“Amara’s with Rufus, the girls have to fuck those other two boys you’ve invited, and I’m with Quintus. That’s all the men. What about you? Did nobody want you?” Victoria’s voice is light, as if she is making a joke, but Amara cringes inwardly, fearing Drusilla will be offended.

“Me?” Drusilla raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her cheeks dimple into a smile. “I’m the one who gets paid. The one who gets to choose her lovers. Not entertain a man on another woman’s instruction.”

Amara has never seen Victoria bested by a tongue sharper than her own. Victoria says nothing, only tosses her hair as if the words don’t sting.

“I think Rufus will want to go home after the dinner,” Amara says, changing the subject.

“I’ve had your old room dressed, just in case,” Drusilla says. “I suspect the other three men will want to stay in here, on the couches, so they can share the women between them. That’s after you and I have retired.” Drusilla’s deliberate elevation of them both makes Amara flush with embarrassment, even as she also feels pleased by her change in status.

“You won’t mind that, will you?” Amara says to Victoria, feeling bad for her.

“Why should I mind?” Victoria gets up and stalks into the garden. Amara can see her stop at the fountain, keeping her back to them all. She wonders if she ought to go and join her, whether she owes Victoria that loyalty, but decides against it.

The garden is in shade and the air cooler when Drusilla’s guests arrive. Victoria and the flautists perform in the garden, outside the inner circle, while the four men greet one another, making themselves comfortable in the dining room. They are all a similar age, all the wealthy sons of powerful men, who have known one another since boyhood. Quintus is the most assertive among them, but Lucius is the most attractive; he has a sensual mouth, like a woman’s, and his black hair shines with oil. Amara is reminded painfully of the times she used to attend Drusilla’s dinners with Dido, when Lucius was Dido’s lover. Now he is eyeing up Lais and Phoebe, no doubt deciding which he prefers.

“Your father is very insistent it has to be this year?” Quintus is saying to Marcus. “What’s the bride like?”

Marcus knocks back the wine one of Drusilla’s silent servants has handed him. “I’ve no idea,” he says. “My mother chose her.”

“Oh, bad luck!” Quintus laughs. “You’ll get some fat little thing, devoted to Juno, weaving you lumpy-looking tunics.”

“And she’ll cry if you don’t wear them.” Lucius joins in the banter, without taking his eyes off Victoria and the flautists.

“Nothing wrong with a girl weaving her man clothes,” Rufus says. He is reclining next to Amara, a sweaty arm draped over her.