The three women go through a show of false modesty and reluctance, paying each other little compliments, flirting with the men, while Drusilla’s maids bring out her harp. Dido and Amara drape themselves nearby. It’s meant to look artless, even though they have been practicing all afternoon. Then it was a much brisker scene, all three concentrating on the music, trying out different sets, with the odd joke from the hostess, invariably aimed at one of her lovers. Amara had wondered at first why Drusilla was so kind, but now she understands. A steady stream of female guests allows her to rent rooms and entertain, supporting her reputation as one of Pompeii’s most sought-after courtesans.

Drusilla has no reason to fear being upstaged by Amara or Dido. She is a skilled harpist, showing off her graceful arms and slender fingers, while her voice vibrates with emotion, elevating the other women’s singing as they try to compete. The men lounge on the couches, drinking wine and laughing with one another, looking entirely satisfied to be the recipients of so much devoted labor. Amara is touched that Rufus rarely looks at her companions. The other two are quite shameless in eyeing up one another’s girlfriends.

The evening rolls on pleasantly. The food is good, if not lavish, and there’s plenty of wine. The men have a mock wrestling session—which Rufus finds amusing and Quintus takes too seriously—and quote poetry at one another, making up their own rhymes as they get increasingly drunk. Amara is gratified to see how much Lucius has taken to Dido, though she suspects he may not be a man who is looking for love in the way Rufus was when she met him. She touches the new earrings he has given her, feeling the light swing of them against her fingertips. There is an ever-growing hoard of gifts in the wooden box in his room, all hers. She slips her hand into his, stroking his palm, while he smiles, good-natured, at one of Quintus’s jokes.

Amara suspects she should try and share her good fortune with more of her friends, but she struggles to imagine Beronice or Victoria carrying off an evening like this. The thought makes her feel guilty. Victoria would probably be all too popular; she can just imagine her dancing like she did at the Vinalia, doing a striptease, but that, in itself, would tip the balance, tearing the veil that hides the real intentions behind these dinners.

“I think it might be time for bed,” Quintus says, stretching out luxuriously as if he were the host and not Drusilla. “Otherwise, I will be fit for nothing but sleeping.”

“I hope you wouldn’t dare, not under my roof,” Drusilla replies. “I cannot think of a worse insult.”