Victoria flings herself into the dance, bumping and grinding, shaking herself at her yelling audience. Drauca only hesitates a second before joining in. The flute player ups his tempo, piping so fast it seems impossible the dancers will be able to keep time, but they do. One of the men throws his drink at the women, and others follow, screaming encouragement. Red liquid shining on their skin, dancing with the ferocity of wolves, Victoria and Drauca look less like whores and more like the fevered acolytes of Dionysis about to rip each other limb from limb.

“There you are!” Beronice heads toward them. She is draped over Gallus like a garland, her cheeks shining. Nicandrus trails after them both, holding a small bunch of roses. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She stands on tiptoe to see what all the nearby shrieking is about and recognizes Victoria. “Such a show-off! And she’s taken all her clothes off! Do you like it?” She turns anxiously to Gallus. “I can dance like that for you, if you like? Do you want me to? Would it turn you on?”

Gallus answers by seizing her and sticking his tongue down her throat.

Neither of them look likely to break for air anytime soon, so Nicandrus pushes in front. “These are for you,” he says to Dido.

“Thank you.” She takes the roses and holds them to her heart. “You’re always so kind.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Amara murmurs, half expecting Dido to protest. But perhaps the honeyed wine or the atmosphere has taken the edge off her shyness. She is pleased to see Dido smile as Nicandrus bends to say something to her.

Amara has no idea where she wants to go. The flask of wine Victoria gave her is warm in her hand, and she sips it, wandering slowly through the square, stopping now and then to listen to various players. She wonders if Salvius might be here with his pipe.

The crush is not as intense as in the procession, and the noise of so many competing musicians, the cheers, the laughter, echoes off the stone and rises into the warm air like an offering to the gods. It’s the first time Amara has been completely alone like this in a crowd. She looks briefly at the people she passes, not to attract unwanted attention but to get a sense of those around her. Has she been with any of these men? It’s hard to know. In the brothel, she tries not to focus on their faces.

Amara walks a little faster, back toward the area where she left Dido, aware that she doesn’t want to drift too far from her friends. She is so intent on her purpose that she almost misses him. Menander. He is walking in her direction, staring at all the women he passes, his brow creased with worry. Then he sees her.