“We were lovers once, yes.” Drusilla nods. “For some months. And he sometimes still visits. I have a certain fondness for him. Though I have to be careful with Quintus; he has more pride than you might imagine.” She looks at Amara, raising an eyebrow. “Though not as careful as you. Rufus would not take well to a rival at all.”

“No,” she replies. “But there’s no danger of that.” She looks down, peeling her fig, thinking of Menander. It had been Dido who insisted she stop communicating with him, even through graffiti. She had not had the strength to tell him herself that she now had a “patron” and so took the coward’s way out, letting Dido visit the potter’s shop instead. It hurts even thinking of him. She stops peeling. The fruit lies pale and naked in her hands. She glances up at Drusilla. “Have you and Rufus ever been lovers?”

“Would the answer to that matter to you, one way or the other?”

“No,” Amara replies. “My feelings aren’t . . .” She pauses, not sure how to explain the way she feels. She shrugs instead.

“Only very briefly,” Drusilla answers. She watches Amara’s reaction. “I see I have upset you.”

“No, not at all,” Amara says, surprised to feel as shaken as she does. “Or rather I’m not jealous. It’s just he told me you hadn’t. He was quite convincing.”

Drusilla laughs. “All men are born liars. You should take it as a compliment. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings. At least he realizes you have some.”

“Does Quintus not?” Dido asks.

“Well,” Drusilla says drily, breaking off a piece of bread and leaning back on her cushions. “I don’t even have to ask if either of you have fucked Quintus. I know you must have. Otherwise, he would be pestering me to try you out.” They all laugh. “He is just as he appears,” she continues. “But it is strange how men can grow on you, even Quintus.”

“Some men never do,” Amara says.

“Your master?” Drusilla asks. Amara nods, not wanting to say his name.

“I don’t know,” Dido teases her. “You and Felix sitting together, going over the accounts. Surely you’ve seen his softer side?”

“He’s a shit,” Amara snaps. The ugliness of the word slams into their pleasant morning, bringing the shadow of the brothel with it. “I’m sorry,” she says to Drusilla, flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be crude.”

“I’m sure nobody here is shocked by swearing.” Drusilla laughs. “Quintus is also a shit, though I cannot imagine him making me angry enough to say so.” She looks more serious. “But then he is the one paying the money, and believe me, I understand the difference.”