“Of course the whole night, man! We want them to adorn our esteemed host’s party!” His companion again collapses into guffaws. “You must have heard of Zoilus?” Quintus continues with a smirk. “Foremost freedman in Pompeii.”

Felix is himself a freedman. Amara suspects that neither Quintus, nor his friend, have any slaves in their own ancestry. Her master inclines his head graciously. “For such a host,” he says. “Fifty denarii.”

The man called Quintus doesn’t flinch. “Done.”

“Of course, if you want the lyre as well,” Felix replies. “That will be another twenty.”

Even Quintus is not such a fool as to miss the fact he’s been tricked, but he clearly doesn’t wish to haggle like a grocer. “Very well,” he replies. “You can have twenty now as surety for the rest.”

It is Felix’s turn to hesitate. Amara hopes he is not going to whip out a wax tablet, insist the men sign a promise for the extra cash in their own blood. Twenty is already more than she and Dido would earn overnight at the brothel. And surely, he must understand that men like this trade on their names all the time? Felix gives another bow. “For such honored customers, my pleasure.”

Quintus snaps his fingers and several men in the crowd hurry over. Of course this pair wouldn’t go anywhere without a retinue of slaves for protection. “Twenty for the gentleman,” he says, nodding at Felix, and the oldest slave takes out a purse, well-hidden under his cloak. Thraso steps in beside the line of men, ensuring the trade is screened from view. Behind them, she can see the musician craning to get a look, no longer smiling at her. Gallus is at his elbow. They must have already cut a deal for the gift of his lyre. She hopes it was based on promises rather than threats.

“Quintus Fabius Proculus,” says their temporary master, showing Felix his signet ring. “Where shall I send the payment?”

“To Gaius Terentius Felix Libertus at the establishment opposite the Elephant Inn.”

“The Wolf Den?” Quintus begins laughing so hard, Amara thinks he will choke. “Marcus! We did a deal with the town brothel! Wait until I tell the others we brought Zoilus a pair of she-wolves!”

Felix does not defend his business, the promise of a small fortune no doubt providing enough balm to soothe his pride. Amara knows she should also say nothing but wants to reassert her presence. “I hope we will still be pleasing to you.” She lowers her head, looking up at the men through dark eyelashes. “We only wish to serve.”

“Darlings.” Marcus puts an arm around her and Dido, breathing wine in their faces. “You are perfect.”

14

“It was more like a musical comedy than a respectable dinner party.”

—Petronius, The Satyricon: “Trimalchio’s Feast”