On her sixth day at Pliny’s house, her fear of being sent back to the brothel is so intense, she cannot read. He has said nothing about her leaving but has not mentioned extending her stay either. She is sitting silently in the garden, hidden in the shadows, when two of Pliny’s acquaintances visit.
They stand gossiping by the fountain as they wait for him. It is a while before she realizes what they are talking about.
“… I don’t know why he picked her up. Only Pliny could be so eccentric, taking home some funny little Greek girl who sang at a party.”
Startled, she turns her attention to the speaker. He is much younger than Pliny, with an arrogant, self-satisfied air. He reminds her of Quintus.
His companion has his back to her, but she can hear the amusement in his voice. “Caecilius saw her when he dropped in this week. Quite pretty, he said, but perfectly ridiculous. So lovelorn she was practically quivering, gazing at the admiral with tragic dormouse eyes. And Pliny paid her no mind at all!”
The first man snorts with stifled laugher. “Well, you have to hand it to him. I’ll be quite happy if I can fuck a whore into a state of devotion at that age.”
“The old boy’s put a bit of weight on. Let’s hope she doesn’t give him a heart attack.”
The men’s mockery doesn’t hurt Amara, but her powerlessness does. Across the garden, standing silently in the colonnade, she realizes Secundus is also listening. His exact role in Pliny’s life is unclear to her, but she soon guessed that he is more than a steward – he is his master’s eyes and ears. She can see from his face, usually so inscrutable, that he is angry. The two men carry on chatting idly at the fountain, oblivious to the two slaves listening. Secundus looks at her. He has always known she was there. He smiles, inclining his head slightly towards the men. She knows then that whatever favour the pair came to seek from the admiral today will not be granted.
It is Secundus who tells her later that Pliny will dine alone with her that night.
“Do you think he would like me to sing for him?” she asks.
“I think he enjoys your reading voice most,” Secundus replies, tactfully. “He has told me how helpful you have been, reading to him for hours, long into the night without any complaint.”
“It has only been a pleasure for me.”
The look Secundus gives her has more than a little pity in it. Her sense of foreboding grows.
Pliny is in a good mood at dinner, more than usually solicitous about what she has been reading, complimenting her, even, at one point, kissing her hand, the only sign of physical affection he has ever shown her outside his bedroom.
He is saying goodbye to me, she thinks. She watches Pliny’s mouth move as he talks. There is no cruelty in his face. The merry splash of the fountain mingles with his well-considered words, the air is scented with jasmine. She cannot imagine going back to Felix, back to the brothel with all its darkness, its daily violence. It will kill her.
“I shall miss you,” Pliny says at last, when one of the slaves brings out a large bowl of fruit. He takes an apple. “It has been a pleasure to have you here.”
“Don’t send me back,” Amara says, the words coming unprepared and unbidden. “I beg you, please, please don’t.” He looks at her in surprise, and her sense of desperation grows. She clasps his hand, pressing it against her heart. “I would be loyal to you; I would give my life to your service, I would be the most devoted secretary you could ever wish. I would be anything you wanted, go anywhere you asked.”
“My dear girl,” Pliny says, “there is no need for this…”
“Please don’t send me away from you,” Amara says, losing all sense of dignity, falling to her knees and weeping into the palms of his hands. “Please. You could buy me from my master. I would read to you every night, dedicate every hour to your work. I would never sleep in your service.”
“You do have the most beautiful voice,” Pliny says. She looks up at him and sees that for a moment he is wavering, considering her offer. Then he looks down. “But I already have a number of secretaries. I don’t know what place there would be for you. I have already asked you everything I need to know for my work. And you know I’m not a man to keep a concubine, enchanting as you are.” He helps her to her feet, seats her beside him. “It is very sweet of you to make such an offer. I am touched by your loyalty. But I cannot accept.”
She collapses, weeping, onto the couch beside him. He rests a hand on her shoulder. “Amara, please, control yourself. There is no sense to this at all.”
But she cannot control herself, and the beautiful garden is filled with the ugly sound of her hysterical crying. Eventually, when she is completely exhausted and her eyes too swollen for more tears, he suggests retiring to bed. He seems weary, irritated even, by her emotion.
“It’s a shame to have wasted your last evening,” he says, watching her undress. “I’ve already explained it to you. It’s not that I don’t find you delightful, but there’s just no place for you in my household. And really, I’m an old man. You must want something else, surely? Plenty of courtesans end up married, or settled in some way, in the end.”
“I don’t want anything else,” Amara says, lying down heavily on the bed, her limbs weighted with misery. She can already feel the walls of the brothel closing in on her.
For once, he does not head straight to his books but lies down beside her. He props himself on one elbow, leaning over her, and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re an intelligent girl. You must understand.”
Amara closes her eyes, tears leaking from beneath the lashes. She feels the warmth of him as he comes closer, his papery lips planting a kiss on her forehead. She turns away, curling into a ball, hiding her face in her hands. He sighs loudly with annoyance and thumps off the bed.
She hears him mutter the word ridiculous as he sits down at his desk. Amara is exhausted by unhappiness. She falls asleep, as she did on the first night, to the sound of Pliny working, the splash of the fountain in the garden below.
24
Perfumes are the most pointless of all luxuries… Their highest attraction is that, as a woman goes by, their use may attract even those who are otherwise occupied.
When Amara wakes, Pliny is already sitting at his desk, watching her. From his expression, she knows there is no point in repeating her humiliation from last night.
“I’m sorry for my behaviour,” she says, sitting up, holding the covers to her chest. “I did not mean to repay your kindness in such a way. I hope you are not offended.”
Pliny relaxes, obviously relieved to find her calm. He walks over, takes her hand and pats it. “I know women are naturally emotional creatures,” he says. “There was nothing offensive about your offer. I’m only glad you understand. Now,” he ushers her out of bed and shoos her towards her clothes, perhaps nervous she might become tearful again. “I have been thinking this morning about a favour you may be able to do for me. The nephew of a dear friend is calling on me shortly. If you are willing, I should like you to be a friend to him.”