Amara pauses in her dressing. “A friend?”
“All young men need some experience with a woman before they marry,” he says, with a shrug. “A father can only hope his boy doesn’t land on some coarse, unintelligent whore who runs through the family money. Of course, Rufus is rather romantic, a little naïve I suspect. I am trusting you to be a loyal, helpful friend to him. One who always understands her place. No hysterics. Can I rely on you to do that?”
Amara nods. “I would perform any service for you,” she says.
“I hope not too onerous a service,” he says. “Rufus is a pleasant enough boy.” Pliny peers at her face. “Perhaps it might be wise to see the maid this morning. I will meet you in the garden.”
Amara walks out onto the interior balcony, heading to the small room at the front of the house where Sarah, a maid belonging to Pliny’s hosts, has dressed her hair each day. She takes in Amara’s reddened eyes and, without asking any questions, soaks a scrap of cloth in cold water. She motions for her to sit down at the dressing table. “Hold this against your eyelids,” she says. “It will help.”
Amara wonders what Sarah thinks of Pliny sending her a prostitute to look after. She has never been anything but polite. Amara sits obediently in the darkness, the cloth pressed to her closed eyes, while Sarah does her hair. When she has finished, Sarah takes Amara’s hands from her face. “Better,” she says. “Now dry them.”
Sarah picks up the kohl and a slender brush, drawing delicate lines around Amara’s eyes with swift, deft movements then dabs a dark grey powder on her eyelids. A glass vial sits on the dresser, jasmine distilled from the garden. She passes it to Amara who unstoppers the lid and rubs the scent along her neck. Sarah takes it back, hands her the small silver mirror, the final rite in their ritual. Amara looks at her reflection. In the respectable clothes Pliny has given her – no doubt also chosen by Sarah – she does not look like a young woman who works in a brothel.
“Thank you,” Amara says. “For everything.” Sarah nods, polite but not inclined to talk. Whatever she really thinks of Pliny’s guest, it is impossible to guess.
Pliny himself is reading a scroll when she joins him in the garden. She sits down silently, trying not to think about how soon she has to leave this place. She wonders what Rufus will be like, tries to summon the energy to charm him, muster the will to seize the opportunity Pliny has laid out for her. Secundus arrives with bread and fruit. He has not served food since the first day of her visit, when she suspects his real purpose was to examine her, so she is surprised to see him with the tray.
Secundus looks at Amara, as if appraising what is wrong with the scene. “Shall I bring you your lyre, mistress?”
“Thank you,” she says, grateful to be given something to do.
She has breakfast – Pliny is still too engrossed in his scroll to talk to her – then begins to play. The feel of the strings beneath her fingers, the chance to lose herself in singing, is a relief. An hour passes, the sun warming the garden, the flowers opening their faces to its light.
She plays tirelessly to Pliny as he reads, as if she were his devoted daughter.
“Rufus is here.” Secundus is standing by his master. As always, she did not hear his approach.
Amara deliberately carries on playing, only glancing up briefly to see a young man hovering by the fountain. He is gazing at her, clearly not expecting to see anyone but the admiral.
Pliny beckons him over. “Rufus! How is Julius? I was sorry to miss him in Misenum.”
“He sends you his warmest greetings,” Rufus says. “As do my parents. They are spending the summer at Baiae, or else they would have called on you while you are staying in Pompeii.”
“Be sure to send them my best regards,” Pliny says. “Baiae is delightful at this time of year.” He glances over at Amara. “Your uncle told me you are very fond of the theatre these days. This is Amara, a little guest of mine; she is a gifted musician.”
It is the first time Pliny has expressed any interest in her music. Amara stops playing, bowing her head modestly to Rufus. The young man looks a little uncertain, perhaps having heard the jokes about Pliny and his new Greek girl. “Lovely to meet you,” he says.
The two men chat for a while, but it is clear that, aside from a shared affection for Rufus’s uncle, Julius, who served with Pliny in the army, they have little in common. Secundus appears again, murmuring something in his master’s ear. Pliny excuses himself, asking Rufus to wait a moment while he sees a client.
Rufus and Amara sit in silence, both at a loss over how to navigate this particular social circumstance.
“That was a pretty tune,” Rufus finally says to her. “Might you sing something else?”
Amara obliges, playing one of the more haunting melodies Salvius taught her. She has never performed it in public – she and Dido decided it was too melancholy – but Rufus is enchanted.
“What a lovely voice you have!” he exclaims, like a delighted child. He seems so much younger than her, she thinks, even though he is almost certainly older. He is not exactly handsome, his nose is too big and his face too broad, but he is tall, and his smile is so open and friendly she finds it hard not to smile back. He does not have the careless arrogance of a Quintus or Marcus.
“Thank you.”
“How did you… er… meet the admiral?” Clearly, he has heard the rumours.
“I was performing at a dinner,” she says. “The admiral was interested in the work of my late father, who was a doctor, and asked me to assist him for a few days with his work on natural history.”
“Right,” says Rufus, looking dumbfounded.
“The admiral is a man who is interested in the pursuit of knowledge above all else,” she continues. “He does not have the prejudices or assumptions of lesser men. Meaning,” she looks directly at Rufus, “he does not pick up whores at parties for the purposes others might imagine.”
He blushes deep red. “No! Of course! I mean, I didn’t think…”
She quickly interrupts to save his embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she says. “The admiral’s respect means a great deal to me, and he has been so very kind.” She looks down, as if ashamed. “I should not have spoken so bluntly.”
Rufus looks even more discombobulated by the switch back to virtue than he did at the mention of whores. “How long are you staying to… help him with his studies?”
“I am leaving today,” Amara says, and this time there is nothing artful to her sadness.
“That’s a shame!” he exclaims. “Will you be leaving Pompeii altogether?”
“No, I live in the town.” She can see Rufus is intrigued. She needs to press his interest past the tipping point. “I was interested to hear you enjoy the theatre. Which plays do you like?”
His face lights up. “There’s nothing more truthful than a play, is there? I love them all, but do you know, I think comedies are braver somehow. All of life up there on the stage, and actors have the courage to say what one cannot say elsewhere.” He stops, looking a little embarrassed for gushing. “But you must know all this already, doing what you do. I must say, I rather envy you for being a performer.”
The thought that this wealthy young man, with the entire world at his feet, might envy a penniless slave who sings to lecherous punters at parties is so absurd Amara cannot, at first, think of a reply. But he is gazing at her earnestly without any idea how ridiculous he sounds. “That’s so sweet of you,” she says. “I particularly enjoy arranging the words to music, finding ways to tell the story.”