“No, I think not. He asked to be informed by his steward.” Amara thinks of Philos, waiting downstairs, and tears again threaten to overwhelm her.

“What message shall I give the steward to take from you?”

“That he has a healthy girl and, if he is willing, I propose naming her Rufina. In honor of her father.”

In the hours after Rufina’s birth, Amara cannot sleep, in spite of her exhaustion. There is no wet nurse—she could not afford one—and so instead, she rests the baby on her own breast, trying to encourage her to feed. Valentina dispenses advice, and lotions, in case Amara’s milk is late or her breasts become sore, while the attendants burn incense to sweeten the air. Britannica brings Amara stew and holds the baby, murmuring words of encouragement at the small being who she still calls Fighter.

It is a long, agonizing wait before Philos can visit. Amara sends Britannica to fetch him the moment Valentina has left, her heart thudding as she hears his footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Then he is standing in the doorway, and in spite of all the uncertainty they face, at that moment, Amara feels nothing but joy.

Philos sits beside her, slipping his arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She can feel the intensity of his relief.

“Do you want to hold her?”

He nods, staying completely still while Amara carefully transfers Rufina into his arms. “She’s so tiny.” Philos stares at the child, as if he is unable to believe what he is seeing. He holds her with such tenderness that Amara’s heart, already bruised from all the emotion, aches even more. “You didn’t pass any message on for Rufus about your own health. I had to ask Valentina if you were safe, and she promised me you will be fine. She swore it. You are fine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, just very tired.”

“You can sleep now. I’ll look after her; you rest.” He bends to kiss Rufina then gazes at her, awestruck. “She’s so perfect.”

“Britannica thinks she looks like a frog.”

Philos laughs. “Maybe a bit. But a perfect frog.”

“She certainly kicked like one on the way out.” Amara eases herself downward so that she is lying, rather than sitting, on the bed. Philos is humming softly to his daughter, and she watches them both, her shattered body finally relaxing now he is here. She closes her eyes, telling herself it will only be for a moment, before falling deeply asleep.

43

“Show me a man who isn’t a slave; one is a slave to sex, another to money, another to ambition; all are slaves to hope or fear.”

—Seneca, Letters from a Stoic