“My rate is five percent.” Amara is about to explain that after three months the interest rises, but she sees the alarm on the other woman’s face. Even five percent is going to be a struggle. She decides to waive the higher rate. “If you are happy with that, my steward will draw up the contract. Though you also need to give me some surety.”

“I was wondering,” Myrtale says, “given this is between friends, could we do without that part?”

Amara is conscious of Philos staring at her, but whereas he usually gives some indication of his opinion, his face is completely blank. “No,” Amara says. “But I can see a lovely ring on your right hand. That will do very well.”

Myrtale hides the ring, clasping it inside her fingers. “That was a gift from my first patron,” she says. “It’s worth more than five denarii.”

“If you don’t pay me, I will refund you the difference.” Myrtale still looks uncertain, so Amara holds out her hand to press home her demand. “If you want the loan, give it to me, please.” Myrtale pulls the ring from her finger, gets up, places it on the desk, then sits back down again. Amara can see tears in her eyes. “I’ve no doubt you will be able to pay me,” she says, tucking the ring into a string purse. “And then you can have it back. Now, if you would like to sign, my steward has the contract.”

While Philos is in the process of scratching out the higher rate of interest and getting both women’s signatures, Martha sticks her head around the door. “Master wants him,” she says, nodding at her fellow slave.

Philos hands Amara the tablets, after Myrtale has signed. “If you will excuse me,” he murmurs.

“That’s a lot of servants you have,” Myrtale says, when Martha and Philos have left.

“They are my patron’s servants.”

Myrtale nods. “It all goes very fast, you know,” she says, her voice bitter. “I was like you once.”

The makeup on Myrtale’s face has cracked, and tears have smudged the kohl so it cakes in the creases around her eyes, making her appear even older than she is. It reminds Amara of Cressa at the Wolf Den, that look of a woman on the slow downward slide, or worse, of Fabia, the abject destitution of old age. It is a terrifying thought, and her fear curdles into cruelty. “I very much doubt you were ever like me,” she says, walking to the door and opening it in a sign of dismissal.