“I know,” he says. “And I know how hard it all is. I’ve been there myself.” He glances back along the street where they came from. “I don’t mean I worked in a brothel,” he adds, lowering his voice. “But I don’t think I felt safe for a minute when I was younger.”
Amara tightens her grip on his arm. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I understand.”
“Who’d be a slave, eh? When you’re young, they fuck you, and when you’re old, they fuck you over.”
“Rufus values you though.”
“Yes, he does,” Philos looks away. “I can’t complain now.”
“The man who…” Amara stops, not wanting to say the word, not wanting to humiliate Philos. “It wasn’t Rufus’s father, was it?”
“Not Hortensius, no. He’s not interested in boys. His father, on the other hand, was very interested.”
Amara wonders how old Philos is, perhaps ten years older than her, maybe a little more. He is nice looking, she realizes, though she has never really noticed him that way. When he was young, he must have been striking. The thought of him ever living in fear, unable to defend himself, makes her angry. That Rufus’s grandfather was responsible is even worse. “What’s Hortensius like?” Philos says nothing, and she realizes he doesn’t want to be disloyal. “You can trust me,” she says. “But I’m also not offended if you don’t.”
“I wish you had asked me earlier,” Philos says, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks at her, obviously torn. “I’m not meant to tell you, but Rufus is bringing him along tonight. To meet you. It was supposed to be a surprise. Hortensius insisted Rufus keep it quiet; he wants to see you ‘as you really are’, catch you on the hop, so to speak.”
“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 will 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 learnt the lyre at my father’s house,” Amara says, ignoring the insinuation she is a liar. “Then as a concubine I learnt 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.
“Why not.” Hortensius leans back on the couch, gazing at her.
Amara does not have her lyre, but Drusilla beckons her over to the harp. “I will play Sappho’s ‘Hymn to Aphrodite’,” she murmurs. “But you sing it alone.”
“Thank you,” Amara whispers, grateful she will not have to compete with Drusilla’s superior voice. She sways to the music, using the graceful hand gestures she learnt at Chremes’s house, pouring her heart into the song. Seeing Hortensius watch her, appraising her, it is almost like being back before Chremes, as if all the many changes in her life as a slave have brought her full circle to the point where she started. She thinks of Philos. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t leave you alone with him. Rufus is also watching, beaming with pride. It does not reassure her. How long before he starts to see her through his father’s eyes?
“Very well,” Hortensius says to Rufus, when she has finished singing. “She is delightful. You win.” He turns back to Amara. “But I really don’t understand all this nonsense about renting a place. When he’s bought you, you can just join the family household.”
“Really father, not now.” Rufus is crimson, looking anxiously at Amara.
“Fine, fine. Have your little romance.” Hortensius sighs. He shakes his head at Drusilla and Amara. “Boys. I cannot imagine how you pair put up with them.”
“Rufus is the kindest man I have ever met,” Amara replies.
“I’ve no doubt he is,” Hortensius says with a snort. “Well, I suppose I should let you all enjoy your night of young love.” Everyone rises with him. Hortensius goes to Drusilla, kissing her. “Delighted, as ever.” He turns to Amara but rather than kiss her too, he runs his hands down the length of her body, as if they were in the slave market. She is so shocked she cannot speak. “Very fine.” He smiles at her, though there is no warmth in his eyes. “Not a bad investment at all.” Nobody fills the silence. “Aren’t you going to show me out, boy?” Rufus hurries over and leads his father from the room. He doesn’t look at Amara.
When the men have left, Drusilla makes the sign of the evil eye. “What did he mean?” she hisses. “You told me Rufus was going to free you!”
“That’s what he said!” Amara is shaking.
Drusilla pinches her arm. “Don’t get upset! Don’t! This is too important. Use your head. Make it as hard as possible for Rufus not to do what he promised, use his guilt, whatever you can. You cannot let him believe you will be satisfied as a slave!” She steps back as Rufus returns, smiling serenely, as if she and Amara have been exchanging pleasantries. “I find I am a little tired,” she says, yawning. “I hope you don’t mind if I abandon you both?”
They watch Drusilla leave, her walk effortlessly languid, even though Amara knows she isn’t tired at all. “That went rather well, I thought,” Rufus says. He leans in to kiss her.