Salvius pours them all more wine, handing the empty jug to his slave to refill. The young boy slips from the room. “So when is your next performance?”

“The last night of the Floralia!” Dido says. “Though we are reciting Ovid this time. Egnatius gave us some verses to learn.”

“I will have to think of some more suitable tunes,” Salvius says. “Unless you know any, Priscus?”

“There’s that one your father always used to play. I love that song.”

“Have you two known each other since childhood then?” Amara asks, dipping a piece of bread into her stew.

“Our fathers were in business together,” Priscus says. “As we were too, until a decade or so ago. Responsible for some of the finest paintings in Pompeii, if I say so myself. My artists repainted half the Forum after the great earthquake. My father-in-law’s men painted the other half,” he gestures at Salvius. “That was after his wife persuaded him to desert us for metal work.” The two men glance at each other, then away. “May she rest in peace.”

Amara is not surprised their music teacher is a widower. It is stranger to think of Priscus with a wife waiting at home. No doubt she is the reason Salvius is the one hosting dinner. For a moment, the missing woman casts a shadow over the cosy pretence that this is an ordinary gathering of friends and equals. “And how did you two both come to Pompeii?” Salvius asks.

“Oh,” Amara replies. “That’s not a very happy story.”

“Neither of you were born slaves, were you?” he says. Amara wonders how he guessed, then remembers Fabia’s words: You still act as if you matter. She is not going to ask the same question again. “You are too educated,” Salvius goes on. “I’m sorry; your current life must no doubt be painful for you both.”

He means it kindly, but Amara wishes he hadn’t said anything. She can sense Dido growing tense beside her. Can he not understand the need, sometimes, to forget?

“And you are far too modest,” Priscus says to Dido, drawing a pointed distinction between them that makes Amara snort with laughter. “Sorry.” He turns to her. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’m not offended,” Amara says. “And anyway, you are right. I was a concubine before this. She wasn’t.” But I still hate it, she wants to add.

Salvius senses the shift in mood. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Shall we sing?” Dido asks, in the bright, brittle manner Amara recognizes as her brave face. At least she is learning to protect herself, she thinks. It’s better than tears.

“That would be wonderful!” Priscus exclaims.