One of the nearby guests staggers up and takes hold of Dido, almost pulling her over in the effort to get her onto his couch. Amara hurries back to Fuscus.

“He must mean it as a parody, surely?” Umbricius is saying. “Fucking and shucking? It’s parody.”

Fuscus pulls her onto his knee. “Whatever it was, you looked adorable,” he says, kissing her.

Egnatius leads in the eight mime actresses, two carrying long flutes which Amara had not seen them play in their rehearsal. She settles back against Fuscus, curious to watch them perform. “My wife won’t like this,” Umbricius mutters. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The two flautists let out piercing blasts and the actresses leap into action, more cavorting than dancing. What story there is to the play seems to revolve around some prank played by Flora on her nymphs, though the dialogue is thin and hard to follow. Victoria would be better at this than any of them, Amara thinks, watching the lead actress leap into the fountain like a frog and splash the others who shriek with pre-rehearsed alarm. An unwanted memory of Victoria dancing with Drauca slips into her mind, and she shrinks back instinctively against Fuscus.

He misunderstands her. “Soon, little one,” he whispers in her ear.

By the end of the performance, the eight actresses have ended up sprawled over various men. Egnatius stands in the corner, taking stock of the room, sending a huddled group of slaves off to help where needed. It’s the end of the dinner, but some guests show no signs of leaving, while others rise to say their goodbyes or collect their wives. Many are so drunk, their slaves have to act as human walking sticks. Umbricius stands up, groaning as he takes the weight on his knees. “Best get the old girl home,” he says. “See you next week, Fuscus.” Amara watches him stagger over to his wife whose face suggests she won’t be waiting until they are home to share her thoughts about the evening.

Egnatius is hovering at the side of the couch. “Will you be joining the others?” he asks Fuscus.

“You know I never like to be watched.” Fuscus is a little unsteady as he pushes himself upright.

“Of course.” Egnatius helps Amara from the couch. He follows the direction of her anxious gaze. Quintus is arguing over Dido with the guest who claimed her at the end of their last song. “I will make sure she is safe,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her eyes meeting his as she stands. “For everything.” Egnatius winks. He is as sober as she is.

“The boy will show you both somewhere more relaxing,” he says, beckoning over one of the slaves.