It isn’t only money that Amara meant. She owes Rufus for more than that. She owes him some semblance of loyalty, not to make every word she says a lie. But she doesn’t want to hurt Menander even more than she already has. He bends to fill the bucket with water he doesn’t need, except as an excuse for Rusticus. “I didn’t want you wasting your feelings on me,” Amara says, as he works the pump. “Not when I can’t give you anything.” Even though I want to, she thinks. “And I’m sorry I came here, dragging you out, burdening you. I just couldn’t bear what happened to Cressa, and I forgot. I forgot I shouldn’t have been speaking to you. That I should have left you alone.”

“You can always speak to me.” Menander lifts the bucket down, moving away from the well. “Always. And I know you have to look after yourself. I understand that.”

Amara looks down. It feels as if he is letting her go, and she doesn’t want him to. “There is nobody like you,” she says, unable to tell him she loves him. “There is nobody else like you in my life.”

“Or mine, Timarete.” He leans forward, kissing her quickly on the forehead. Then he picks up the bucket, turning to go. “Please be careful. And don’t blame yourself.”

Britannica understands, as soon as she sees Amara, that something is wrong. “Cressa?” she demands, her voice high with anxiety. “Cressa?”

Amara cannot bear to tell her Cressa is dead while they are alone; she isn’t even sure Britannica will understand. All the other women are out, even Beronice, and she has to wait while Britannica paces the corridor, muttering to herself, sometimes turning to shout at Amara who only shakes her head.

When Dido and Beronice return, they are both with customers. She knows her stricken face will have told them there is bad news as soon as they step over the threshold, but they are still obliged to pleasure the men first. Amara sits in her old cell, waiting for them to finish.

“Where is she?” Beronice says, rushing in as soon as she is free. “Where’s Cressa? What’s happened to her?” Britannica hovers by the bed, looking from Beronice to Amara, her eyes wide with fear.

“I’m sorry,” Amara says. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Beronice shakes her head, understanding. “No, she isn’t. She can’t be.”

“She jumped into the sea at the harbor,” Amara says, trying to keep her voice steady. “She tied herself to an amphora to make sure she drowned. I couldn’t get there in time to save her. I didn’t realize.”

“No!” Beronice wails. “No!”