“Maybe this one doesn’t speak Latin,” says the other man. He turns to her, enunciating slowly, as if she is stupid. “You. Greek. Whore. Yes?” The man’s white hair is stuck to his head in sweaty tufts like a newborn duckling. His pale eyes stare at her with a lack of focus, as if he doesn’t expect to see anyone looking back.

Amara thinks of her father. The crooked way he would smile when he talked about the power of the Roman state. Everything they have is borrowed from us, Timarete. Always remember that. “I am from Aphidnai,” she replies, speaking fluent Latin. “Twelfth city of Attica, once the home of Helen of Troy.” She inclines her head graciously, one hand over her heart in greeting, her father’s smile on her face. “In this country, I am called Amara. I wish nothing other than to be of service to you both.”

Duckling Head is not charmed. “Aphidnai didn’t keep hold of Helen for long, if your myths are true.”

His companion laughs. “Don’t be so bad-tempered Gaius.” He looks at Amara with more interest. She looks back under lowered lashes. He is old, it’s true, but not entirely unattractive. His square jaw and iron-gray hair at least make him more prepossessing than his rude companion. She glances downward. There are gold rings on his fingers, the flesh around them swollen in the heat. Her heart flutters. Could this be the patron she has been hoping for? Can he see how much she has to offer? In her imagination, she leaps forward in time, sees him devotedly draping her in jewels, entranced by her every word . . . “You have a pretty mouth, Amara from Aphidnai. Don’t waste it talking to him.” He parts his legs in a not very subtle sign of what he wants. Of course, it’s not interest in his eyes. It’s nothing more than the drunk look of lust she has seen so many times before. Amara hesitates, the disappointment of reality taking a few seconds to dissipate her fantasy. Then she bends her head to oblige.

Duckling Head harrumphs in annoyance. “Not very entertaining for me, and now you’ve gone and taken the last pretty one.”

“Don’t make a fuss,” groans his companion. “That fat one over there isn’t doing anything. It’s not like you have to look at their faces anyway!”

The men shout at Maria to join them. Amara finds it distracting to have to work next to her. Duckling Head does nothing but complain, threatening to shove Maria’s head under the water if she doesn’t make more effort. It seems Drauca’s warning wasn’t a joke. The rage Amara feels is blinding. For a moment, she thinks of Felix. Imagines what it must be like to have the power to act on your anger rather than bury it.