Amara had not formed a clear picture of Zoilus in her mind, but the man lying in front of her is nothing like what she would have imagined. The swathes of expensive fabric, yes, but not the nervous, darting eyes, the thin mouth twitching like a goat when it chews. Now he is staring at her and Dido, his face creased in confusion. Her sense of shame deepens. “Ah,” he stutters at last. “How kind. How kind the young men are, aren’t they, my love? Very modern, don’t you think, Fortunata? To bring actresses.”

Fortunata, who reclines next to Zoilus, has not missed the insult. She has a sharp, intelligent face, marred by thick makeup that sits caked over her forehead in lumps. Slave brands, Amara realizes. Fortunata must be disguising her former humiliation. “Yes, husband,” she says in a loud voice. “Very modern.”

Some of the company laugh. Fortunata smiles coldly at her two new guests, ignoring the naked girls entirely. Quintus smiles back, but Marcus has the decency to look uncomfortable. Zoilus swats at his wife in annoyance. “You’ll have to forgive Fortunata,” he says, the cringe of an apology in his voice. “She’s rather old-fashioned. Please tell your father I am most honored. I hope he will visit soon, to receive my thanks in person.”

“You must let them sing for you,” Quintus presses. “That would please him most. To know they have pleased you.”

“Very well, very well,” Zoilus says, looking at Amara and Dido without huge enthusiasm. “But first, you must enjoy my new cook’s speciality. We are just about to serve.”

A slave in bright green silk hustles them away to a large empty couch. Amara sees with a pang that they are being placed at one of the most prestigious spots. Zoilus must have really wanted to impress Quintus’s father. The two men recline, and she and Dido join them, draping themselves over the cushioned couch. She is conscious that nearby guests are staring. I am not ashamed, she tells herself as Quintus runs his hand across her breast and down her side. Another slave, dressed in the same lurid green as the first, appears with a silver platter, handing them all glasses of wine.

“Did you see Fortunata’s face?” Quintus murmurs to Marcus, taking a sip. “Jumped up little bitch.” Away from the full glare of his hostess’s anger, Marcus laughs. Amara clutches her glass. Quintus kneads the flesh at her waist. “Drink up darling, this is the most expensive Falernian I’ve ever tasted.”