“It’s not about Rufus,” Philos says. “Even though I don’t think it’s clever to make a show of independence—he doesn’t much like that sort of thing.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s you!” he says, exasperated. “Think of how hard you’ve worked to be free of Felix. And now you want to be in debt to him.” He gestures at the coins and jewelry spilled all over the desk. “Felix is never going to agree a reasonable price. And then what? You have to troop round to the brothel every month to pay him off? What sort of risk is that?”

“Rufus might pay,” Amara says, wavering.

“I doubt the price Felix will demand is one you will want to admit to Rufus.”

“Maybe I could ask for half?”

“Please don’t do this.”

“But I love her. Can’t you understand that? What is my freedom worth if I don’t help somebody I love?”

“You cannot buy everyone you once cared about as a slave.”

“Not everyone, no. But I might be able to rescue Victoria. If you were free, isn’t there anybody you would buy? There must be someone you love that much.”

The obvious distress on his face almost makes Amara wish she had not asked. “My sister,” he says.

“I have no family left. Dido is dead. Victoria is my sister.”

Amara and Philos stare at one another. He is the first to look away. “I still think it’s a bad idea,” he says. “You might be safe from Felix now, but what happens when you invite him back into your life? If you owe him all that money? It could ruin everything. Think of how much he frightens you.”

She runs her fingers over the coins, but the usual feeling of reassurance does not come. The thought of spending all that precious security—even on Victoria—gives her the urge to pile every last piece back in the box and lock it. “You think I’m a coward.”

“No,” Philos exclaims. “That’s ridiculous. I would be afraid of him, if he had been my master. Do you think I wasn’t afraid of Terentius? That I’m not still afraid of him, even though he’s dead?”

Amara thinks of the nightmares, the constant weight she carries, the burden of all Felix did to her. She feels her resolve falter. “Does it never go away?”

Philos does not ask her what she means. They have never discussed it, except fleetingly, when he covered his past suffering with a joke, but she knows that he understands what it is like to be physically powerless, to be used by another. His silence is her answer.

“I will think it over this afternoon,” she says, rising from her chair, angry with him for forcing her to confront her own vulnerability, “and let you know what I decide tomorrow.”

4