Amara glances over at Felix, but he seems completely unconcerned by this outburst of affection. She remembers what Cressa said at the Vinalia, that a master never minds a love which keeps his servants obedient. The thought of her dead friend, and her short brutal life, hurts Amara’s heart.

“Right, this one’s yours Fabia,” Beronice says, handing her some coins wrapped in a piece of cloth. They had decided the penniless old woman would prefer five asses in cash rather than some overpriced trinket. “This is yours, this is for you . . .” Beronice hands out all the other gifts, enjoying her role.

Amara unwraps her gift from its scrap of cloth. It’s a cheap hair clip, not unlike the one she and Dido bought for Victoria. Dido has been given the same. Britannica is staring at her pendant with a frown, dangling it between her fingers. “It’s been dipped in the blood of a gladiator, of a fighter, to give you strength,” Amara explains. She knows Britannica has understood even though she does not thank or even look at her. The Briton slips it on, tucking it under her toga, and rests her hand on her chest. Then her eyes flick over to Amara and Dido. She gives them the briefest nod of acknowledgment.

The men have all bought each other extra wine, more expensive than the sweetened variety the women have been served. Thraso pours it out, tipping an especially generous portion into his own flask. With a stab of remorse, Amara realizes everyone has forgotten Paris. He is sitting slightly away from the gathering, holding his thin knees in his arms, face pinched with disappointment. Fabia is waving at him from across the room, motioning that he can have her five asses. Paris ignores her. As ever, it’s not his mother’s attention that he wants. Gallus nudges Thraso’s elbow as he pours out more wine, gesturing at the forgotten slave.

“Is he really a man though?” Thraso says. “Couldn’t one of the girls have given him a hair clip or something?” He laughs at Paris’s expense, clearly expecting Felix to join in. Their boss doesn’t smile at the joke.

“Give the boy some wine,” he says. “He earned it this year.”

Gallus sits down again beside Beronice. He gives her a quick kiss. “This is for you,” he says, handing over a parcel. She takes it, and he looms over her, getting in the way, almost unwrapping it himself in his excitement to see her reaction.

Beronice gasps. “But it’s beautiful!” She holds it up for everyone to see. It is a cameo pendant, a tiny one, but still by far the most expensive gift anyone has produced. “Oh, I love you!” Beronice exclaims, flinging her arms around him. Then she pulls back. “And I only got you some pomade!”