Amara slowly allows herself to be won round. It isn’t a difficult part for her to play. Nobody has ever made such an effort to charm her. Rufus teases her, playfully trying to serve her food, turning all his humor against himself. He smiles and his cheeks dimple like Cupid. Amara accepts the glass of wine he offers, smiles back when he compares himself unfavorably to the “eunuch” in the play they have just seen and, when he finally jokes about the terrifying effect that her anger had on him, widening his eyes in a ridiculous parody of surprise, she finds her laughter is genuine.

“I do so wish I could write for the theater,” he tells her, once they are clearly friends again. He gestures at her to take a handful of dried figs then, when she has, helps himself. “But I don’t have any talent.”

“I can’t believe that’s true.”

“No, it is. I might be an idiot, but at least I know that I am,” he says. “And besides, my father would hate it. He wants me to run for aedile next year.” He pulls a face. “Can you imagine? All that endless smarming, getting people to vote for you, followed by a year of total tedium listening to everyone drone on about grain distribution. I’d be hopeless at it.”

“Couldn’t you choose the celebrations you threw though?” she says, thinking of Fuscus. “Maybe a free performance at the theater rather than the usual games at the arena?”

“Yes, I had been thinking that.” His look of surprise reminds her of Pliny when she quoted Herophilos. “Might make the whole thing more bearable.” They smile at each other. He holds her gaze and leans closer, then, when she doesn’t move away, kisses her. There is more sensitivity to him this time; she can tell he is trying not to rush her. “I have to ask you something,” he says, stroking her arm. “I know you are trapped by your life at the . . . where you live. I know you don’t have a choice. But is your heart free?”

Amara thinks immediately of Menander. “Yes,” she lies.

“And at the admiral’s house, you two didn’t . . . I mean, you and Pliny . . .”

“No. He never touched me. Not like that.”

“Right,” Rufus says in relief. “You just seemed so fond of the old man. I had to wonder. He must have a will of iron, keeping his hands to himself with you round.”

“He knew about my past,” she says. “He felt my life had not taken its right path.”

Rufus nods. “Terence writes about that, the mistakes that are made. When a girl isn’t meant to be a slave. Were you kidnapped?” He asks, an idea suddenly striking him. “Then you might not really be a slave at all. If one could prove it.”