“Here we are,” Philos says, stopping at a darkened doorway. She stands close to him, eager to see everything, and he pushes her away slightly, as if they were children jostling over a toy. He gives her the lamp to hold and fishes out some heavy keys, deliberately taking his time with the lock, until she hits him playfully on the arm. Philos turns the key, cranking open the wooden door. They step inside. The small atrium is cold, with a few oil lamps set on the floor, their flickering light dimmed by the moonlight from the opening in the ceiling. She turns to ask Philos where they are, but he has already melted into the shadows.

“Welcome home, darling.”

Rufus is standing in the archway to the garden, his figure cutting a deeper shade of black in the darkness.

Amara flings herself at him with a cry. She can scarcely get the words out, all her love and relief and fear are jumbled together, the threads too tangled to unwind.

“You’re shaking!” Rufus exclaims. He sweeps her up into his arms, relishing the theatricality of the gesture. Amara is perhaps a little heavier than he was expecting, as he stumbles on the first step, but then he regains his footing and strides toward one of the darkened rooms. It is cold and barely furnished. A couch and a burning lamp stand in the corner. More than enough.

There is no pretence to Amara’s happiness. That side of her performance, at least, is genuine. And after she has given him every pleasure his body can bear, Rufus hardly has the chance to tell her he loves her. She has already said the words herself, over and over again.

The chill is too sharp to lie together on the bed for long. “I’m afraid the house is only rented at the moment,” Rufus says, hurrying to get dressed. “But perhaps we can buy the place if we like it enough.” A sliver of fear prickles Amara, as cold as the sweat drying on her skin. She shivers. Surely this house is more than proof that he will free her? Rufus leans toward her, kissing her again. Slowly, she relaxes. He cups her face in his hands. “We can decide when you belong to nobody but me.”

38

“A common night awaits us, we all must walk death’s path.”

—Horace, The Odes 1.28

Amara stands alone in the brothel corridor. Nobody else is awake yet. She looks at the familiar space, the sooty walls, the paintings above the doorways. A woman on top for Victoria. A man with two cocks for Beronice. All those women on the walls, never taking a break from getting fucked, even when the real whores are sleeping. She wonders how many more nights she will have to spend in this place and hugs herself, thinking of the empty house. Waiting for her.