“Two thousand sesterces a jar,” says a red-faced man loudly from the couch beside them. “Only the best wine with Zoilus. Finest house in town. Bet you were pleased for an invite. Too bad your old dad couldn’t make it.” Quintus rolls his eyes and Marcus snorts into his glass. “So actresses are the thing now?” The older man continues, too drunk to notice their disdain. “Have to say I’m with Fortunata. That’s all a bit modern for me, even for the Vinalia.”

“Wasn’t Fortunata once an actress herself?” Marcus asks.

“I don’t know who told you that!” The old man is indignant. “She’s a respectable freedwoman. The marks . . . I agree, they’re . . . well, they’re unfortunate. But that was from childhood. Before she was in the old master’s household. Zoilus’s master, I mean. Old Ampliatus.”

Amara glances up at the couch where the hosts are reclining. A cascade falls into the waterway beneath them, decorated with carved dolphins. So Fortunata was branded as a child. She wonders what her young life must have been. She hopes the former slave is enjoying her wealth now.

“Really?” Quintus says. “How fascinating.”

“He didn’t have to marry her. Zoilus, I mean. But you know what he said to me”—the guest leans closer to them, almost toppling off the couch in his bleary state—“ ‘Nicia, he said, I couldn’t stand by and have men wipe their dirty hands on my Fortunata’s front at dinner like she’s a fucking napkin. Course I freed her, course I married her.’ ” Nicia raises his hand in a wobbly toast. “Too fucking right. That’s love, that is.”

“Beautiful,” murmurs Marcus. Amara can feel Quintus shaking bodily with laughter beside her.

“I know many songs about love,” she says. “Few reveal as much true devotion as Zoilus showed Fortunata.”

Nicia nods vigorously. “You’re right, that’s true. That’s true.”

Marcus has to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit. Quintus leans closer, breathing into her ear. “Perfect girl.”

Amara twists round and smiles at him. She understands, finally, how she can entertain all the audiences at this party. Quintus is far too ignorant to understand that she was sincere. She is safe to pay her respects to her host; the men who brought her will only imagine it’s mockery. A little more at ease with herself, Amara taps Dido’s arm. “Can you believe it here?” she whispers. She looks at the other guests, lounging on their couches beside the two streams. Dozens of oil lamps blaze with light and give off a heat that makes her nakedness easier to bear. Nobody else here is short of clothes. Some are sweating under the physical weight of their wealth. One woman wears a headband so heavy with jewels she is struggling to prop herself up on her elbow.