“I love you; I would die for you. I love you. I love you…”
“She’s really overdoing it now!” Amara says. “He’ll never fall for that, surely?” From the sounds next door however, it seems she has overestimated Felix’s powers of discernment.
She and Dido wait. The shrieking and moaning finally comes to an end, but still, Victoria doesn’t stop with her protestations of devotion.
“I love you so much; you’re everything to me. I love you. I love you…”
There is a pleading, debased sound to her voice that Amara can barely recognise. It almost sounds as if she is crying. Felix’s voice is soothing in answer but too low to make out the words.
“She’s some actress,” Amara whispers. “He seems to have bought it all!”
“We really shouldn’t be hearing this.” Dido looks uncomfortable. She tiptoes to the corridor door and slams it open as if they have just come in. “Shall we get dressed first, or do you want to play?” she demands loudly.
Instantly, the voices next door fall silent. Amara and Dido tramp about, getting their clothes out of the chest, running through their first song. Felix opens the door, stripped to the waist, unconcerned to see them both. “You can go now,” he says, calling back into the room.
Victoria hurries past, clothes dishevelled, her face damp, perhaps with sweat. Amara tries to catch her eye and wink, but she avoids looking at her, instead stepping into the corridor and softly closing the door.
Reclining modestly on Aurelius’s amply upholstered couch, Amara is grateful she and Dido decided to wear their gauzy dresses folded, making the fabric as opaque as possible. She is not sitting with Fuscus tonight. Instead, in what she suspects is a touch of teasing mischief by the host, Aurelius has placed her on a couch with one of his oldest friends: Pliny, the Admiral of the Fleet.
He is an austere-looking man, with dark grey hair and a hard-set jaw. Aurelius tries to draw him out with anecdotes of military life, but Pliny seems to be that rare person who prefers to observe rather than talk about himself. “I would be delighted,” he says to Aurelius, who offers to take him on a pleasure tour of his vineyards. “But you might find me rather dull. I’m hoping to travel a little further inland towards Vesuvius, to see some of the rarer plants. Though of course, my research touches on wine as well.”
“Wine is for drinking, not researching!” Aurelius laughs. “But we can venture further inland if you wish.”
Pliny has said nothing to Amara all evening, save a brief compliment on her and Dido’s presentation of Sappho, and so it is a surprise when he addresses her directly. “You don’t share our host’s view?”
“I’m sorry…?” Amara is bewildered by the question.
“Your wine. You’ve barely touched it all night.”
Amara looks at her glass. It stands beside her companion’s which is equally full. “Ah,” she says. “Well, I find drinking too much is akin to falling asleep, and I prefer to be awake to whatever life offers.”
He stares at her. “Interesting,” he says. “We are of the same view.”
Having caught his attention, she is quick to press further. “Are you studying the medicinal quality of plants?”
Pliny’s mouth twitches, a dismissive look she does not like. “Are you going to tell me all the special properties they have for women?”
“I wasn’t talking about love potions,” Amara says, her cheeks flushing. “My father was a disciple of Herophilos.”
“Herophilos? Is he a favourite of yours? Perhaps you could set him to music.”
There is laughter from the guests, who have been listening to their conversation with amusement. Amara has endured so many insults, usually dressed as compliments, from the men at these dinners. She knows it is irrational, as well as foolish, for this one man to provoke her above any other, but her heart is racing, and she cannot stop herself from retaliating. “When health is absent,” she says, raising her voice and switching to Greek, “wisdom cannot reveal itself, art cannot become manifest, strength cannot be exerted, wealth is useless and reason is powerless. I would not set Herophilus to music, sir, but I would live my life by his wisdom.”
“I have offended you.” There is surprise, not anger on Pliny’s face. He looks at her, almost as if she were a dog that had started talking. “Forgive me. There is no reason why you should not have read Herophilos. What did your father teach you about him?”
His question snuffs out the flame of Amara’s anger. She feels afraid of having exposed herself. “I should not have presumed…” she murmurs.
“Of course you should have presumed! Why should you let me be pompous?” Pliny sounds irritated. “Enough with the false modesty. Just answer my question.”
“My father, Timaios, was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “He had no son, and he wanted a companion to read to him. Which I did.” Pliny is silent, so she continues. “He was particularly interested in Herophilos’s theory of the circulation of the blood.” Amara pauses. “May I?” She motions permission to take Pliny’s hand. She takes his wrist, feeling for the pulse, senses it quicken at the light touch of her fingers. “That is your blood’s rhythm, driven by your heart,” she says. “Or at least, that is what Herophilos believed.”
“Careful! Don’t let her bleed you!” one of the guests jokes.
Amara lets go of Pliny’s wrist, and they both laugh. The conversation moves on, she and Dido get up to perform another song. Pliny says nothing when she rejoins him on the couch. But even though he does not speak, she can sense his intense awareness of her.
She is not surprised that he chooses to leave early, but before he rises, he addresses her again. “Would your master spare you for a week? I should like to take you home.”
He makes his request so casually, no more than if he were asking to borrow a coat, that it takes her a moment to understand. “I’m certain he could spare me,” she says.
“Good.”
Across the room, she can see Dido staring at her. Amara’s eyes dart to Pliny and then back to Dido again. Explain to Felix. Dido nods.
There is a great deal of smirking between guests as she follows Pliny from the room, though none are quite bold enough to tease the admiral outright. Aurelius comes closest. “I hope you have a delightful night, my dear friend,” he says, with a pointed look at Amara. “I’m glad the dinner pleased you.”
Pliny thanks him serenely, choosing to ignore or, perhaps, oblivious to his hint. They walk through to the atrium, Amara following at a distance, joining his silent retinue of slaves. One of them has picked up her lyre. The porter helps her on with her cloak. Then she steps out into the moonlit street.
22
I pursue my research in odd hours, that is at night – just in case any of you think I pack up work then!
The house Pliny takes her to is near the Forum, only a short walk from the brothel, but stepping over its threshold is like entering another world. A delicate fountain of a faun greets them as they enter the atrium, starlight reflected on its waters. The air is heavy with the smell of jasmine.
“My friends were kind enough to let me have the run of the house while they are in Rome,” Pliny says, taking a lamp from a slave and leading her across the darkened hall. “It’s this way.” They climb the stairs, walking along an interior balcony, until he pushes open a door. The smell of jasmine is particularly intense here, and she can hear the splash of another fountain. Amara guesses the room must overlook the garden.