“Severus would ask for the whole dowry back if he had to take his daughter home. He’s told me so himself.” Changing his focus, Umbricius nods toward the older scowling woman who was sharing Calpurnia’s couch and is now stabbing at the fruit on her plate with vicious determination. “My wife dotes on Calpurnia. I’ll be getting a fucking earful after this, I can tell you. She’ll be nagging me all night to talk to Cornelius. I’ve told her it makes him worse. But women never listen.”

“That’s why I left mine at home,” Fuscus replies, his arm draped round Amara.

“You’ll be staying then?” There’s more than a hint of envy in Umbricius’s voice.

“Oh, I think so, don’t you?” Fuscus replies, drawing Amara a little closer. “I think so.”

She smiles at him, hoping to convey how irresistible she finds the idea. Behind his head, she can see Dido sitting with Quintus and Marcus. The three of them are laughing together, like a pastoral scene of young lovers. She feels a pang of envy then reminds herself what a powerful friend Fuscus may prove to be. Neither of the Vinalia boys have shown much promise as regular patrons.

“Time for the mime, don’t you think?” Cornelius’s voice is loud over the hubbub. He is slurring badly.

“Not yet, not yet,” Fuscus, shouts back. “I think the two little sparrows have a final present for you.” He squeezes Amara’s arm. “Sorry, darling,” he whispers. “I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s the parting I cannot forgive you for,” Amara says as she gets up from the couch, letting go of his hand with a show of reluctance. She joins Dido back by the fountain, the blood beating loud in her ears. Neither of them have drunk much wine, but the same cannot be said for anyone else. Which is just as well. Cornelius’s verses would be impossible to sit through sober.

“In honor of our gracious host,” Amara says. “We have been bold enough to set your own hymn to music.” She does not wait to hear the room’s reaction but loudly strikes up on the lyre, at a much faster pace than when she played the same tune earlier. She and Dido sing in unison, as quickly as they can without gabbling.

Oh lovely Flora!

Goddess of flowers and fucking,

With your lovely toes and your dainty nose,

Your fanny like corn ripe for shucking,

Bless the spring with your lovely ring!

Oh lovely Flora!

Cornelius either does not care that everyone is laughing when they reach the final refrain or is too drunk to realize. He smiles as they all applaud, waving a hand as if to deprecate the admiration. “Just a trifle, a trifle,” he says. “Though the girls sang it very prettily.”

“Mime, mime, mine!” A number of people are stamping their feet, impatient for the final performance.