“Oh, do you sing?” Drusilla exclaims. “How delightful! I adore music. You must both join us one evening at my home.” She smiles warmly at Amara who smiles back, grateful for the distraction.

“Loves entertaining, this one.” Quintus rolls his eyes. “I can barely set foot in the house; it’s always stuffed full of gossiping girls.”

Drusilla makes a playful show of being affronted. “As if I ever deny you anything.” She flounces off to their table, and Quintus follows with an apologetic shrug.

Amara turns back to Rufus, still smiling, but his expression chills her. “So you already know Quintus?” he says.

“He has attended parties where I was performing,” she replies, with a toss of her head, determined not to show her fear, still less any guilt. “My singing partner Dido knows him better.”

“He’s got a reputation.” Amara cannot tell whether the anger in his voice is for her or Quintus. “I hope you never got too close to him.”

“Do you think I ever had a choice about such things?” she says sharply.

“Forget it.” He waves his hand to dismiss the conversation.

“No,” she says, her voice icy. “I won’t. If you will hold the most painful parts of my life against me, I cannot be your friend.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it . . .” Rufus looks more like himself again, startled into his familiar frown of anxiety at displeasing her.

“I hope not,” she says. “Just because you have been generous enough to allow me a choice, doesn’t mean anyone else has.” Amara feels a sudden weariness. The exhaustion of holding his interest, of trying to explain herself, all the while knowing he is incapable of understanding. A memory of Menander comes to her, of their afternoon outside the arena, talking about the past. You are the same person. I still see you as the same person.

Rufus recognizes her sadness, even though he has no way of guessing the cause. “I’m an idiot, sorry. I know you have . . . sung at a lot of parties.” He pulls a rueful face, to show the euphemism is mocking him rather than her. “It’s ridiculous of me to be jealous. You’re just so lovely. I know you could have anyone.” He reaches for her hand. “Friends again?”

“The ridiculous thing is imagining I could ever prefer Quintus to you,” she replies, squeezing his fingers. It sounds like a line, but she means it. “Drusilla seems very pleasant.” She lets go again.

“Oh, she’s great fun,” Rufus exclaims, then stops, horrified at himself. “Not that I’ve ever . . .” he stutters. Amara laughs, and he joins her, relieved. “Well, anyway. She throws the most wonderful dinners. Her old master left her her freedom and, clearly, a fair bit of cash too. Though I think her friends also support her.”