“You know,” Egnatius continues, “my master is something of a poet himself. He has composed a few lines for the Floralia, if you could find some way of weaving them in . . .” He reaches inside the folds of his cloak and brings out a roll of parchment.

Amara restrains herself from seizing it. “We would be more than delighted.”

Egnatius hands over the small scroll. Amara unrolls it, and she and Dido huddle round. For a moment, she cannot believe what she is reading. Then the words bring a stab of fear. She looks up sharply at Egnatius. “You are certain he will be pleased to hear this recited.”

He meets her eyes, and the unspeakable truth passes between them. “I am certain.” He bows. Then Egnatius gestures toward the mime actresses who are still busy with their rehearsal. “Ladies, goddesses and nymphs, I look forward to being entertained by you all. You will be sent for in the order you are required.” He turns back to Amara and Dido. “I will make sure you have enough time to learn the verses.”

“But it’s terrible,” Dido says, when he has gone. “How can we stand there and sing this stuff?”

Amara can feel herself sweating under her flimsy clothes. “We will just have to make it work. At least it’s not very long. That last song Salvius taught us, could we sing it to this?”

“I suppose,” Dido says, looking miserable. “But when?”

“At the end. When most of the guests are drunk.”

The mime actresses are standing crowded together in their cloaks to escape the evening chill by the time Egnatius returns to call Amara and Dido in to dinner. There are not many oil lamps where they have been waiting, and Amara finds herself blinking as they pass into the brighter parts of the house.

“You look glorious,” he says, leading them through a bewildering procession of rooms. The place is so large they did not even hear the guests arrive. Somewhere in this labyrinth, she knows Paris and Gallus are waiting out the long night to escort them safely home. Their value to Felix has gone up substantially. “Quite ravishing. Both as lovely as Flora herself.”

Amara has the feeling Egnatius compliments everyone who comes to perform for Cornelius but is still grateful for his encouragement. They are walking too quickly for her to absorb all her surroundings. There is immense wealth here, but no table groaning with silver at the entrance as there was at Zoilus’s house, instead when they reach the main hall, panel portraits of Cornelius’s ancestors line the walls. She can hear laughter and snatches of song.

“Through to the garden,” Egnatius murmurs, ushering them along. “I find it works best if you move between couches as you perform. And don’t be afraid to involve the guests. Or to accept any invitations.”