“I suppose so. He certainly taught me everything he knew about herbs, their properties, how to prepare various draughts and lotions. When I was a child, I thought he wanted me to be a doctor, like him. Until I realized that wasn’t possible.” She can still remember her father’s amusement at the idea. You can be a good doctor to your family, when you run a household of your own. “He would have liked this garden,” she says, looking round at the space. “He believed plants were good for our health, that even spending time contemplating them grow could have benefits.”

Philos starts to make room for a marshmallow plant. “I’m sure your father would be proud to see you honoring his memory.”

Amara thinks of the future her father imagined for her, the one he failed to protect, and cannot keep the bitterness from her voice. “You are kind. But we both know my father would not see any honor in the life I lead now.”

“Most doctors I’ve encountered are pragmatists,” Philos replies. “So perhaps you are mistaken.”

“And your father?” Amara asks. “What sort of man was he?”

There is a silence while Philos continues to handle the mallow, carefully teasing out the roots without breaking them. He sets it in the soil. Nobody born into slavery can lay claim to a father, Amara knows this, and yet, she also knows that slaves love their parents the same as anyone else. Philos is quiet for so long she thinks he is going to ignore the question. She is about to change the subject to save them both embarrassment, when he speaks. “It depends which father,” he says, sitting back on his haunches, so that he can look at her better. “You asked me once how I learned Homer, how I had any education, when I have never been free. That was the gift of the master, the man who sired me, though I never think of him as my father.”

Amara knows that this type of parentage is common for slaves but is still embarrassed. “Was he . . .” She falters. “Was he a good man?”

“My mother neither liked nor desired him. But she had no choice in the matter. Any more than any other slave, ever has,” Philos is still looking at her, and Amara feels her face burn. “After the master got my mother pregnant, my parents were obliged to raise me as if I were wholly theirs. But my father always treated me with kindness, even though he knew I was not his son.”

“Is that certain?” she asks, as if she has the power to change the past by wishing it away. “Might you not be his son, if your parents were together?”