Felix’s young slave stares at her, amazed, and in that moment, she sees herself through his eyes. Her hair piled up on her head in intricate curls, the expensive cloak Rufus bought her, the air of wealth she now wears, like the scent of distilled jasmine on her skin. She is not Felix’s slave anymore. The thought gives her courage.

“Is your master in?”

Paris darts his eyes nervously between her and Philos. “Might be,” he says.

“Tell Felix that the admiral’s freedwoman is here to make him an offer for the slave known as Victoria. I will be waiting outside the Sparrow.”

Paris nods slowly and closes the door. Amara turns to Philos. “No going back now,” she says. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he replies.

5

“The things slaves say; the squalid snark; the filthy slanders of a street vendor’s tongue.”

—Martial, Epigrams 10.3

The Sparrow is smaller and seedier than she remembers. It seems impossible that she spent so many hours of her life here, that it was ever somewhere she felt safe or comfortable. There is a shocked silence as she approaches the bar with Philos. The only women who set foot in a tavern like this are prostitutes. It takes Zoskales a moment to recognize her.

“Amara!” he exclaims, then draws back, unsure how to greet her. He looks at Philos. “Is this your . . .” She can tell Zoskales is baffled, unsure whether Philos is her patron or her minder.

“This is my patron’s steward, Philos,” she says. “Please, I don’t have much time. I’m here to buy Victoria. Will you be my witness?”

“Are you crossing Felix?” Zoskales says, his face less friendly. “You know I won’t help you there.”

“No!” she says, forcing herself to laugh. “As if I would dare! I just need a witness. Nothing more.”

The landlord nods warily. “Very well. I will ask Felix if he minds. And now, I think it best if you wait outside. This is no place for you.”

“Is Nicandrus not here?” she asks, trying not to feel hurt by her old friend’s reaction.

“I sold him,” Zoskales replies. Amara puts her hand to her mouth. It is like losing another part of Dido, to lose the man who loved her. Zoskales sees her distress and relents. “It was for his own good, my love,” he says, lowering his voice. “I was afraid of what he might say to Felix, after Dido died. He works at Asellina’s place now, on the Via Veneria.”

Amara nods. “Thank you.” She and Philos walk outside. The crowd in the square parts slightly, leaving them some space, looking at them both with a mixture of curiosity and aggression. Amara begins to worry it might have been safer to have done the deal in Felix’s study after all.