Amara does not look back as the stranger leads her and Fuscus from the heaving dining room. They step into the cool night air, following their guide through the rose garden and into the darkened house.

18

“I hate and I love. How is this possible? Perhaps you ask.

I don’t know. But I feel it, and I am tortured.”

—Catullus, Poem 85

Amara wakes to the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight on her face. She is alone on the bed. For a moment, she cannot remember where she is, then memories from last night hit her in a rush. She sits upright, clasping the sheets to her chest.

There is no sign of Felix. He must have left for the Palaestra without waking her.

Amara breathes out. The sounds of the street outside the brothel are loud, carts rattling, the babble of conversations. She must have slept until the afternoon.

She follows her memories of the night, like a series of scenes painted round a room. It was Gallus who brought her back to the brothel by torchlight in the early hours, after Fuscus had finished. They came alone, as Dido was still busy entertaining. She had not been expecting Gallus to show her upstairs, but presumed Felix wanted to claim any tips. At that time, it was no surprise to find him in bed, more surprising that he had waited up.

Amara feels her cheeks grow hotter. It had been a pleasure to boast about the success of the night, Egnatius’s promise to book them again, the tip Fuscus had given her. She had almost forgotten Drauca, sitting there with Felix, seeing his excitement at the money mirror her own. It was all the coins spread out on the bed that turned him on, she’s sure of that, and the sex wasn’t even that different from complying to his usual demands, though the lateness of the hour gave it an intimacy which was hard to ignore.

Even though she is alone, Amara covers her face with her hands in shame. When did she realize he wanted her to stay afterward? Did she want to stay? Did she linger too long? Remembering her feelings is like opening a door onto the darkest part of herself. Felix had held her hand so tightly, was still holding it, so far as she knows, after she fell asleep.

“I hate him,” she tells the empty room. “I hate him.”

She trawls through her memories, remembering every cruelty, the times he has raped her, his violence. Drauca. But other images push through like weeds. The figs he bought her and Dido, the laughter in his eyes when she met him at the Palaestra, his excitement at her stories last night. The fit of his fingers in hers. Amara flops back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes. “I hate him,” she says again.