“I looked more like the master than any of his legitimate children. And I heard later, from the cook, that his pursuit of my mother was relentless when she was young. He never gave her any peace.” Amara can sense the anger in Philos, even though his voice is calm.

“But he educated you?”

“Yes. And for that, I owe him. For all the hours I spent reading at his house.” Philos turns back to his planting, digging into the earth as he speaks, spilling it on the stone. “Not that he acted out of affection, although I was once stupid enough to hope that might be why. It was a joke of his, played against his heirs. The idea I might be cleverer than they were. A point of pride for him, the mark he left of himself, even on a slave.”

Amara feels her own anger tighten like a knot in her chest. “But your true parents loved you.”

“I often think of my father,” Philos says, with a slight smile. “He was the kindest man. He never added to my mother’s suffering by blaming her, or me, for what nobody could help. And of course, my parents imagined the master would leave me my freedom in his will. It was what everyone expected, after he died.” Amara says nothing, dreading the next part of the story, knowing who Philos was sold to. “Those who are born free,” he says, “they talk in front of slaves as if we have no ears, as if we are fools. But we hear everything, we see everything, and we remember. I could tell you the intimate secrets of half the great families of Pompeii, if either of us wanted to waste our time that way. My parents knew exactly what awaited their seventeen-year-old son when they learned I had been sold to Terentius. And in the worst moments, after I left my family, when I thought I could no longer bear my life, I would remember the last thing my father said to me. Whatever happens to you, in my eyes you are always a man.”

Philos avoids looking at her while he speaks of Terentius. She understands the shame he risks by telling her this, a humiliation so profound she has seen it warp other men, driving them to violence. But when Philos turns to face her, he does not look ashamed. “And that is why I believe your father would understand. He would not judge you for the choices life has forced you to make, any more than I do.”

For a while Amara does not speak. She stares past Philos at the fountain, watching the water splash downward. “I’m glad they’re dead,” she manages at last. “Both your old masters. Or I might have to tell Britannica to kill them.”