They pick their way carefully down the stone steps nearest to the empty box of honor, which sits beside the stage. It is difficult to walk modestly in her silk dress, and Amara is conscious of how much of her body must be showing as she moves. Drusilla, who chose her own clothes, has an easier time, stepping gracefully, the yellow folds of material exposing less. Eventually, they reach the space which has been reserved for them both. Rufus explained they will sit behind the wall separating the ordinary spectators from those in the box. He will be on the other side of it—close but totally unreachable.

Amara is grateful for the cushions on the hard stone. She is making herself comfortable, smoothing out the silk, beginning to feel her excitement rise again, when applause breaks out. Rufus, Helvius and their supporters have entered the auditorium. Everyone knows it is Rufus who paid for the entertainment. Amara may no longer be sure how much affection she has for her lover, but the pride she feels is undeniable. She sits upright, trying to get a better view, and feels Drusilla’s fingers rest on her arm. “I suspect you never felt happier to see him,” Drusilla whispers.

Rufus is climbing the stairs to the box, and Amara tries to catch his eye, but he does not look at her. Hortensius, his father, is beside him, and it is the older man whose gaze flicks toward the two courtesans. He ignores Amara, instead acknowledging Drusilla with a slight smile. Then both he and Rufus disappear from view.

“Hortensius always seems very taken with you,” Amara says, covering her hurt at the lack of Rufus’s attention.

Drusilla purses her lips. “He’d have to bring a city of gold for me to tolerate that temper.”

“Is he a violent man?”

Drusilla shrugs. “Not so much as his own father, by all accounts. You are lucky Rufus is sweeter natured than either.”

“Do you mean Terentius?” Amara says, her voice rising louder than she intends, shocked that Drusilla might have known the man who caused Philos so much pain.

“Not now.” Drusilla casts her eyes to the side to indicate the possibility they might be overheard.

Amara can see the musicians taking their place on the stage, stepping through the brightly painted doorways. Rufus already explained the series of entertainments to her: a short mime for Flora, then his chosen play before another, longer, mime. She settles back, trying to lose herself in the show, to let go of her own life for a while. Movement and color pass across the stage in a river, the performers indistinct. Amara finds her thoughts wandering, taking her back to Cornelius’s house at last year’s Floralia, her own performance with Dido by the fountain with the gilded nymphs, the rapt look on Dido’s face when she sang. Amara closes her eyes, remembering.