“Oldest fish sauce business in town,” Umbricius says. “And the best.” He picks up a small jug from the side table and pours it liberally onto the plate of meat in front of them. Then he tears a strip off and holds it out for her on his knife. “Tell me what you think.”

Amara takes it, eating the unknown food smothered in fish sauce as daintily as she can. It tastes like fermented anchovies left out too long in the sun. “Delicious!” she exclaims.

“What other Greek poems will you be singing?” Fuscus asks.

He is watching her lick the last of the sauce from her fingers. “Sappho,” she says, leaning closer.

“Not very original.” Fuscus stares through the transparent fabric of her dress. “But still a goddess among poets.”

“What about some Latin?” Umbricius sniffs, clearly irritated at being overlooked.

“We will be performing a few lines by our host.”

The two men laugh. “Oh, you poor girls,” Fuscus says. “Do you have to?”

Amara knows it is one thing for Cornelius’s friends to mock him, quite something else for her to join them. “It is always a pleasure to honor our host.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Fuscus says, rolling his eyes. “Well, I shall look forward to Sappho, at any rate.” He takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her fingers in an insistent, circular motion. “And perhaps you will join me again, afterward.”

The atmosphere of the evening shifts as the hours pass and the wine flows. After every song, the guests become freer with her and Dido, their comments lewder. Fuscus exchanges words—or perhaps money—with Egnatius, who makes it clear that she is now the duumvir’s special “guest.” As the men become louder, the small group of wives play less and less of a role, retreating into their own self-contained gathering across two couches. Not that this assuages Cornelius’s bitterness toward his wife. He contradicts everything she says—if she enjoys the honey-glazed dormouse, he finds it too sweet, her hopes of sunshine tomorrow are scorned. Even when she is silent, he cannot leave her alone, finding reason to mock her posture, her spinning, the way she holds her glass.

Already small, she seems to shrink further with every comment. Amara notices that her hand, when she raises the wine to her lips, is shaking. “I find I am exhausted,” Calpurnia says at last. “I am sorry to leave you all.”

Cornelius says nothing, as if she hasn’t spoken. Thin and pale, his wife slips from her own dining room, looking more like a servant than the hostess.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just divorce the poor girl,” Fuscus says to Umbricius. “Put her out of her misery.”