“Yes, because nothing belongs to you, not even the happiness.”

“Timarete, even slaves own their happiness. Feelings are the only things we do own.” He passes the small flask of wine to her, and she takes a sip. “And I know that this afternoon is short, but we have it, we own it.”

“Are you going to tell me not to waste it?”

“No, because talking isn’t wasting it,” he says, taking the wine back from her. “Nobody is telling us what to do today. Just feel whatever you want to feel.” He pauses. “Although I’m hoping that means you might feel like kissing me again.”

She laughs. “Might do.”

“I want to know all about your singing too,” he says, brushing the hair from her shoulders. “I half thought you might be too grand to see me now, after all the parties you and Dido go to.”

“Never,” she says. “And anyway, there wouldn’t be any singing if you hadn’t got the lyre for me.”

“It was entirely selfish. I just wanted to hear you play,” he says, drawing her closer. His intensity is familiar, pulling on a dark undertow in her body. She has seen desire in so many men and almost every association is painful. But this is Menander! She puts her hand out to touch his face, cupping it in her fingers, to remind herself who he is, remind herself that she has chosen to be with him.

“I wish I had known you in our other life.”

“I know.”

“You try to keep it inside, don’t you, all the different parts of yourself, but they don’t exist anymore. I thought of my mother the other day, what she would think of me, who she would see. If we met now. But she wouldn’t know me. I wouldn’t know me.” Amara is talking fast, trying to rush the words out, hoping she makes sense, not sure why she is even telling him this, aside from the longing she feels to be understood. “Sometimes I think it must be harder for you. Because my life is just completely different, there’s nothing left of the past. But for you, it must be like living on the wrong side of the mirror.”

“To be the potter’s slave, rather than the potter’s son?”

“Yes.”

“It is hard. But I know it’s not harder than your life.” He takes her hand and places it against his cheek again, covering her fingers with his. “You are the same person though. I still see you as the same person.”

“I miss so many things.” She sighs then smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “The food for a start.”

Menander makes a face. “Italian cheese! What do they feed their goats?”

“And that horrible fish sauce on everything!”

“No beans so bland they can’t be spiced up by rotten anchovies.”

“And the bread here tastes like somebody tipped grit in it.”