Amara resists the urge to skirt the edge of the atrium, following Quintus with a confidence she doesn’t feel, clamping her teeth together to stop them chattering. When they reach the marble pool and the groaning table of silverware a ferocious barking rings out. She and Dido clutch each other, nearly stumbling into the water with fright. She looks back to see a dog straining against its chain on the far wall, a long way out of reach. The doorman shouts at it to be quiet.

Marcus and Quintus both laugh. “Perfect,” Quintus says, slapping her hard on the backside, a gesture that reminds her of Felix. “You pair are absolutely fucking perfect.” Amara likes him less this time. She stands straighter, still smiling, determined not to be the butt of jokes for the entire evening.

They pass through an enormous garden, walking round the painted colonnade. Scenes from the legends of Hercules flicker in and out of view. In the middle of the lawn, a fountain is illuminated by hanging lamps, its spray falling in the darkness like stars.

“This place,” Dido whispers to her. “Where are we?”

“You like the house then, ladies?” Marcus asks.

“It’s beautiful,” Amara replies.

“Zoilus is a freedman,” Quintus says, contempt apparent in the careful way he stresses the word. “Who knows. If you get your freedom one day, maybe you could have a house like this.”

A house with money but no class. The sort of place a whore would find impressive. The meaning behind their visit, which Amara has resisted acknowledging, could not be clearer. She and Dido are intended as an insult to the host, a gift to represent his own low value. She can feel her cheeks burn in the shadows. Whoever Zoilus is, she will try not to disgrace him. Or herself.

They pass into a bigger walled garden, thick with plane trees. It is well lit and even without Quintus as a guide they would be drawn by the growing sound of laughter and conversation. The dining area is at the back, half in the garden, half in a room painted to look like a grotto. Two artificial streams cut through the area, diners sitting and reclining on couches set at the water’s edge.

“Zoilus, my dear fellow,” Quintus says, sounding like a parody of a man of his class, striding toward the host’s couch. “I’m so sorry we are late. My father, sadly, could not come, but he insisted we bring along two of his treasured possessions for your entertainment. A pair of lovely little actresses. What could be more fitting to celebrate the Vinalia?” The background conversation quietens. Amara can hear titters and muttering from the other diners. She stands tall, looking straight ahead, ignoring the wild beating of her heart.