“I’m so sorry I disappointed you last night, my darling,” he says, crushing her in a bear hug. “I came as soon as I could.”

Amara gazes up at him, exuding adoration. Her fear of losing his protection is as real as if she truly loved him. “I’m just so happy you are here now,” she says, letting him kiss her. “Though I’m not sure I can forgive Helvius for keeping you.”

Rufus flops down on the bench with a groan. “Such a pompous man!” Amara perches beside him, and he rests his hand on her knee. “You won’t believe what he’s planning. He wants to hold the Taurian Games at the end of May, to appease the gods of the underworld.”

“But why?” Amara asks, alarmed.

“That tremor we had in January. He’s convinced another Great Earthquake is coming.”

“But that was barely anything!” she says, remembering the way the ground had quivered, a rumble like distant thunder. The whole event had been over almost before Amara realized what was happening, though it had caused a surprisingly large crack in the atrium and left the pavements outside littered with roof tiles.

“You weren’t here for the disaster in the Year of Marius and Afinius,” Rufus says, sounding a little pompous himself. “We’re still repairing the damage.” He waves a hand, as if dismissing an imaginary Helvius. “But in any case, I’m quite happy for him to throw his Taurian Games. Only now, he’s suggesting that a festival of theater for the Floralia just before will cheapen it. Ridiculous. Even Cicero threw one. And he’s not even been elected yet! Imagine how much more pompous he will be after that.”

“You will win him over—I know you will. And when you are aedile next year, you can do as you like.” Amara twines her fingers through his, trying to hide her nervousness, wondering if now is a good moment to weave herself more tightly into his life. “I was thinking,” she says. “Perhaps you could invite Helvius here one evening? I could put on a musical entertainment for you all. Let him see how important performance is to you. I was going to suggest that I buy a couple of musicians. You could sponsor them as your own.”

“You want to buy musicians?” Rufus asks, surprised. In her former life, Amara and Dido were rented out by their pimp to sing at dinner parties. It is how she met Pliny. Music was seldom the only service she was obliged to offer.

“I’m not suggesting that I perform anywhere but at this house,” Amara says quickly. “But I did so enjoy arranging poetry to music with Dido; I should love to entertain you that way. Drusilla would be very interested in sharing the cost, if she could also use our musicians from time to time. We were thinking maybe flautists?”