Rufina is asleep but seems to sense her mother’s presence when Amara leans over the cot, taking in a deeper snuffling breath, stirring in her loosened swaddling. Amara sinks to the floor, wrapping her arms around her own knees, unable to bear the suffocating sense of love. It hurts, how much she cares for this child, this tiny person who was supposed to free her father, but who only trapped her mother.

“It’s alright.” Philos’s voice is soft as he crouches beside her. He puts an arm around her shoulders, and she buries her face in his chest, sobbing. He strokes her hair, shushing her. “What’s wrong, my love?”

“I’m so afraid of losing you.” It is only half the truth, but as much as she can bear to say.

Philos continues to stoke her hair, his chin resting on the top of her head. “What’s brought this on?” Amara does not answer but instead cries even harder. “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.”

Amara longs to tell him about Demetrius, to confess the terror she feels. Whatever decision she is going to be forced to make, she needs to ask Philos’s advice, or at the very least warn him about the other man’s existence, about the looming threat and opportunity presented by another patron. And yet, would it not shame Philos, if he became complicit in selling her? Surely no man wants to admit he is willing to prostitute the mother of his child, even for his family’s survival. Perhaps it is kinder to make the decision alone. Amara clings to Philos, her face still buried in his chest.

“Forgive me,” she says, her voice muffled in his tunic, so she doesn’t have to look in his eyes. “There’s nothing in particular. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve just felt so emotional since Rufina was born.” She sits up, wiping her face, and forces herself to smile. Their baby starts to cry, disturbed by all the noise, and Amara scrambles to her feet. “I had better feed her. You go and finish dinner.” Her back is to him as she bends over the cot. Philos rests a hand on her shoulder.

“Only if you are very sure you are alright. I can always stay with you both.”

“I’ll be fine. I promise. Please go eat.” Amara does not turn as he leaves. She sits on the bed, feeding their daughter. The black-and-white lines on the wall blur as she stares, distorted through a veil of tears, turning the world gray.

46

“But tears cannot put out the flame;

They inflame the face and melt the spirit”

—Pompeii graffiti