“That’s it?” Philos asks, throwing up his hands with exasperation. “You think I’ve never been beaten before? Didn’t you realize that was always likely to happen after I helped you buy Victoria? What you’ve done is worse. I’ve spent years convincing Rufus to trust my judgment, eking out his respect, getting him to believe I have the intelligence to be left in charge of his affairs, and now you’ve let him think I’m the sort of fool who can be tricked by a . . .” He stops, flushing. The word whore hangs unsaid on the air.

“By a what?” Amara says quietly.

“A . . . courtesan,” Philos replies, not meeting her eye. “I’m sorry, that’s not how I think of you,” he adds, looking even more embarrassed. “Really, it’s not. That came out all wrong.”

Somehow the apology makes it worse. Amara feels her whole body flush with shame. She remembers the way Rufus humiliated her, making her feel so small and worthless. All to protect a man who doesn’t even care. Amara holds her arms around herself, as if that might dull the pain. She realizes Philos is staring, his gray eyes wide with dismay, and turns her face from him.

“Did he hurt you?”

The distress in his voice, and worse, the thought he might pity her, make Amara furious. “How dare you ask me such a question!” she shouts. “Get out!”

Instead of doing as she asks, Philos takes a step toward her. “I’m sorry, Amara. Please forgive me, I didn’t realize . . .” She shrinks from the sudden onslaught of kindness. Philos is not going to see her cry. Instead, she thinks of Felix, remembering the coldness of his rage, the way it chilled anyone who dared come too close.

“I said get out.”

Philos stops as abruptly as if she had slapped him. The only sound is the click of the latch as he steps outside, leaving her alone. Amara stands rigid, her eyes filling with tears. She can still feel the pressure of Rufus’s fingers on her neck, and the weight of him, almost as heavy as the knowledge she will never have the freedom to resist. Amara picks up a clay oil lamp from the desk and hurls it at the door. The shards explode outward, skittering across the tiles, leaving a dark stain on the wood.

10

“Give me the pimp’s accounts: you will find the entries balance.”

—Seneca, Declamations 1.2

A light rain falls through the square in the ceiling onto the pool beneath. The atrium is damp, and the overcast sky makes it as dark as dusk, even though it is morning. Rainwater is seeping out over the sides of the pool, staining the terracotta shards that line it a darker shade of red. Amara stands with Victoria and Britannica, huddled by one of the four pillars surrounding the water.