She steps onto the pavement to meet the waiting crowd, and her fear is drowned by a surge of excitement. The scene reminds her of the Vinalia, the huge gaggle of women flooding the street. The ones at the front are finely dressed, draped in garlands of flowers, mingling with the musicians; she sees one throw back her head and laugh, throat flashing white in the sun. Behind the carriage, a long trail of rougher-looking women snakes down the road. Some are staring at the wealthy courtesans; others talk and laugh among themselves. Amara knows they are prostitutes: the Floralia is one of the only times whores get to be celebrated in public. The stench of sweat, covered by cheap perfume, is overpowering. Amara looks over the sea of faces, thinking of Dido, until it occurs to her that her abandoned friend, Beronice, might be somewhere in the crowd, and quickly turns away.

Drusilla is the first to be handed into the carriage. Amara waits, her eye caught by the painted metal medallions on the back of the seat. It is a writhing fretwork of naked bodies—satyrs embracing nymphs, the women’s forms contorted in their attempts to get away. For a moment Amara feels unsteady, unwelcome memories pressing against the edges of her mind. She sways, and the attendant holds out his hand to steady her. Amara grips it as he helps her up onto the seat beside Drusilla. She forces the brothel from her imagination. The Floralia celebrates sexual pleasure; the women are here to be enjoyed. It’s what the guests at Cornelius’s house will expect from Victoria, Phoebe and Lais later; it’s why Amara sent them. It’s the unspoken bargain she made with Rufus too, the reason she is being celebrated.

The movement of the horses startles her, even though she is anticipating it. Amara holds the seat of the carriage, looking about in amazement. They are so high up she is seeing the passing street from a totally different perspective, almost level with the upper windows of the houses. She glimpses a young boy’s face, peeking between shutters, before he ducks out of sight. The rumble of the wheels, the noise of the trumpets and the singing makes it almost impossible to speak, but Amara turns to Drusilla and smiles, seeing the same excitement on her friend’s face. Drusilla is clutching the sheaves of wheat and roses they were handed, and Amara remembers her own flowers just in time, grabbing the stems before they spill from her lap to the floor.