“No,” Amara says, feeling nervous. “He meant something in particular. What did he mean? Please tell me. Please.”

Philos does not look at her. “Rufus was fond of Vitalio’s daughter for a while.”

“His daughter? Is she part of the family household?” Dido takes Amara’s hand, trying to lead her away, to calm her down, but Amara shakes her off. “Tell me.” She stares at Philos, willing him to obey, and the sadness in his gray eyes strikes her with fear.

“You’ve met her a few times,” he says. “It’s Faustilla, the serving girl.”

At first, Amara cannot imagine who he means, the only maid she can remember is a shy young thing who never spoke. “But it can’t be the girl I met; she’s so young,” she says. “And Rufus never seemed to notice her. A few times she was even there when . . .” Amara puts her hand over her mouth, too shocked to continue. Dido puts an arm round her, and this time, she doesn’t push her away.

“Rufus is no different to any young man of his class,” Philos says, sounding a little defensive of his master. “You know they all sleep with their slaves. Whatever happened between them was never any reflection on his feelings for you.”

“That’s not what I’m upset about!” Amara says, although it’s a lie, because she had believed Rufus was different. She thinks of his disarming smile, the way he has always seemed so beguilingly sincere. The way he tells her he loves her. “I’m upset about the girl,” she insists. “No wonder Vitalio hates me. His daughter having to serve the woman who took her place. Did she love him?” Philos does not reply, but he doesn’t need to. “Of course she loved him. She must have thought he was the kindest man she’d ever met.” Amara thinks of the way Felix treats Victoria, his deliberate cruelty. But Rufus is no less cruel to Faustilla, even if he doesn’t mean to be. “Had it even finished between them when Rufus met me?”

“Amara,” Philos says, his voice low, “just remember you have to live with my answers. And so do I.”

“He’s still sleeping with her,” she says, understanding him. “Of course he is. You must think I’m an idiot.”

“I don’t think that at all.” Philos has the studiously blank expression of the slave who is habituated to hiding his feelings. She remembers what he said to her when they were alone. When you’re young, they fuck you; when you’re old, they fuck you over.

“Well,” she says to Dido, with false cheer. “He didn’t rent her a house. So hopefully, I have a little time before I’m serving wine to his next mistress.”

“Just think of Felix,” Dido says. “Think how much safer you will be here. It’s paradise in comparison.”