Amara draws on reserves of deception she did not imagine she possessed in order to get through the rest of her encounter with Demetrius. Her gasp is disguised as a cry of ecstasy, and her shaking masquerades as the aftermath of pleasure. It is such a convincing performance she barely needs to touch her new patron to tip him over the edge. But instead of having the leisure afterward to collapse against his conquest, Demetrius is obliged to hold Amara upright to control her trembling. The intensity of her reaction seems to surprise and please him. “I hardly think we need to consider Stabiae a trial,” he murmurs, drawing her closer. “I want you in Rome with me.”

It feels to Amara as if a hundred years of smiling and false laughter must be endured before she is finally released to return home. She knows, as soon as she enters the kitchen and sees Britannica’s drawn face, that Philos must have said something.

“He is with Fighter,” Britannica says, pointing at the ceiling. “I never see him like this.”

Amara runs up the stairs, panic rising, and pushes open the bedroom door. Rufina is in the cot, asleep, and she looks round wildly for Philos. He has his back to her, leaning against the window to look out at the street, as if he longs to escape.

“How long have you been entertaining Julia’s guests,” he asks, without turning around. “And when were you going to tell me?”

“That was the first time. I swear to you. I swear it.”

He turns to face her. “I don’t know if I believe you.” She can tell from his voice that it is not an accusation, but a statement of fact.

“I promise you it’s true, Philos, I promise. And I couldn’t refuse him today, not without offending Julia. You know how much our lives depend on her, how Rufina’s life depends on her. I’m just sorry that you saw . . .” Amara cannot continue. Instead, the scene plays through her mind as Philos must have seen it, the half-naked body of the woman he loves, writhing at the touch of another man. She puts her hand to her mouth. “I’m just so sorry.”

“I used to collect you from the brothel,” Philos says quietly. “It’s not as if I don’t know what you’ve been forced to do. And I’ve never, at any point, felt anything but heartbroken for you. But today . . .” He swallows, as if unable to bear the memory. “I can’t get the image of you out of my head. You sounded as if you were enjoying it.”

Blood rushes to Amara’s cheeks, and she clasps her hands into fists. “I was not enjoying it. I’m a prostitute. How do you think women like me get clients to pay? By crying and begging them to stop? By fighting, like Britannica, and getting our teeth knocked out?”