Amara introduces them both again. She is pleased to see Dido pretend not to remember Menander. He would never guess they have both spent more hours poring over his name and character than priests divining entrails on an altar. “Where’s Nicandrus?” she asks.

“He only had a few minutes to spare; he just came to give me these.”

The musician on the lyre begins a jauntier song. A couple beside them cheer and start dancing. Dido sways to the music, holding her roses.

“I have to leave soon too.” Menander looks at Amara. “Will you have one dance with me?”

“I’m not sure I know how.” She thinks of a family wedding she attended back home, the childhood glee of spinning round and round with her cousins. “I’ve only ever danced with women.”

He takes both her hands and pulls her closer to the lyre. “Everybody’s drunk,” he says. “We can make it up.” She hesitates, but the clapping, the twirling, the stamping, are infectious. Amara and Menander link arms, turn, stop and clap, faster and faster, over and over, until she collapses against him in laughter. The musician ends his tune with a flourish, holding out the lyre and bowing.

“Ask him now,” Menander says. “I want to see you play before I leave.”

She looks at the lyre with longing but shakes her head. “I can’t.”

Menander lets go of her and heads over to the musician. She sees him greet the man then turn back and gesture toward her. They have an urgent exchange. The musician nods and beckons her over.

“How could I refuse such a request,” the musician says to her in Greek, as she approaches. Amara looks at Menander, wondering what he can have said. “Of course you must play.” He hands over his instrument.

For a moment, Amara feels nothing but panic. Her mind is blank, she cannot remember a tune, cannot remember how to play a note. She looks up and sees people staring, curious, waiting to hear what she will perform. Dido is watching too. “Sing with me!” Amara calls to her, desperation in her voice.

Dido hurries over. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “We can’t sing here!”

“What about that love song Salvius taught us?” Amara’s cheeks are burning at the prospect of handing back the lyre, unplayed.