Dido shoots her a look. Both women were taught music at home, but the respectable songs they’re familiar with are unlikely to be bellowed out in a bar. “Honored to meet two fellow musicians,” the man says. “I’m Salvius.” He points to his companion. “This is Priscus.”

Priscus bows his head in greeting.

“Amara and Dido. May I?” She picks up the flute. “My father had one like this,” Amara says. She does not add that, for her father, it was the very least of his instruments, that she herself had learned to play the lyre.

She hands the flute back to Salvius who puts it to his lips and starts to play. He’s more skilled than she expects. It’s a popular tune from Campania, a few lively verses about a shepherd longing for his love. Priscus starts to sing, encouraging the women to join in. Amara listens a few times to catch the words then sings with him. She has a strong, clear voice, and some of the customers break off talking and begin clapping in time.

When they come to an end, the cry goes round for more. Salvius starts piping again, a famous tune about Flora and the spring. “Sing with me,” Amara says to Dido. “You know this one!”

Dido’s voice is not as strong as Amara’s though much sweeter. She begins hesitantly, but as they repeat the song again, joy takes her over. Her face is lit up in a way Amara has never seen before. Nicandrus is gazing at her, still holding the honeyed wine, not daring to put it down in case he breaks the spell. Priscus pushes the table back, urging the women to stand up. “Another song!” he shouts.

Salvius plays festival music, perhaps guessing their unfamiliarity with local folk tunes. Amara and Dido sing together, and for the first time since coming to Pompeii, Amara is almost happy. Some of the customers leer, and one shouts at them to get their tits out, but mainly, everyone is enjoying the music too much to be a nuisance. Eventually Salvius grows tired and puts down the flute, promising to start again when he’s had a drink. Priscus turns animatedly to Dido, leaning across Nicandrus before he has a chance to say anything, asking which other tunes she knows. She sits down politely to answer him.

“That was beautiful.” Amara turns at a familiar voice, one she cannot immediately place. It is Menander, the potter’s slave.

The blood rushes to her face. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you worked nearby.” He leans closer so she can hear over the noise. “This is the second time I’ve been in here, hoping to catch you. And now I have.”

“Only two visits? Not very determined.”

Menander laughs. “I’m a slave. Rusticus is a generous master but not that generous.”