“I’m sorry.” Philos’s face crumples at the sight of her obvious distress. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He crosses the room, tentatively reaching out to her. She throws herself into his arms, clinging to him, though she cannot help but notice he is not holding her as closely as usual. She becomes conscious that she smells of lavender, the scent Demetrius left on her skin. “How long is he staying here for?” Philos whispers. “Will you have to . . . see him again?” In the long silence that follows, Amara stares at the wall until it feels as if the geometric patterns of black and white will sear themselves onto her vision. “How long is he here for?” Philos repeats, his voice less gentle this time.

Amara lets go, stepping out of the encircling protection of his arms. “He is going to be my patron.”

“But you’ve only just met him.” Philos stares, incredulous, until she sees the pain of understanding bleed through the shock. “How long have you known this man for?”

“I met him in Misenum.”

“Misenum? When you visited Pliny? But that was months ago!”

“Nothing happened back then, I promise! And yesterday is the very first time I’ve seen him since . . .”

“Yesterday. When you were crying and saying you couldn’t bear to lose me. That’s when you accepted him as your patron, isn’t it?” Philos’s face is cold. “Anything else you might have forgotten to tell me?”

There is no way to soften the words, no way to escape their impact. “He is taking me to Rome.”

Philos sits down slowly on the bed. “Rome,” he repeats stupidly. “You’re leaving me and going to Rome. With him.” Amara knows, seeing his look of disgust, exactly what Philos is picturing. “I don’t even know this man’s name. Who is he?”

“His name is Demetrius.” Amara’s tears start to fall, and it hurts to speak each word, knowing the destruction she is wreaking, but still, she carries on. “He is an Imperial freedman. He is one of the richest men in Campania. He will pay you to look after Rufina. He will pay our daughter’s dowry. And if Rufus ever agrees to sell you, he will give me the money to buy you and set you free.”

Philos is staring at her, and she can see her own grief mirrored in his face. Then he closes his eyes, as if that will shut out the pain. “It’s not that I don’t understand why you’ve done this, Amara. Believe me, I do. But it’s how you’ve done it, that’s so hard to forgive.”

“Philos, please . . .”