The covers are suffocating, and Amara pushes them off, sitting up again. The image of Philos lying so close by disturbs her. He is a much slighter man than Rufus, yet somehow, his presence in a room always registers; she is constantly aware of him, of where he is in the house. I’m just lonely, she thinks. That’s all it is. Loneliness.

Amara breathes out and closes her eyes. She tries to think of Rufus. In her mind, she counts up his kindnesses, much the same as she counts the coins in her money box. The gifts he has given her, the house he has rented for her and, above all, the freedom he granted her. She lingers on the last, but her memory of the Saturnalia, the night she gained her freedom, is slippery. Images slide from Rufus’s face, to Dido, to her lover’s cold response to her grief. And then there is Menander.

That night was the last time she saw him. Where the image of Rufus feels hazy and difficult to grasp, all her memories of Menander are as sharp and clear as glass, and just as cutting. She humiliated the man she loved, brutally and publicly, rather than risk losing her wealthy lover. Even thinking about it now makes her want to sink into the ground. She tells herself it was her only choice. Menander is enslaved—they could have done nothing for one another—whereas Rufus had the power to transform her life. But the knowledge of what the decision cost, makes her feel older and wearier than Fabia.

Amara slumps back on the bed again. Freedom has already exacted a heavy price. She cannot give up everything, or she will have nothing left of herself.

Amara is conscious of Philos approaching with the tray before she turns toward him. The morning is chill, too cold to be sitting in the garden, but it is the public part of the house where she feels most at ease. She is swathed in an expensive red cloak, another gift from Rufus.

“Have you decided?” Philos asks, setting down the food.

“Yes.”

“And I really cannot persuade you otherwise?”

“No.”

She thinks he will argue, but instead, he sighs, as if this is no more than he expected. “Then we’d better think about how it’s done.”

They sit together on the bench, the tray between them, discussing the matter in low voices. Amara had resolved last night to be more distant from Philos, but in his presence, she finds this difficult. He is holding his arms, and she realizes that he must be cold sitting out here in just a tunic. She regrets not suggesting they sit in the study.

“It’s important that you tell Rufus as much as possible,” he says. “That you are honest with him. My preference is to ask his permission.”

“But if he says no, I cannot then go against him.”