Amara knows from this that Livia must have given Philos a determined grilling, since he never volunteers anything about their lives. “Yes, that’s true. He once helped educate Rufus.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought he was old enough. He’s awfully pretty.”

“I hope you didn’t flirt with the poor boy.” Julia is looking at Livia with her eyebrows raised. A charged look passes between them, close to amusement but darker. Livia smiles.

“You know I’d never do that.” She lays her hand over Julia’s. The gesture is so intimate that Amara looks down at Rufina, fussing over her, pretending she hasn’t seen.

That evening, when Amara tells Philos about Julia’s proposal to host a naming ceremony, he is surprisingly keen on the idea. They sit together in the bed, Philos with his arm resting behind Amara’s shoulders, the oil lamp casting long, wavering shadows over the walls. The frescoes in this room are the cheapest type, geometric patterns of black and white, and it is hard to tell paint and shadow apart. Rufina is clamped to Amara’s breast for one of her incessant feeds, her tugging both uncomfortable and a release from the pressure of the milk.

“Anything that asserts she is freeborn will make life easier.” Philos gently strokes his daughter’s toes which are bound beneath the swaddling. “I never imagined a child of mine wearing a lunula.” There is reverence in the way he says the word. It is the necklace that will signify Rufina’s free status, placing her in a different category of human being to her father, and even to her mother who carries the taint of past enslavement.

“I feel bad that Julia is buying it all though.”

“She wouldn’t offer unless she wanted to,” Philos says. “And I must have saved them a fair amount. Their last contract with the bath’s wine supplier was a terrible deal.”

“Livia said you helped her today.”

“That was for a personal purchase. She certainly likes the finer things in life.” Philos sounds amused rather than judgmental.

“I think she took rather a shine to you.”

He laughs. “I don’t think I’m her type. And not just because I’m a slave.”

Amara smiles, but the casual mention of his enslavement feels like he is pressing down on a wound which never heals. “I was thinking,” she says, shifting the baby to her other breast, “when Rufina is a little older, we should try again to free you. I can ask Rufus as a gesture of thanks for your work in looking after her. Or offer to buy you again. Maybe Julia would lend me the money?”

“We can try that. But I also think we should enjoy the time we have now, rather than constantly agonize over the future.” Philos caresses her shoulder where his hand is resting.

“You work so hard, and you are given so little for it.”