Pallas froze on the spot like a stunned animal, and their tunics he’d brought with him from atop the roof slid out of his hands, billowing down to the wooden floor of the hallway where they stood. Titus turned around and glanced questioningly at the young Greek who’d turned pale and stared back wide-eyed, looking as guilty as if he’d been caught stealing. “It’s not … I”, Pallas stammered, frantically searching for words.

The Roman flashed him a reassuring smile and went, naked as he was, over to the next door, pushing the curtain aside to take a look at the room behind, and then proceeded to the next. It was the same behind every curtain – empty rooms, most of them with colourful, elaborate murals on walls and ceilings and with artful mosaics on the floor, only the first one he’d seen was painted simply in a deep shade of red. The rooms weren’t large, except for one with outstandingly beautiful wall paintings that was located right above the shop which, Titus assumed, had once been used for entertaining guests.

Only one of the rooms, apart from the kitchen, was furnished, obviously his beloved’s bedroom. The sparse pieces of furniture in there, a bed, a chest, two chairs and a table along with a stuffed shelf, were of good quality, though visibly worn from use. A faded yellow curtain billowed in the soft breeze coming through a high-placed window. The room stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house; its cheerful colours radiated warmth and life, and also reflected Pallas’ nature to such an extent that an affectionate smile flashed across Titus’ face as soon as he peered inside.

His inspection had taken the Roman around the entire upper floor, so that he now again reached the ladder leading up to the roof. Pallas still stood leaning against the railing, forlornly hugging himself, and didn’t even look up when Titus approached. Ignoring his grumbling stomach, the Roman steered his beloved down the stairs into the garden where the only available couches sat in a pool of sunlight.

“Pallas, speak to me”, Titus urged after he’d made himself comfortable. “Why is the house so empty?” The young Greek drew a deep breath, pushed the feeling of shame aside that had paralysed him, and told Titus about his father, the overwhelming debts Myron, who’d been too fond of gambling, had left the family after his glossed-over suicide, the resulting death of Pallas’ mother and about Hermokrates’ halfway successful but not really satisfying negotiations with the moneylenders.

“Hermokrates had to sell everything for the initial sum they had agreed on”, Palls finished with a small voice. “Ever since I’ve come of age and run the shop, everything I don’t really need wanders straight over to the moneylenders. We’d hoped it would be more, but after father’s death the number of customers decreased steadily.” The Greek shrugged wearily. “I’m not like my father. He was well-read, brilliant in conversations and knew how to deal with people – I am not like him.” This was a plain statement without any self-pity.

“I am sorry I’ve kept this from you”, Pallas added with a calm dignity about him Titus had never sensed before. “I know it’s too late now and how all this must appear on the surface, though.” He looked up. “I don’t blame you if you want to leave now, it’s my fault entirely. I will finish the History myself and send it over to your place if this is your wish.”