“She died when I was ten.” He is staring at the red wall, his eyes glazed. His grief is so palpable that Amara forgets herself. In that moment all she can see is the frightened boy who lost his mother, who was tormented by his father, and her heart aches for him. She touches his arm, her fingers gentle.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Felix is startled out of his own thoughts. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, getting to his feet. Amara scrambles out of the way, afraid he will kick her where she sits. He stares at her, and they both know she can see the tears in his eyes. “Get out.”

She runs from the room.

Amara closes the door of the flat behind her, stands on the pavement, her back to the wood. She feels torn apart, almost as much by her confusion over Felix, as her grief for Cressa. She cannot bear to go into the brothel, to face Britannica, to make Cressa’s death real, to see her fall in the water again as she tells the others what happened. She lurches off down the street, walking quickly but without aim. Rufus comes into her mind, the way he holds her, tells her he loves her. But it would be unthinkable to disturb him at his own house, in the daytime, with her ugly whore’s tale of pregnancy and death. She almost takes the street that will lead to Drusilla’s house, sensing the courtesan would not turn her away, and yet, she doesn’t really know her. Amara’s feet know where they are taking her before she realizes it herself. The potter’s shop on the Via Pompeiana. To Menander.

She stands outside the shop, watching. He is there, laughing with another slave. A young woman. There is no sign of Rusticus. Amara feels a pang. Perhaps this is his girlfriend now. She has no right to mind what he does; she was wrong to come here and impose her grief on him. Menander sees her just as she is turning away, and he rushes from the shop.

“Timarete!” he calls, stopping her. He catches up, sees her face wet with tears. “I can’t talk outside the shop,” he says. “Wait here. We can walk to the fountain.”

Before she has time to protest, he has run back. Amara sees him talk to the slave girl at the counter who stares at her, curious, then fetches him a bucket.

“Come on,” Menander says, rejoining her. “This way.”

They walk quickly down the street. “I’m sorry,” Amara says. “I’m sorry for what happened between us.” They reach the fountain, where a small gathering of gossips is already milling about. It’s a favorite haunt for loitering slaves.