his family with money he has made himself, and that’s what he deserves to feel. Rufus’s words come back to her, making the sweet drink taste bitter. Philos does more work in an hour than three other servants do in a day.

“I could make you money.” Britannica sips from her cup.

“I’ve told you; I’m not selling you as a gladiator. When I can free you, then you can fight.”

Britannica reaches for the bread, handing Amara a chunk and taking one for herself. “You need to get outside today. Walk to make the baby come.”

“I will spend some time in the garden.” Amara looks down at the crumbling hunk in her hand. It is a constant source of tension between them both—how little she dares leave this darkened house. Just walking down the street is enough to make her sweat with fear, constantly searching for familiar features in the crowd, in case Felix, or one of his henchmen, is following. It has been like this since Fabia’s murder, more than six months ago, and anxiety for the child she is carrying is a much heavier burden for Amara than simply protecting her own life.

“In the garden, you just sit. Need to move.” Britannica grumbles, and as if to illustrate her point, she rises, picking up a broom to sweep the floor. She darts it vigorously by Amara’s feet, forcing her to shift them. “You think when Fighter is here, you feel safer out? What you do? Stay inside forever?”

“Don’t. Just leave it, please.” Amara leans back against the wall, turning away. Ignoring Britannica is not easy. This room is even smaller than the one she and Philos share upstairs. The walls are painted in blocks of color, with the occasional tiny bird to break up the monotony. There is no atrium, no dining room or study, and the windows let in very little light. Yet, Amara is still happier staying inside than wandering Pompeii. It is not only about her safety. In this house, her relationship with Philos is real. Outside, she cannot acknowledge him, and instead inhabits the role of the abandoned concubine.

“Then go to garden.” Britannica clunks the brush at her feet. “Now.” Amara gets up, clutching her cup, but her attempt to stomp furiously out of the flat turns into a lumbering waddle.