“We need clothes suitable for the Floralia,” Amara says. “To entertain at a dinner party.”

“You will be guests?”

“No,” Dido says. “We will be . . . singing.”

“I understand,” the assistant says with a bow. “I am Gaia. Please come with me.”

They follow Gaia, who parts some heavy gray linens hanging at the back of the shop, revealing another smaller room behind. It is much darker in here, and an oil lamp is burning. “I know exactly what you need.” Gaia’s tone is business-like. She has clearly decided these are not customers who need sweet-talking. “We supply a lot of actresses and concubines. This is by far the most popular fabric.”

She is holding up a silvery material, so fine it is transparent. Gaia runs a hand gently underneath, demonstrating its translucence. “Assyrian silk,” she says. “With a silver weave. You can see everything through it. If you want to tease, you can buy more fabric and fold it, making it opaque as required.” She shows them, deftly manipulating the silk so that her skin is half-hidden in a glittery sheen.

“How do you fasten it?” Amara says, too nervous to touch the flimsy fabric. “Wouldn’t a brooch tear it?”

“We sell special pins. I can show you how to fix it. But it doesn’t tear that easily—the weave is tight.” Gaia looks at them a little impatiently. “Are you going to try it on or not?”

Amara and Dido step out of their togas, letting Gaia dress them. They watch each other closely, trying to memorize how to fold the material when they are alone. Gaia gets out a tray of pins. “We go from the basic model”—her finger points at a round stud—“to something more delicate.” Her hand travels to the other end of the tray, with its shaped birds and dragonflies.

“We could try the bird model for now,” Amara says to Dido. “It fits with singing. Don’t you think?”

Gaia pins the fabric in place for them both. They stand apart, looking each other up and down. “It’s like wearing a cobweb!” Dido says.

“That’s part of the magic,” Gaia replies. “The men love it, trust me.”

“Do that again,” Amara says to Dido who has just moved nearer the light. She obeys. “It’s lit you up! You’ve gone completely silver.”

They both walk round the flame, admiring each other, moving to make the silk change color, feeling it rustle against their skin. “If you really want to make an impact,” Gaia says, “we have this.” She gets out a small jar from the cabinet, opens it for them both to see. Inside is a thick gold paste. “For the eyes,” she says. “And also to gild the nipples.”