“Oh,” Amara replies, not liking the sound of him. “I suppose he wants to look after his son.”

“If you were my wife,” Philos says, surprising her that he would refer to her in such a way. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with him. Not if I could help it.”

“I’ll be careful,” Amara says, conscious that she is still holding his arm, that perhaps she should let go. “Thank you.”

Hortensius looks so like his son, Amara has to stop herself from staring. Even the mannerisms, the exaggerated hand gestures so particular to Rufus, have their double in his father. She is grateful Drusilla is part of the gathering, that she can, at times, take away the heat of his attention. It is the only obvious difference between father and son. Where Rufus is kind and lacking in guile, Hortensius seems shrewd and calculating.

“Rufus tells me you helped the admiral with his research,” he says to her. “You must be highly educated. Was it your first master who taught you?”

“It was my father,” Amara says. “When I was free. He was a physician in Attica.”

“I told you all this,” Rufus says, looking flustered.

Hortensius throws his hands up, inviting her to laugh with him at his son. “You told me she was a concubine in Aphidnai!”

“That was later,” Rufus insists.

“Nothing wrong with being a concubine,” Hortensius says, turning to Drusilla and kissing her hand. Drusilla smiles at him, as if charmed. But Amara knows Drusilla is so skilled at hiding her feelings, she could wish Hortensius dead, and he would never know it. “So your father was a doctor. Then you were hurled into tragedy and ended up a heartbroken whore. Is this right?” Amara inclines her head, not liking his sarcasm, even though it is delivered with a smile. “You seem rather young for your master to have become bored.”

“His wife was not happy.”

“If the fool couldn’t control his women, it’s as well you left,” Hortensius says, as if she had any choice in the matter. “Do you dance? Play music? Sing?”

“I told you . . .” Rufus begins.

“But I’m asking her.”

“My father taught me . . .”

“Oh, come now!” Hortensius interrupts her, laughing. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m sure your father didn’t teach you how to perform in male company. Not if he really was a doctor. What did your first master teach you?”

“I learned the lyre at my father’s house,” Amara says, ignoring the insinuation she is a liar. “Then as a concubine I learned a number of songs by Sappho and other Greek poets. I have continued my musical education in Pompeii.”

“Musical education!” Hortensius raises his eyebrows, amused. “At least you have some wit.”

“Perhaps you would allow us to play for you?” Drusilla says, her silk tunic rustling as she rises. She looks at Hortensius sidelong, as if she finds him irresistible.