“What fun you must have,” Rufus says, disarming her with his infectious smile. “Do you get the chance to go to the theatre much yourself?”
“No, sadly,” Amara says. “Though I should like to. It has been such happiness for me here, having time to read. But losing yourself in the story of a play is another pleasure entirely.”
“You must let me take you one night,” Rufus says. “That is, if you are really sure it wouldn’t be stepping on Pliny’s toes.”
For the first time since they began talking, Amara sees a degree of calculation in the way Rufus is looking at her. He still thinks Pliny had her, she realizes. “I used to live a very different life,” she says carefully. “I was a doctor’s daughter. The admiral is the first man to have treated me as if my past were still my present. At no time has he shown me anything other than a fatherly kindness.” It is a lie, and yet, as she says it, she knows there is also truth in it. None of the usual rules quite apply to her relationship with Pliny. Amara remembers last night, the humiliation of begging, his uncomprehending rejection and, for a moment, fears she might cry again.
Rufus mistakes her sudden emotion and rushes to sit beside her. “I’m sorry,” he says, clasping her hand. “What an oaf I am. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He gazes into her eyes. His own are hazel, wide now with concern. “What a tragic life you must have! And how insensitive I have been, asking you such things.”
He wants a sob story, Amara thinks, so he can rescue me. She has acted many parts, she tells herself. At least this one has the virtue of mirroring real life. “No, you are very kind.” She looks down in what she hopes is a show of shyness. “I am only sad because I must return to my master today and leave the admiral’s protection.”
“Where is your master’s house?”
Amara hesitates, wondering if it is too soon to relay the crucial information. “The Wolf Den.”
“The town brothel?” Rufus recoils.
Amara hides her face in her hands, defeated. Reality has proved a plot twist too far.
“You poor girl,” Rufus says. “How utterly tragic.” He takes her hands from her face. “Please don’t cry. I won’t think any less of you, I promise. I will call at… I will call and take you to the theatre. It would be a pleasure to know you better.”
Amara is in danger of crying genuine tears of relief. “I should like that so much,” she says.
He leans closer, his hand resting on the bench, close to her knee. There is a more familiar look on his face. “Might I kiss you?”
She feels a flash of annoyance. After everything she has told him about her past, about the way Pliny has treated her, he still wants to own her after five minutes’ conversation. She lifts her hand for him to kiss.
“Of course,” he says, taking it. “Of course, not in the admiral’s house.”
“Thank you,” she says, giving him what she hopes is an adoring smile. “It means everything to be treated with kindness.”
“You deserve nothing less,” he says, gallantly. They sit awkwardly for a moment. “I’m going to have to leave now though.” He stands up. “Perhaps you could pass on my goodbyes to Pliny. I promise I will call on you this week.”
“Thank you,” Amara replies. “Don’t leave it too long.”
When he has left, Amara sits in the garden, lifted by a current of hope. She is looking forward to thanking Pliny for the introduction. Then she sees Secundus step from the shadow of the colonnade. He is carrying a small bundle. Her things. Instantly, she understands. Pliny will not be coming back to say goodbye.
Secundus walks over and sits next to her on the bench, putting her clothes down between them. “When he brought you here,” he says, looking straight ahead to the fountain, “I told him he would be lucky if you didn’t demand your weight’s worth in gifts every day. At the very least you would leave here with one priceless jewel. He wagered me a denarius I was wrong.” He smiles at her. “So you cost me a denarius.”
She smiles back at him. “Sorry.” The thought of asking Pliny for gifts had in fact crossed her mind. But she knew Felix would only have taken them all. “Did he tell you what I did ask from him?”
“Your undying service. That’s a gift though. Not a demand.” He turns away from her. “We both know what service costs.”
They sit, united briefly by the unspoken understanding one slave has for another. “I also heard you crying last night. I think the whole house heard you.” He looks at her, not unkindly but with determination. “That cannot happen today.”
She blushes. “It won’t.” Secundus nods, satisfied. “You know, it wasn’t just for the life,” she says, gesturing at the fountain, the garden. “I mean, of course it was for that. But I believe I love him too.”
Secundus does not immediately reply. Then he stands, and she knows he is going to leave, that she will have to leave. Amara bites her lip, determined not to embarrass herself with more tears.
“You didn’t ask for a gift,” he says. “But he has chosen a gift for you, nonetheless. I have put it with your clothes.” He pauses. “I will give you a moment, so you can have the privacy of your thoughts before you leave. But it can only be a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” she says.
Secundus bows and walks away.
Amara picks up the bundle of clothes, expecting to find coins slipped between her robes. But whatever it is, it is much heavier. She draws out the scroll Pliny has left her. On Pulses by Herophilos.
25
They must conquer or fall. Such was the settled purpose of a woman – the men might live and be slaves!
“Look who it is! Look who it is!” Beronice screams as Amara steps into the brothel. “We thought you were never coming home!”
Victoria and Dido rush out into the corridor to join her. “I’m so happy you’re back; I’m so happy to see you,” Dido flings her arms round her, crying into her neck. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”
“It was only a week!” Amara says, torn between happiness at seeing Dido and guilt from knowing she spent yesterday begging never to return here.
“What was he like then?” Victoria also looks very pleased to see Amara but would never be so soft as to say so. “Bet he was a total pervert; the old ones always are.”
Amara hesitates. She had so looked forward to laughing with Victoria about that first, ridiculous night with Pliny, but now it feels too private. The thought of mocking him only makes her sad. “He was the kindest man I’ve ever met,” she replies, her voice quavering.
“Oh, look at her!” Victoria laughs. “You’re all welling up. We’ve had the weird ironmonger, and now you’re in love with some doddery old granddad. You have the worst taste in men I have ever known!”
“That guy she met at the games was alright,” Beronice says, defending her. “He wasn’t bad at all.”
“Say that louder, and Gallus might hear you,” Victoria whispers, and they all laugh as Beronice whips round.
“Fuck you,” Beronice says to Victoria, but she is laughing too.
“And what’s all this?” Victoria gestures at her to hand over the clothes. “How many new outfits did he give you?”
“Three,” Amara says, passing them round. “I guess I’ll have to give them all to Felix.”
“Lovely material,” Victoria says, stroking one of the dresses. “But you do look a bit matronly.” She squints at the respectable clothes Amara is wearing. “I shouldn’t think anyone would dare ask for a shag if you swanned around in that.” An idea strikes her. “Please don’t tell me the old man wanted you to dress up as his dead wife too!”