The porter watches Amara as she approaches, his eyes lingering on her body. Ever since he went with her to the brothel, when he saw the low place she came from and heard the contemptuous way Paris spoke to her, Juventus has been more open in his leering, although never quite insolent enough for her to have to say anything. What could she say, in any case? A virtuous woman would surely not even recognize the sleazy look on his face. She stands a little apart from him, wishing now that they were not alone.

“When is Philos back?” she asks.

Juventus sucks his teeth. “He has business with the master until the afternoon.”

“When he returns, please tell him I need to see him.”

Juventus stares until she is overwhelmingly aware, as he surely intends, that only a short while ago he would not have been limited to looking. He could have paid for her services himself. “Whatever you wish, mistress.”

12

“The body seeks that which the mind has wounded with love.”

—Lucretius, On the Nature of the Universe

Amara and Philos walk the back streets to get to Cornelius’s house. Buildings are lit with the last orange glow before dusk falls. The air is cool. Some shopkeepers are already packing up, moving the overspill of baskets and jars from the pavement back into the store. The cook shop where Martha often collects their dinner is busy, customers crowded around the bright yellow counter, getting the last of the hot soup.

Philos looks tired. Amara had expected him to try to speak to her about Rufus again, but she has perhaps rebuffed him so many times, he has given up. She feels both relieved and disappointed.

“What did you think of Phoebe and Lais?” she asks, when they are further from the house and walking closer together on the pavement.

“I didn’t see them for more than a moment. But I’m sure you and Drusilla chose wisely.”

A street seller strung with clanking baskets of pots and pans barges his way past, forcing them both to flatten against the wall. Philos puts his arm in front of Amara to avoid her being scraped or struck. She knows it is a gesture any slave is forced to use, obliged at all times to sacrifice his own comfort for others, but the way Philos turns to her afterward is more like a friend.

“You didn’t get hit, did you?” he asks.

Philos has lowered his arm, but they are still standing close together. Amara reaches instinctively for his hand, half-hidden by the folds of her cloak. “No,” she says. “I didn’t. Thank you.”