It is not the most inviting reply. Amara hesitates, then speaks in Greek. “My name is Timarete.” The sound of her own name, of who she really is, brings a lump to her throat.

“Timarete,” Philos repeats softly, and she is touched by the effort he makes to pronounce each syllable correctly. “Honor and virtue. That’s what it means in Greek, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My father’s hopes for the name influencing my character went somewhat awry.”

“That’s not true. Timarete is beautiful. It suits you better than Amara.” He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

She waits, hoping now he will share his own name. But he is silent, only stroking her hair, perhaps offering affection in place of the knowledge he does not wish to give. “Can’t you tell me what your parents called you? I’d like to know.”

“I was named by my owner. It’s not the same.”

“But it’s still the name you knew as a child. You must have felt some attachment to it. More than to the one you have now.” The name Terentius gave him.

Philos stops caressing her hair. “Can we leave it, please. Or am I not allowed to keep anything to myself?”

“How unreasonable of me to want to know the name of the man whose child I’m carrying,” Amara retorts, hurt by his rejection. “It’s not exactly a terrible thing to ask.” She pulls away, hunching over, arms cradling her stomach. There is a long pause.

“It’s Rufus.”

“You can’t blame everything on him.”

“No. That was my name. So I think it’s rather obvious why I couldn’t keep it.”

Amara turns to face him, struggling to shift herself with the weight of her belly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right—it’s not a terrible question to ask. I just don’t have a happy answer to give you.”

“I only asked because I know Philos was . . .” She stops, not wanting to make things worse by mentioning the man who abused him for so many years.

“Terentius gave Greek names to all his favorites. I suppose I should be grateful another boy was already stuck with Eros, though I always hated Philos, at least until I met you. Now I quite enjoy hearing you call me beloved in your own language.” Amara kisses him, and he smooths his thumb against her cheek. “Sometimes, I think about when our child is older, when we won’t be able to be like this anymore, because we will have to pretend, even in the house, that I’m nothing to you. And when that happens, you can still tell me you love me, every time you say my name.”

Amara holds him, glad of the darkness that hides her tears.

42