Dusk has cast its haze over the streets as they walk to Zoilus’s house, the stone buildings darkening into silhouettes against the orange sky. Amara had been surprised by just how many men in the crowd belonged to Marcus and Quintus. Six slaves now follow behind, a silent, protective troop, while two more go ahead with oil lamps. Quintus has her arm; Marcus has taken ownership of Dido.

“What are you doing working for that greasy little pimp?” Quintus asks, helping her over a stepping stone. “You’re both so pretty. Lovely voices too.”

“Thank you,” Amara replies. His denigration of Felix gives her a strange feeling. For all her hatred, she realizes she must share some sense of identification with him. He does own her, after all. “I used to be free. In Attica. My father was a doctor in Aphidnai.”

“Your old pa didn’t teach you Sappho’s songs though,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“No. I learned that as a concubine.”

“Yes, I’m sure you know plenty of tricks.” He stops to look at her more closely. The slaves in front also come to a halt, attuned to their master’s movements. “Has anyone ever told you what beautiful lips you have? Red, like the heart of a pomegranate.”

Amara understands the role he wants her to play. She smiles, dark eyes promising all he might wish to see.

“Hey!” Marcus complains, thumping his friend on the back to interrupt their kiss. “We’re already late for Zoilus.”

“Fuck’s sake. Not like you’ve got an armful of one of the prettiest fucking whores I’ve ever seen,” Quintus replies, as they start walking again. “You’re lucky I took this one.” He shrugs at Amara in apology. “No offence. She is more beautiful. You just have the sexier mouth. I like that.”

Amara laughs. “And you’re bold,” she says. “I like that too.” Quintus purses his own lips in pleasure. It always amazes her the way men accept flattery from a prostitute. Though in this case it’s not a complete lie. She can see Marcus and Quintus are different from the rich men at the baths. No doubt, by the end of the night, they will expect the same service, but a whole evening of entertainment, conversation and singing is the prelude. Her heart beats faster, and she glances back anxiously at the slaves carrying her lyre. It’s a long time since she has felt this alive.

They have walked down the length of the Via Veneria to the less fashionable end of town, not far from the Palaestra. The two lamp-bearing slaves stop outside a tall doorway, its massive wooden doors set ajar. Light from inside shines dimly on the marble doorstep.

“How are we going to do this?” Quintus asks Marcus. “The clothes are part of the joke, but it’s almost funnier if he doesn’t notice what they are.”