“Yes, but that’s different; she doesn’t know we’re here now!”
Their deliberations are interrupted by a sound neither have ever heard before. “Is that Felix?” Amara asks, incredulous. They forget their scruples and listen, looking at each other in astonishment. It’s unquestionably Felix groaning in pleasure.
“I can’t believe it!” Dido says. “This is the face I normally get.” She stands, imitating Felix’s swagger, and pulls a look of pompous disdain, as if staring down at the top of an imaginary woman’s head.
Amara snorts with laughter then claps a hand over her mouth to cover the noise. They both try to suppress their giggles, but the effort not to laugh only makes it worse, and soon, they are shaking with silent hysteria.
“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!
Pliny the Elder, Natural History
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.
“Here we are.” He gestures for her to enter. She had expected him to be attended by slaves so is a little nervous to step into the room alone. The walls are painted with maritime scenes, tiny boats in picturesque battles, plumes of smoke rising from the defeated enemy fleet. She wonders if Pliny visits regularly, if this room was painted specially for him. Travelling cases overflowing with scrolls and wax tablets trail across the floor. Another pile sits on the large bed. Pliny lifts them off carefully.
“If you could get undressed,” he says, turning to fuss over his tablets while she does so.
There’s no point doing a seductive striptease if he’s not even watching. She removes the cloak, carefully folds up the silk dress and undoes her hair. Then she arranges it artfully over one shoulder and perches at the end of the bed.
Pliny is a while flipping through his notes but eventually turns back to her, a wax booklet and stylus in hand. They look at each other. “Could I get a better view?” he says.
Amara is nonplussed. Is her pose not sexy enough? What is it he wants to see? She arches her back, pouting.
“No, no,” he says. “Not that. Just lie down or something, so I can take a better look. See more of you.”
She lies back on the bed, feeling more nervous by the minute. Pliny looks her over, scratching away at his tablets. He is taking notes, she realizes. The thought is so funny, she has to cough to hide the laugh that rises up her throat.
“May I?” he asks, putting down the tablets, gesturing he would like to touch her. He runs his hands over her whole body, frowning with concentration, tutting slightly to himself when he gets to the bruise on her arm. She flinches when he touches her between her legs, not sure what to expect, but he doesn’t linger any longer than he did on her elbow or her chin. “I’m glad to see you don’t remove all the hair,” he says, approvingly. “Disgusting habit.” He pats her calf. “Though that’s all nice and smooth, as it should be. Thank you,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “You can sit up now.”
Amara does as he asks, not sitting too close to him. She is not sure that even Victoria is going to believe her when she recounts this night.
“I’ve talked to a number of courtesans for my research,” he says, dignifying her with a more illustrious title than they both know she deserves. “I would be interested to know about your herbal knowledge. I wasn’t, in fact, scoffing about love potions earlier.”
“What would you like to know,” she says.
He is poised with his tablets. “Do you do anything to prevent pregnancy?”
“I insert a sponge. Soaked with honey when I can afford it. I use it as a barrier. My father let me read all of Herophilos, including his book on midwifery. He thought it would be useful to me when I married.”
Pliny nods. “Very sensible. So you don’t use any charms?”
“No, though some of the others at my establishment do. Another washes herself out with wine and vinegar. The companion I sang with this evening also uses a sponge, like me.”
He scratches away on the wax. “How did you become a… courtesan?”
“Which part of the story do you want?”
“Well,” he says, frowning. “All of it. You started out reading Herophilos to your father in Attica, and now, here you are in Pompeii. I should like to hear everything.”
He is asking for nothing other than her entire life laid bare. Amara isn’t sure whether sex might have been easier. “My father was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “I was his only child. He died when I was fifteen. A disease he caught from one of his patients. My mother tried to support us for a number of years, and when this was no longer possible, she sold me as a house slave to one of my father’s former patrons.”
“Wait a moment.” Pliny holds up his hand. “This makes no sense at all. Why did your mother not simply marry you off as quickly as possible? They must have been expecting you would marry soon anyway, at that age. You were an only child, what about the dowry?”
He has managed, inevitably, to hit on one of the most shameful parts of her story. “My father did not always charge his patients as he should have,” she says, feeling the need even now to defend him for his neglect. “The debts we expected to call in were never paid. And he had significant debts of his own. What dowry there was, my mother spent to provide for us both.”
Pliny is outraged. “But this was the most terrible negligence! From both of them!” He sees the distress on her face. “No, I am sorry, go on. You were sold as a house slave. What then.”
“My mother left the money she was paid for my sale with my possessions,” Amara says, wanting at least to clear her mother of greed. “But my new master took it, and he did not use me as a house slave, as promised, but as a concubine.” Pliny rolls his eyes, as if amazed anyone could have been duped into imagining otherwise. “I was there perhaps a year, but his wife became jealous and sold me as a whore. I was taken to Puteoli and sold there at the market to the pimp who runs the town brothel. That is how I am here.”
“The journey of the mind is always stranger than that of the body,” Pliny says, cryptically. “How have you adjusted? You must have spent your early life imagining becoming… what? A respected wife? A mother?”
“I knew that was my duty.”
“What did you want then, if not that?”
“What I wanted was idle daydreaming,” she says. Pliny huffs, impatient at her quibbling. Amara gives up. “I wanted to be a doctor,” she says. “Like my father. I just assumed this was going to happen because of all the hours he had me spend reading his texts. I had not understood. Then when I mentioned it one day, he explained that, of course, this was not possible.”
“That isn’t strictly true,” Pliny replies. “Certainly, you could not have practised medicine like your father, but there have always been women scholars, philosophers, living modest enough lives. Especially in Attica. But I understand his concern at the irregularity. Though,” he mutters, clearly still irritated by her parents, “that was all the more reason to have saved up the dowry.” He puts down the tablets, glancing round at his books. “Do you have a good reading voice?”
“I suppose I must have.”
“Excellent. You can help me a little, while you are here.” He switches to Greek. “We can even read Herophilos, if you wish. I’m minded to include him in my Natural History.”
Pliny’s accent is appalling, but his Greek is perfectly fluent. “I should like that so much,” she says, smiling at him. “It would be a pleasure for me.”
He smiles too, evidently satisfied with how the evening has gone. “Now, I will be up reading for a few hours,” he says, getting off the bed. “But please don’t let that disturb you. Feel free to sleep while I work.”
“Where would you like me to… sleep?”
“On the bed, of course,” Pliny says, exasperation creeping into his voice. He sits at his desk. It’s angled so that he can still see her. Amara makes a show of getting under the covers and half closes her eyes, watching him from under lowered eyelashes. Pleased to see her settled, Pliny turns back to his scrolls and ignores her. She fully intends to stay awake, but the rustle of parchment, the sound of the fountain and the smell of jasmine are all so soothing, she has soon drifted off.
She is still half asleep when she feels his fingers run through her hair. “You’ve not left me much room,” he whispers.
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 the Elder, Natural History
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.
The Wolf Den Page 19