Julia claps her hands, and all the women exclaim their congratulations. Drusilla nods her head in acknowledgment, her pleasure obvious. Amara is pleased for her but cannot help feeling a stab of envy. Everything about Drusilla proclaims her wealth. The rich fabric of her tunic, the delicate rose scent she wears and, perhaps most of all, her air of contentment. She looks like what she is: a woman who has secured her child’s future and her own.

The first weeks of Rufina’s life pass both quickly and slowly. The days drift, blending into one another. Philos is gradually able to spend more time at home, and there are moments, when Amara is with him and Britannica, that she can pretend they are a family. At Britannica’s insistence, Amara also starts to venture outside Julia’s complex. She starts with a brief morning stroll through the marketplace by the arena that backs onto Julia’s garden, first with Britannica, then increasingly on her own.

Each day grows a little easier. By the time Rufina is two months old, Amara has become complacent. She wanders the market, weaving between the food stalls, her heart lifting at the sight of so much life around her. She chatters to her child in Greek, lifting her up to see a stall of leather goods, pointing to its hanging charms, the seller smiling indulgently. Hermeros is still selling flowers at the edge of the square, but she does not approach him—the memory of her visits here with Victoria are still too strong.

When she reaches the arena, she pauses to look up at the huge building, sun glinting behind it. Swifter than thought, an arm grips her waist, and she feels the press of something sharp against her ribs. The shock is even greater than the terror.

“Don’t scream.”

She swivels to see him. Felix’s face is calm, broken only by a charming smile, as if he were greeting a dear friend. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not if you are quiet.”

“Let go of me.” She means to sound commanding, but her voice is a whisper.

“We’re going to sit on that bench over there.” Felix nods his head to the seat she once shared with Victoria, set against the vineyard wall.

“No.” Amara grips Rufina, her chest heaving, panic rising.

“Don’t get hysterical.” His voice is reasonable, even soothing. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” He pokes the knife harder against her ribs. “Not unless you resist me.”

Amara walks with him across the square, her breath coming in stifled gasps, as if she were drowning. Felix steers her, all the while keeping up a steady, smiling commentary on the stalls they pass—as if he might be helping his exhausted wife to a seat to rest herself.