“We can’t sing that old folk song at a party like this,” Dido whispers back. “We can’t.”

“I think you’ll find you can,” Quintus says. “But first, here comes the old man’s novelty dish.” A troop of men in scarlet prance in, carrying an enormous platter on their shoulders, the way you would see slaves carry a litter in the streets. A huge pie sits on top, with a pastry lid crafted to look like a swan.

“Shame you were too late for the seafood.” Nicia sniffs. “Those sea urchins were really something.”

“How do you know Zoilus?” Dido asks him, unable to take her eyes from the monstrous pie.

“He’s my dearest friend. The times we’ve had together!” Nicia sounds maudlin. “Our old masters loved each other as boys. And the pair of them did alright for Zoilus and me in the end. Mine left me my freedom in his will, though not a fortune as well.” He swills his cup, holds it out for more wine. A boy in green scurries over with a large silver wine jug. “Not that old Ampliatus ever had all this. Zoilus can turn anything to gold. Always has done.” Amara cannot imagine Felix leaving her so much as a tunic in his will, let alone her freedom. The thought of him making her his heir is almost comical. “You watch now,” Nicia says to them, gesturing at the giant pie. “You’ll like this.”

The slaves guarding the pie stand aside as another man in red strides toward it brandishing an enormous knife. He bows to his master then skewers the pastry with a flourish, lifting the lid and standing back. He pauses. Something was evidently meant to emerge, but there’s no movement. The cook leans over, poking at the inside with his knife. A handful of sparrows fly out, dazed and twittering. Two don’t make it far from the platter before collapsing.

There’s a mortified silence. “Bravo,” Quintus yells, clapping from his couch. “Bravo!” Other guests join in, hesitantly at first, but then the applause builds to a crescendo. Amara glances over at Zoilus, sees the gratitude on his face. Fortunata looks furious.

“Shame,” Nicia mutters. “It was meant to be a flock of sparrows, flying out for Venus. Must have smothered in the heat. That cook should have made bigger holes.”

Quintus swings his legs from the couch and stands up. “My most esteemed host, while the dish is served, I insist you enjoy the sweet delights of a musical performance.” He beckons over one of his own slaves who presents the lyre with a bow. Amara hopes the light is not strong enough to reveal what a cheap instrument it is. In this house of wrought silver and beaten gold it looks like a peasant’s plaything.

“Yes, thank you,” Zoilus says, nodding vigorously. “Delighted.”