“Yes, but she’s usually booked. Costs a little extra.”

“Wise man,” he says. “I’d keep that one to myself as well.”

“If you’re choosing downstairs, I recommend Victoria,” Felix replies.

“Do all your whores do accounts?” Cedrus asks, amused.

“Just that one. A doctor’s daughter.”

Cedrus is impressed. “You invested in quality stock then. Not got any virgins, I suppose?”

Amara thinks of Dido, of the pain she endured losing her innocence in this place, and almost snaps her stylus from pressing it so hard into the wax.

Felix shakes his head. The men move on to other matters and when Cedrus leaves, he doesn’t so much as glance at her, as if he has forgotten her existence.

“Don’t do that again,” Felix says when they are alone.

“Do what?”

“Listen.”

Amara is about to protest but thinks better of it. “I don’t remember telling you my father was a doctor.”

“It was after I bought you,” he replies. “I gave you and Dido some figs, and you told me they were your father’s favorite. I asked what he did.”

The memory comes back to Amara, so vivid it is searing, like the scalding floor of the baths. The way Felix smiled, touched her gently on the arm, offering her the fruit. Almost with tenderness. And her own foolish relief. This one is kind.

She shrugs. “I don’t remember that.”

Amara works silently the rest of the afternoon, keeping her head down as a procession of clients come in. She does not seem to pay attention, not even when one weeps, begging Felix for more time, but all the while, she disobeys her master, listening intently, hatred coiled in the pit of her stomach. At last, Paris comes to tell them Rufus’s slave Philos is waiting. Felix dismisses him then walks over, watching her pile up the tablets.

When she has finished, he hands her one of Pliny’s dresses, not moving aside as she changes. His presence makes her nervous, and she fumbles with the brooch. Felix helps her, and the sensation of him holding up the fabric, his frown of concentration as he fixes the pin, makes her think of a husband’s familiarity with his wife. When she is dressed, she turns to go, but he catches hold of her wrist, pulling her closer. It is not a moment of intimacy.

“Remember what happens to people who betray me,” he says. Then he lets her arm drop, walking back to his desk without watching her leave.

30

“If anyone has not seen Venus painted by Appelles, he should look at my girlfriend; she shines just as bright”

—Pompeii graffiti