Amara cannot stop crying. Rufus has to restrain her from flinging herself at his feet, as she sobs out her undying love and gratitude. He kisses away her tears, clearly enjoying the adoration. She embraces Dido and Victoria over and over again, weeping onto both their shoulders, holding their faces in her hands, unable to express all the love she feels. The pain of what she has done to Menander, the ecstasy of freedom, is unlike anything she has ever felt. She laughs with Quintus and Lucius, professes her devoted friendship to Ipstilla and Telethusa—who look less than delighted by her good fortune—and startles Paris into giving her a bony hug. When it is Fabia’s turn, the old woman clings to her, weeping, and Amara finds herself promising to help if she is ever in need. Thraso however, is a step too far. She nods at him, the way a queen might acknowledge a peasant. More than he deserves.

It is the only time she has ever seen Felix look truly surprised. He must have realized that all her tales about Rufus and violence were lies. Perhaps he is wondering what else she has lied about. She turns her back. Let him wonder, she thinks. He cannot hurt her now.

Amara wants to wait for Beronice, desperate to share the news, but Rufus is less keen. “My darling,” he says. “I think I may have had enough of whores and pimps for one night. Delightful as I’m sure this other girl is.” He looks at her companions from the brothel, both friends and enemies, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Quintus and Lucius laugh, obviously eager to return home too.

Amara feels a jolt. Of course, this is the other side of the deal. A Saturnalia spent without Dido, without any of the women she loves. She wants to go back, to hug them one last time, but Rufus is leading her firmly away. She catches Dido’s eye, hopes she understands it as a reminder of the promise she made.

Leaving is not easy in the press of the crowd. Philos and the other slaves try to go ahead first, clear the path, but nobody is inclined toward deference on the Saturnalia. While they are fighting their way through, a heavy-set man carrying bells dances between them, dressed as the Lord of Misrule. He is wearing a horned satyr mask, dressed all in red. He capers closer, brandishing the bells in Amara’s face. Rufus draws her away, putting his arm around her. For a moment, it looks like the masked man is going to be a nuisance, but Quintus, Lucius and the rich men’s phalanx of slaves are too formidable a barrier.