Amara strikes the lyre with the plectrum, the chords swift and insistent. The notes take her back almost instantly to Chremes’s house, and the way he watched her in the lamplight with the greed of a fox waiting for its prey to falter. This was not a song she learned as a child. The memory is bitter. Amara imagines herself back at the feet of the painted Venus, breathes in, remembers the feel of the myrtle crushed beneath her fingers, its sweet scent.

Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless,

Daughter of God, weaver of wiles, I pray thee

Neither with care, dread Mistress, nor with anguish,

Slay thou my spirit!

Dido listens intently, her eyes never leaving Amara’s face. She repeats each line back at a lower pitch, her voice catching the haunting quality of the song. It’s not a tavern favorite, like the folk tune, but their audience is eager to enjoy themselves, swaying to the music, some even clapping as they pick up the rhythm.

At the second verse, one of the young men gives a sudden shout of recognition, slaps his companion on the back. Amara looks at them both more closely. One wears an expensive brooch at the fastening of his cloak. It is bronze, inset with red stones. She smiles, beckoning them toward her. The pair are drunk, but not insensible, and notice her flirtation. They draw a little closer, catcalling. Behind them, she sees a more familiar figure. Not Menander, but Felix. He is flanked by Thraso, watching her and Dido with an expression that she would mistake for fascination, if he were any other man. Perhaps he understands, finally, what they might be worth.

They reach the last verse and just as she hoped, the two young men push themselves forward. “Sappho?” one says, laying a hand on her arm. “A little grand for the Vinalia, isn’t she? Whose women are you?”

Felix slips between them, swift as smoke. “The girls are mine,” he says, bowing low. Amara has never seen him speak with men of this class before. He is slighter than the two drunks, but she knows who would win in a fist fight.

“Perfect for Zoilus, don’t you think?” The man says to his companion, barely acknowledging her master’s presence.

The other laughs hysterically, slapping his thighs. “You have to, Quintus! You have to!”

Quintus smiles at Felix, the sort of grimace the rich reserve for servants. “How much to rent the pair for the evening?”

“The whole night?” Felix asks. Amara understands he is playing for time, trying to assess how far he can push it. She feels the warmth of Dido’s body press closer to hers. Their proper role in this exchange is silence, but there are other ways to communicate. She answers with a brief brush of the fingertips.