“I’m sure she would be delighted to be asked,” Philos says. They smile at one another, allowing their shared amusement to lighten the weight of all he has told her.

“Thank you for what you said about my father.”

“It’s true,” Philos replies, turning back to the mallows, patting down the earth to hold them steady.

She can tell the moment of intimacy between them has passed, that he has already given her as much of himself as he can, but she finds she doesn’t want to let go. “Do you miss reading books? It was one of the things I missed most at the Wolf Den.”

“Yes, I miss it.” He picks up a crumpled hyssop plant from the ground and starts to dig that in too. “On the whole, contracts aren’t very entertaining to read.”

“Any time you like, whenever you aren’t working for Rufus, you can go to my private study and read. You don’t need to ask me. I trust you. I don’t really have anything exciting.” She stumbles on, unnerved by his silence. “No Homer. Just a medical text Pliny gave me, in Greek. But you’re welcome to share it, if you want to.”

Whatever Philos might have replied, he does not get the chance.

“What are you two doing digging up in the garden?” Victoria is standing in the corridor from the atrium, leaning against the wall, her hair tousled.

“You’re back!” Amara exclaims, wondering how much Victoria just heard of her offer to Philos. She gestures at the garden. “I’m planting some herbs. Like my father used to grow.”

“So that’s why Juventus came home with half a meadow yesterday morning. I always forget you’re a doctor’s daughter.” Victoria yawns, heading over to the bench. “I suppose the house you grew up in might have been even grander than this one!”

“No,” Amara says, not wanting to move away from Philos but feeling obliged to join her friend on the bench. “It was much smaller. But the garden here reminds me of home.”

“I cannot imagine growing up owning a garden, can you Philos?” Victoria says, kissing Amara playfully on the cheek. “I started out on the town dump!”

Amara knows Victoria’s life story, how she was abandoned on a rubbish heap at a few months old, as so many unwanted babies are, then picked up to be raised as a slave. She has always admired Victoria for her will to survive, but today there is an unpleasant edge to her voice.

“And now you can share Amara’s garden,” Philos says, as he digs in the last plant.

“I remember somebody once telling me she didn’t own it.” Victoria’s hostility is unmistakable this time.

“Rufus is very generous,” Amara says, embarrassed. “The garden belongs to all of us, thanks to him.”