Hylas could act it when it benefited him, but he was certainly no fool. He hadn’t been sure before if Sextus was just playing with him, but now he was certain of it. Any humility he may have felt (and for someone who had been a slave most of his life, Hylas never had learned much humility) dissipated in a rush of indignation. Offended at being patronised, he pulled himself away from the two men and slid off the bed, sullenly smoothing the chiton down over his thighs. How could he have ever thought either of them would want him? Seeing the effort it was taking Sextus to keep a straight face he bristled like a little cat and glared from him to Philandros and back.

In his short life he had already three times endured the degradation of standing naked on an auction block while some man with a whip slyly pointed out to potential buyers his feigned docility and undeniable beauty. He could not bear to be laughed at because of what he was and what he’d had to do, even by a slave master who could send him right back to that auction block or worse.

"You think I’m just some dim tart, don’t you?” he muttered, “I’m not—you don’t understand! I want to stay here but I can't work at the slave market because—" He hastily bit off what he was about to blurt out and stared wide-eyed at Sextus, but it was already too late to backtrack.

"Well?" Lounging like some half-naked god against the cushions that scattered the bed, his arm still encircling Philandros, Sextus regarded him with some amusement.

Hylas finally broke. He just couldn’t keep up the charade any longer. "Because I was— am—a slave myself!" he threw back.

There followed a long silence. Hylas supposed he should throw himself on his knees at this point and plead tearfully for mercy, but he didn’t. He might have had to swallow his pride, but that didn’t mean he had to toss what was left of his dignity after it. He saw Sextus raise an eyebrow at Philandros, as if querying his lover’s impression, but unable to read the meaning of the looks that passed between them he just hugged his arms about himself and stared back defiantly.

Eventually Sextus said, "I think you'd better go back to the beginning of your story, hadn’t you? For a start, who’s your master?” His tone was not exactly cold, but Hylas recognized the steel that had been concealed beneath the kindness and knew he wasn’t joking now. This was no longer the time and place for lies.

“I’m not sure,” Hylas rubbed one sandaled foot against the back of his other calf and looked nervous, “Either Aemilius Pertinax, my late master’s brother, or a Syracusan brothel-keeper. It depends if Pertinax got his money back when I ran off, I suppose.”

With no way out of it now, Hylas told them everything. He faltered somewhat over the details of his duties in Aemilius Felix’s household, but what they were must have been evident enough. He told them of his master’s death and how he had run away when he found out Pertinax had sold him to a brothel, shaking his head when Philandros asked him why Aemilius Felix hadn’t arranged for his manumission in the event of his demise.

“It happened too quickly, I suppose. I don’t know, maybe he wouldn’t have done it anyway. I did have some bits of jewellery that he gave me,” Hylas sighed wistfully, “But I had to use to that to get to Neapolis.”

“Why were you making for Pompeii?” Philandros asked him “Do you really know anyone there?”

“No,” Hylas confessed, lowering his eyes. “I don’t. Aemilius Felix just talked about the city a lot, and no one would know me there. I can read, and write passably,” he added defensively. Felix had had him educated to a certain extent, and though Hylas’s spelling was execrable he saw no reason to mention that. “I thought maybe I could get a job as a secretary or—or a companion.”

He chewed a fingernail, not looking at the two men on the bed. He didn’t want to see their disgust or pity. If only they hadn’t been so kind to him; if only Sextus hadn’t made that offer; if only he had kept his mouth shut: there were just too many if onlys! Finally he looked up at the slave master in weary resignation. “And now you know, what will you do with me?”