Amara takes the lyre and helps Dido off the couch. They pause a moment, taking strength from one another. “We’ll sing Sappho’s hymn first,” Amara murmurs. “Aphrodite will smile on us; none of her worshippers are as beautiful as you.”

Amara walks purposefully toward the stream then steps over it, avoiding the floating oil lamps. Dido follows so they are standing side by side between the waterways at the center of the gathering, light from the flames flickering on their skin. She feels grateful now that they left their togas at the door. She is not ashamed of her body the way she would have felt ashamed of her clothes. She whispers to Dido, and they both turn toward the host and bow.

Zoilus and Fortunata lie on their couch, watching. She knows she can neither speak to them with the crudeness of a whore nor the modesty of a doctor’s daughter. There is no language from her past or her present. She will have to fashion a new one.

“Our names are Amara and Dido,” she says, her voice cutting clearly through the tinkle of the water and murmur of the company. “We are your most grateful guests. We are here to celebrate Venus Pompeiiana. And in a garden of such beauty, the goddess of love would imagine herself in the groves of Olympus, should she choose to grace us here now with her presence.” She nods toward Fortunata, who looks away. “We are, as you can see, the lowliest of her servants. But tonight, on the Vinalia, even worshippers like us have our place.”

Amara takes the lyre, positions it in her arms, trying to ignore the plectrum trembling in her fingers. She strikes a chord. “And who better to praise Aphrodite, than the Tenth Muse, the Poetess of Lesbos?” She turns to smile at Quintus.

Amara and Dido begin Sappho’s song, nervously at first, but with each line, as they sing the verses back and forth, they find their own joy in the music. They sway to the rhythm, copying one another’s movements, just as they repeat each other’s phrases. Dido guides Amara to turn as they sing, focusing on different guests, drawing them in. The crowd are not entirely won over—Amara has given Fortunata up as a lost cause—but many of the men are clearly enjoying the performance.

At the end of the song, they bow and Zoilus claps. He looks relieved. Perhaps he had been expecting something else. “Charming, charming,” he says. “Very thoughtful of your father, Quintus.”

“You must let them finish with a comic turn,” Quintus replies. “All the best actresses do.”