They follow him, climbing the narrow wooden stairway to the floor above. “I’m not much of a musician,” he says. “You might be disappointed. Where will you be playing?”

Salvius’s living room is painted in warm shades of yellow. A procession of swans fly from panel to panel and tiny larks are painted around the skirting. He sits on a bench, inviting them to take the one opposite. “It’s a party, much grander than anything at the Sparrow,” Amara says. “On the first day of the Floralia. We were thinking of setting poetry to some popular tunes.”

“Mixing high and low?” Salvius asks.

“Yes,” Dido nods.

“Sounds fun. But what will you pay me? Or should I ask how will you pay me.”

“That depends what you would prefer.” Amara slips her toga off one shoulder, not far enough to show much but enough to make her point. She hopes he will take the bait. Salvius is not an unattractive man, but her reason for wanting him has little to do with desire and everything to do with saving money.

“Deferred payment would suit me best,” Salvius replies. “An evening or two of your company, here, at my house.” He nods at Dido. “I will invite Priscus.”

Amara has no idea how Felix will react to this proposal, evenings are their most lucrative hours, but before she can suggest seeking their master’s approval, Dido answers. “We would be delighted.”

“I cannot spare too long today. Perhaps enough time to teach you a couple of tunes depending how quick you are.” He rises, walking to a desk covered in clutter. His back is turned. They can hear him rifling through pots and boxes before he returns with the flute. “There are so many songs about spring,” he says. “This one is Oscan. I don’t suppose either of you speak the language?” Salvius looks hopeful, and Amara wonders if Campania’s ancient tongue is also his own.

“No.”

“Nevermind. You can adapt the tune as you wish.”

Salvius begins piping. He is a more skilled musician than Amara remembers. She can hear the trill of birdsong in his tune, the sigh of the wind, and imagines Flora dancing, half glimpsed through the trees, in the repeated haunting melody. He stops, taking the flute from his lips. “Again? Or shall we go through it, line by line?”

Amara is nervous she will not match him. She picks up the lyre. “Let’s go through it.”

He is a patient teacher. He breaks the tune down for them, waiting for Amara to find the corresponding notes, nodding when she chooses chords that fit. Dido sings the melody note by note, committing it to memory. Their version is nothing like as lovely as his reed pipe solo, but it is enough to take away and polish.