“I come with you.” Britannica is squinting down at her, nose wrinkled as she faces the sun. “Come, Amara, come. I am here too.”

Amara takes her arm feeling both shame and gratitude, knowing she is free, and Britannica is not. “I promise I will never sell you,” she says impetuously. “When I can legally free you, I will. I promise.”

“I know this,” Britannica says simply, as if any other action by her friend were unthinkable. Amara’s sense of shame deepens.

Josephus is already haggling on Drusilla’s behalf when they arrive. The trader nods at Amara to include her, but she cannot look at his face. Instead, her gaze slides down to his hands. They are tanned and leathery from being out in the sun, heavy with rings. Amara knows where those hands will have been, touching and pulling at the people he is selling, striking them, taking whatever pleasure he feels entitled to take. She grips Britannica’s arm so hard it must hurt, but the Briton does not flinch.

“Amara,” Drusilla is saying. “I said, which do you think?”

“Sorry, can you tell me again?”

“Two Greek flautists or a cithara player from Carthage. That’s the best he has. Either could accompany Victoria, but flautists would be better, if they’re worth the money.”

“Either,” Amara stammers. “I’m not sure.”

Josephus exchanges more words with the trader who goes to fetch the women. They are not in the line, but huddled off to the side, along with a slim young man who makes Amara think painfully of Philos, although on second glance, she realizes he looks nothing like him. The three women line up in front of her and Drusilla. The cithara player stands a little apart. Her eyes are red and puffy, and she keeps trying to cover herself, the trader yanking her hands away from her body. Amara suspects she may have been kidnapped, like Dido.

The flautists standing beside her have the closed, blank expression Amara recognizes from her own time at the slave market. Most likely they have never known freedom.

“I think it has to be the pair, don’t you?” Drusilla murmurs. “So graceful. As long as they can really play.”

Amara looks at the flautists again, and this time, for a moment, she sees what Drusilla sees. She imagines them performing at one of their dinners, entertaining Rufus and Quintus, adding to the decoration and entertainment. Making money for her to pay back Felix. “Shouldn’t we ask to hear them perform something?”

Drusilla nods. Josephus again speaks with the trader who goes off to retrieve the women’s flutes. Amara realizes the cithara player is staring at them, her eyes round and desperate. “Maybe we should take all three?” Amara says, suddenly afraid of leaving her here.