Neither seem able to do anything but stare at one another, until Menander laughs and breaks the moment. “Shall we get a drink?”

They walk out into the square. It’s dotted with stalls selling food, drink and souvenirs. Amara no longer minds the heat or notices the noise. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and they both laugh over nothing, amused by everything. They wander aimlessly for a while, before remembering why they went for a walk and buy a glass of wine to share, and some bread, and head off to sit in the shade under the plane trees beside the Palaestra. The rarity of a day off means they are not the only slave couple taking advantage of the time, though the baying of the crowd as the next hunt starts draws some of the loiterers back into the arena. Menander has still not let go of her hand, and when they sit down, he puts his arm round her. Amara rests her head on his shoulder and can feel his heartbeat, as fast and nervous as her own.

“Would your father have liked me?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, surprised into honesty by his question.

Menander laughs. “That’s better than a no, I guess.”

“What about yours?”

“I think he’d have been quite happy with a doctor’s daughter.”

“My parents wouldn’t have been too pleased by this sort of behavior.”

“No, I suppose not,” Menander replies, holding her tighter, in case she is minded to honor the dead by sitting further apart. There’s a pause, and she suspects he is thinking, like she is, of all they have lost.

“And now I have nothing to offer you,” he says. “No shop to inherit, no freedom.”

“I think we can agree I have even less to offer you,” Amara replies. She says it as a joke, but it hurts, the distance between her old self and her life now.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “You would fetch at least five times as much as me at the market.”

“But nobody’s buying anyone, not today.”

“No,” he says. Then he bends to kiss her, quickly, as if he might otherwise lose his nerve. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, Amara thinks, holding him. When you want someone. It’s meant to feel like happiness.

“Are you alright?” Menander breaks off, looking anxiously into her face. “I hope I didn’t upset you?”

Amara realizes she is shaking. “No, you didn’t upset me!” she says, holding him closer to reassure him. “I just feel . . .” She stops, unable to find words for the mixture of happiness and pain. He is looking at her, waiting, still worried. She tries again. “You get used to having nothing, don’t you? And then suddenly to have something, to feel something, it’s . . .” She trails off.

“It’s happy–sad?”