Amara glances at Dido, who raises her eyebrows. What choice do they have? Nothing for it but to belt out Salvius’s folk number. Another flowery invocation to Venus feels excessive, so Amara begins strumming the strings of her lyre without explanation. Dido launches straight into the role of the shepherd, clasping her hands to her chest with a wail of mock despair. The guests look at each other, a little uncertain how to take the change in tone, but Amara beams round at them before ramping up the melodrama as the scornful mistress. Quintus and Marcus cheer loudly at each chorus, seeming to enjoy the performance even more than they did at the Forum. Other diners look less amused. But Dido’s collapse at the end manages to raise a few laughs, and best of all, the arrival of the sweet dishes brings their performance to a close without the need for labored goodbyes.

Amara feels light-headed from nerves, excitement and lack of food as they make their way back to the couch. A third man is now sitting upright between their escorts, dressed in a cloak of midnight blue.

“This is Cornelius,” Marcus says, slurring. He tries to slap his friend on the back and misses. Zoilus’s wine has clearly gone to his head. “Cornelius! A lion in a herd of freedmen! He’s in on our little joke.”

Cornelius is older than Marcus and Quintus, and his stare, when he greets them, is harder and more knowing. He pulls Dido onto his knee, gesturing for Amara to sit beside him. “Aren’t you both lovely,” he says. “I could hardly tell from the first song. But that last number would have stretched the credulity of anyone but Zoilus.” He laughs, resting his free hand on Amara’s thigh, higher up her leg than she would like. “With a little more movement, a few more suitable songs, you could be quite delightful.” He is looking at Dido as he says this, stroking her arm. Her face has taken on the blankness Amara recognizes whenever a man is mauling her. She wants to catch his wrist and stop him. Cornelius turns toward Amara, and she blinks. He smiles, as if he sees through her anger and is amused.

“How would you feel about performing at a real dinner party?”

15

“He who lies down with dogs will wake up with fleas.”

—Traditional, attributed to Seneca

Amara’s head throbs with tiredness and her cheeks ache from laughing. It is a happiness unlike any other, sitting with her fellow she-wolves in the Sparrow, recounting the pleasures of the night before. They have treated themselves to a larger meal than usual. Bowls of chickpeas, bean stew and olives clutter the table.

“The birds in the pie were boiled then?” Beronice shrieks, cackling with laughter. “After all that fuss?”