“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.
By late afternoon, the sun’s heat has warmed every corner of the garden, and she has discarded the blanket Secundus brought her. She is beginning to feel a little anxious that Pliny has forgotten her, when he arrives, followed by a slave carrying a trunk. “How have you enjoyed the gardens?” he asks, joining her in the shaded colonnade.
“They are wonderful,” she says. “I’ve never known such happiness.”
He nods, looking pleased. “If you would read a little to me now,” he says; “I will be able to tell if I find your voice easy to listen to or not.” The slave hands her a scroll. “I brought Herophilos’s On Pulses; I need to study him in any case, and it helps if you are familiar with the text.”
The scroll in Amara’s hands is a thousand times finer than the one from her father’s house, but she feels a flood of emotion unrolling it. “Is there a section you would prefer?” she asks.
“Start from the beginning,” Pliny says wryly. “I generally find that helps.”
Amara begins to read. The text is more complete than the one her father owned, but the phrases and cadences are still familiar. It is like recounting a prayer, an incantation to all she used to hold dear. She has been reading for some minutes, with Pliny scribbling notes, when he stops her. “Go back a little,” he says. “Just a couple of lines.” She obliges, and he nods, satisfied. She continues, reading solidly for several hours, helped by the odd glass of water brought by the ever diligent Secundus. Eventually, they break for dinner.
“You have a musical voice,” Pliny says. “Not too cloying. I can see why your father found you so useful. I find many women’s voices hard to listen to for long periods, but yours has just the right quality.”
“Will you let me sing for you?” she asks.
“I’m not sure I’m really a man to be serenaded with Sappho,” he says, sounding amused rather than unkind.
“I wasn’t going to,” she replies. “I used to sing a version of Nausicaa’s meeting with Odysseus for my parents. I thought you might find it pleasant.”
“By all means then,” he says, though his tone suggests he has agreed more through politeness than eagerness.
Amara and Pliny have dinner in the garden. With only the two of them present, there is no question of the dining room. He asks her about The Argonautica, about her views of Apollonius’s depiction of the love between Jason and Medea. She is grateful to have read enough to discuss it. After they have eaten, one of the slaves brings her the lyre, and she plays for him, a tune that takes her back to her childhood and the affectionate gaze of her parents.
She looks at him expectantly when she finishes, hoping he has enjoyed it. But the expression she sees on his face is one of immense sadness.
“Your parents did not serve you well, Amara,” he says at last. “You are a lovely girl. They should have ensured you had a dowry.”
“Please,” she says. “They are both dead. I cannot think badly of them.”
Pliny inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I understand. Forgive me.”
When it is too dark and chill to stay longer in the garden, they walk back up to Pliny’s room. There are even more scrolls scattered about than she remembers. “Ah, I forgot,” he says, pointing to a pile of women’s clothes. “I had them find you some more suitable things.”
“Thank you,” she says, resisting the urge to pick them up and see what he has given her. “I will wear them tomorrow. You are so kind to me.”
He watches her get undressed, with the same intent expression that she remembers from the morning. Amara hopes that he wants her, that this evening he will not move away. She knows that it is not him she has fallen in love with – it is the gardens, the beauty of the life he possesses – but there is no focus for her desire other than the man in front of her. In spite of her efforts undressing, he does not join her on the bed, instead sitting down at his desk to work.
“Could I not read for you?” she asks
“You must be tired,” he answers. “I would not expect you to sit up reading all night.”
“Please,” she says. “I would like to.”
He hesitates then passes her the scroll he is studying. “From there,” he says, indicating the point in the text with his thumb.
This time there is no Secundus to bring her discreet glasses of water and the treatise on plants is unfamiliar and even worse, the scribe’s handwriting is cramped and hard to decipher. More than once, she hears Pliny wince or tut impatiently as she stumbles over a phrase, but still, Amara reads on and on, until she thinks she will lose her voice or fall asleep exhausted over the parchment. Finally, he has had enough and gets ready for bed. “I see we are alike in our avoidance of sleep,” he says. “It always seems a kind of death to me.”
She lies closer to him as he gets in beside her, hoping he will put an arm round her. He doesn’t. “Amara is not a name I have heard before,” he says, when they are lying facing one another in the dark. “I take it it is not your real name.”
“My master gave it to me,” she says, and the mention of Felix is like the cold of a knife laid flat against her heart. “He told me it is halfway between love and bitterness.”
“Yes, amare, amarum,” he says. “A bit poetic for a pimp.”
Pliny rests his hand in the hollow of her waist, the same as he did last night, and she is afraid he is going to fall asleep. She leans towards him, so that his hand slides into the small of her back and kisses him. His lips are as dry and unmoving as before. She kisses him again, trying to imagine he is Menander, that he will respond to her like Menander, but instead, he pushes her gently away.
“I just want to please you.” It’s a line that she has repeated endlessly to so many customers without a trace of sincerity. This time she wishes the need wasn’t so abject in her voice.
“You do please me,” he says, as if humouring a child. “I like looking at you; you are very lovely.” He runs his fingers slowly through her hair, the same way he did when he woke her in the morning. “I don’t feel the need for more.”
He must be impotent, she thinks, and finds the idea neither disturbs nor reassures her. She is too exhausted and the bed is too comfortable for her to mind anymore about the puzzle of Pliny. She falls asleep, lulled by the sensation of him still stroking her head.
*
Time passes like a silk ribbon through her fingers. Every hour spent as Pliny’s guest sees her fall more deeply in love with his life, her days an endless procession of pleasures. She bathes alone in the private bath suite, has her hair dressed each morning, eats freely without considering the price of the food. Slowly, she feels her own body return to her. Nobody touches her without permission, still less with violence. In the beautiful garden, the brothel’s ugliness starts to take on a sense of unreality. But she still knows it is there, like the fading bruise on her arm.
Pliny becomes the obsessive focus of her hopes. She never spends as much time with him as she did on her first day – he is often busy receiving guests or dining out – but every night, she reads to him and falls asleep under the weight of his hand. She sits in the shadow of the colonnade, watching silently when guests call on him in the garden, trying to learn more about his habits, his views, anything that might allow her to make herself indispensable to him. He would be a good master, she tells herself, imagining her life as his secretary. Even if he lost interest in her, if she became a half-forgotten beautiful object in his home, something to set alongside the flowers or the fountains, her voice would still be useful to him, he would still treat her with kindness. Sometimes, alone in the garden, she thinks of the other women, of Dido most of all, and she longs to talk to her. Then she is flooded by guilt at her planned abandonment. She tells herself elaborate lies: that if Pliny bought her, she would persuade him to buy Dido too, that her own good fortune could be shared. She tries not to think of Menander, the memories are as painful to hold as burning firewood.
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 her
e.”
“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.”
The Wolf Den Page 20