In the tablinum, Amara sits waiting for the debtor who promised to call on her. Myrtale is a fellow courtesan, a woman on the very edge of Drusilla’s circle, who Amara met at the baths. Myrtale must be in her thirties, and although she is still beautiful, Amara has noticed the envious way she looks at the younger women’s bodies, especially Drusilla with her dark, ageless skin. It is always uncomfortable thinking about getting older. There are times Amara suspects one of the reasons Rufus likes her so thin is to starve away the weight of her twenties, to make her look like the young brides men of his class marry.

There is a faint knock at the half-opened door, and Philos shows Myrtale inside. He slips in after her and stands like a shadow under the window to Amara’s bedchamber, holding the wax tablets. Amara always does business in Philos’s presence now, just as she always discusses her rates and strategies with him.

She rises to greet Myrtale, kissing the air near the other woman’s overly rouged cheeks. “So delighted you could call on me.”

“What a place this is!” Myrtale says, gawking around at the yellow walls and their finely painted birds. She has a similar accent to Philos and Juventus, which Amara is beginning to understand marks a lower class in Pompeii, the Latin coarsened by the pungent flavor of the local Campanian dialect. She is well aware that her own Greek accent is also deemed lower-class, though at least it carries a hint of the exotic.

“I’m very lucky to have such a generous patron.”

“Aren’t you just!” Myrtale lets out a nervous laugh then clamps her hand to her mouth. It is perhaps intended to be a coy gesture, but only highlights her vulnerability. Amara thinks of Felix, how he would probe this woman’s weaknesses, eviscerating her, forcing her to take on debts she could never repay. But I am not Felix, she tells herself.

“I cannot remember your patron’s name?”

“Oh.” Myrtale looks embarrassed. “I have a couple of callers. One is very loyal, but he’s been sick lately. Which is why I need the loan.”

“I’m glad to hear the man is loyal.”

“Well, not that loyal.” Myrtale huffs. “He’s promised for years to marry me. But don’t they all? Still, I’m grateful for what he does. Better than nothing.”

Amara cannot help feeling exasperated at the woman for exposing herself. “How much do you want?” she asks, more curtly than she intends. She realizes she is looking in the drawer, rooting about, just as Felix does when he is irritated. Amara slams the drawer shut, making Myrtale jump.

“Five denarii.” Myrtale lowers her voice, perhaps alarmed by the idea her creditor finds her annoying.