The restaurant is a step up for Amara, a step down for Rufus. She imagines it must give him a thrill, dining out somewhere not quite respectable. Anybody who is worth anything eats in, safe in the knowledge that luxury lies closer to home. For her, the experience is a delight. They are served on a terrace, and the red glow of dusk gives them a view over the terracotta rooftops, the sharp-peaked mountain a darkening shadow beyond. Lamps hang from the trellis above, a far more elaborate affair than at the Elephant, woven with vines and heavy with ripening grapes.

Rufus orders, and she has the anxiety of trying to eat the sea urchins without making a mess. “I thought we could go to the theater again next week,” he says, sloshing fish sauce everywhere. “One of my favorite plays is on. And it’s an excellent company too, touring all the way from Rome. I’m very interested to see how they stage it.”

“That would be wonderful,” she says, as always relieved that he is thinking ahead to another meeting. “Have you ever been to Rome?”

“No. The furthest I’ve traveled is Misenum. Stayed with the admiral, as it happens. He has a beautiful place out there.”

Amara smiles, not wanting to think about how she once aimed to make the admiral’s villa her home.

“I’d love to see Greece,” he continues. “So many of our plays are based on ones your poets had already written. Did you ever spend time in Athens?”

She cannot tell him that her abiding memory of the city was passing through it to the slave docks. “Not really, no. The only place I know is my hometown, Aphidnai. I think you would like our statue of Helen of Troy.”

Rufus takes her hand and kisses it. “I’m sure she is not as beautiful as you.”

They stare at each other, and she can read the question he is asking with his eyes. Have I waited long enough?

“Rufus!” They are interrupted by a familiar voice. Amara looks up to see Quintus standing by their table. He is accompanied by a beautiful woman. Amara realizes she has seen her before. It is the courtesan she noticed at the theater, with the dress dipped at her back. She is even more striking close up, hair circling her head in elaborate plaits and her skin unusually dark, like Zoskales. A gold bracelet shines on her upper arm. “I think you know Drusilla?”

“Of course,” Rufus says. “Always a pleasure.” He turns to his own girlfriend with unmistakable pride. “And this is Amara.”

“Indeed!” Quintus says, pursing his lips. “Lucky man. I’ve heard her pretty voice before.” Amara feels a stab of alarm. There is no mistaking the smirk on his face.