Instantly, she is alert. “Oh!” she exclaims, realizing she must have sprawled across the entire bed in her sleep. “Sorry,” she scrambles to the other side.
Pliny slips in beside her. “It’s a gift, to sleep well,” is all he says.
They lie next to each other in the dark. Amara has no idea what time of night, or perhaps morning, it is. She can sense from his extreme stillness and shallow breathing that Pliny is also fully awake. It is difficult to know what he might want, but Amara feels she had better suspect the obvious rather than offend him. She shuffles over, placing her hand gently on his arm. “I’m so grateful you invited me,” she says.
“You are a delightful girl,” he replies. Amara knows he is looking at her, but his face is obscured in the darkness. She leans over and kisses him. He has dry, papery lips. Pliny doesn’t respond to her kiss, but he doesn’t shove her off either. She relaxes, letting her body rest on his, while her hand travels across his thigh. Immediately, he stops her, catching her by the wrist. “There’s… no need.”
“I only want to please you,” she says, moving away, so she is no longer lying against him. “I didn’t mean to presume.”
“I understand,” he says, kissing her hand with his dry lips and releasing her wrist. “But there’s no need. It’s a pleasure for me simply to have you here.” He stretches out his own hand and rests it on her waist. It’s the only part of their bodies that is touching, though he is so close she can see the dark of his eyes and feel the warmth of his breath. “What lovely soft skin you have,” he says.
Amara remains braced in the same position, expecting that perhaps he wanted to be the one doing the seducing, until she realizes, as his hand grows heavier and his breathing deeper, that he is asleep.
She gently lifts his arm, moving his hand from her body and placing it on the bed, then shuffles away slightly, not wanting to roll into him later by mistake. Amara closes her eyes. She thinks this is going to be a very pleasant week.
23
No other part of the body supplies more evidence of the state of mind. This is the same with all animals, but especially with man; that is, the eyes show signs of self-restraint, mercy, pity, hatred, love, sorrow, joy; in fact, the eyes are the windows of the soul.
Pliny is stroking his fingers through her hair. The sensation wakes her. She opens her eyes to see him staring down at her. Daylight is less forgiving of his age. There is grey hair on his bare chest and an oddly intent expression on his face. She wonders how long he has been watching her.
“I’m so glad you don’t dye your hair like so many silly women,” he says, by way of greeting. “Yours is such a lovely natural shade. Soft like a squirrel.” He leans over and gives her a dry kiss on the nose.
He is such a bewildering mixture of affectionate and creepy, Amara isn’t sure what to say. “Thank you,” she manages, hoping he will stop looming over her soon, so she can sit upright and move away.
He leans down again, this time kissing her on the forehead. Then he sits up, swinging his legs over his side of the bed.
“I need to write this morning,” he says. “But I should like you to read to me in the afternoon. In the meantime, take a scroll or two and enjoy the gardens. Secundus will bring you anything you might need; he knows you are staying for the week.” Pliny has been dressing himself as he talks – again she is surprised by the absence of slaves in his private room – but when he sees her pick up the transparent silk robe, he stops. “You’re not wearing that, are you?”
“I don’t have anything else,” she replies, amazed such a clever man is capable of being so obtuse.
“I suppose not.” He looks round absently, as if expecting sensible women’s clothes to sprout from one of the travel cases. “It will have to do for now. Maybe…” He frowns, watching her. “Maybe fold it a few more times?”
Amara doesn’t trust herself to reply. When she is dressed, he fusses round her while she chooses a scroll or rather accepts the bundle he gives her, then he escorts her to the door, seemingly now anxious for her to leave so he can work. She steps out onto the interior balcony, the glorious sweep of the gardens below. “Just take the stairs,” he says with a vague gesture before disappearing back into his study.
She walks slowly down into the garden with a sense of total enchantment. It is the cool of early morning but already the sky is blue, a promise of the blazing day ahead. The scent of flowers she cannot name is sweet in the air, and the fountain sparkles as it falls, the gentle rhythm of its splash like light footsteps. The balcony of the upper floor forms part of the shaded colonnade, and there are a number of benches, already strewn with cushions for whoever might wish to rest. Amara stands and stares, unable to believe what she sees. All this is hers for the day. She has nothing else to do than sit and read and look at this beautiful garden.
“Would you like some refreshment, mistress?”
A man, who may or may not be the Secundus Pliny mentioned, is standing a polite distance away.
Amara is embarrassed by the formality of his address. She clutches the scrolls to her chest, hoping to cover the thin fabric. “That would be very kind, thank you.”
The man leaves, and she sits down on one of the benches, facing the fountain. It’s a little chilly in the shade. She inspects the scrolls Pliny has given her. Both are Greek. Homer, she is familiar with, even though her family only owned a copy of two sections of The Odyssey, but she has never seen Apollonius’s The Argonautica. She unravels the top carefully and starts to read, when the same man comes back with a tray and a blanket.
“I thought you might be cold,” he says.
“That’s very thoughtful, thank you,” Amara replies, wrapping the throw round her shoulders. “Are you Secundus?”
“Yes.”
“I am Amara. It is very nice to meet you.”
His mouth twitches slightly in amusement, but he remains studiously polite. “Nice to meet you too, Mistress Amara.”
“Thank you,” she says again, as he sets down his tray on a small table beside the bench. “Do you know what music the admiral likes? I am hoping to play for him later; he has been so kind to me. I should very much like to sing something he might enjoy?”
“I am certain the admiral would be delighted to hear whatever you might wish to sing,” Secundus says, gravely. “Given he has been pleased to invite you here as his guest.” He bows and leaves her.
When he’s safely out of sight, Amara eagerly inspects the tray. It contains a piece of soft crumbling bread with honey spread on top, a glass of water and a plate of fruit – apricots and damsons. She tries not to eat it all too fast or too greedily then gets up to dip her fingers in the fountain. She is certain Pliny would not like honey or damson stains on his parchment. Then she settles back to the cushions with a sigh and begins The Argonautica.
It is a morning unlike any other in Amara’s life. Even at her father’s house she never knew such leisure and luxury. Secundus appears with another light tray of food – cheese, olives and more bread, a small glass of sweet wine – but otherwise, she is left completely undisturbed. She reads, she strolls round the garden inspecting the flowers, admiring the jasmine that she knows will smell even sweeter in the evening. She looks at the paintings around the colonnade – exquisite garden scenes, wild birds in flight, a dove resting at a fountain that mirrors the real one which splashes gently through the day. She knows she is near the hustle of the street, but very little of its noise disturbs her tranquillity.