“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.
Pliny the Elder, Natural History
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.”
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 em
barrassment. “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.”
“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!
Tacitus on Boudicca, Queen of the Icenii, Annals 14
“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 on
ly 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!”
“No.” Amara laughs. “Nothing like that.”
“What then?” Beronice says. “Must have been something special to buy you for a week.”
“He wanted me to read to him.”
“Sexy books?” Victoria is too shocked to make a joke out of it. “Is that it?”
“No! I mean we went to bed together,” Amara says defensively, thinking of the nights she spent lying naked beside Pliny, his hand resting on her while they both slept. “Just that…” She trails off, not knowing how to explain what happened or how she feels about it.
“It’s alright,” Dido says, hugging her again. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Went to bed together,” Victoria says, copying her coy phrase. “I’ve heard it all now.”
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