“Traveling by sea always makes me think of my father, may his shade be granted peace,” Julia sighs, leaning against the wooden railings. Livia joins her aunt-by-marriage, resting a hand on her shoulders, caressing her. It is a surprisingly intimate gesture, reminding Amara of the way Philos touches her.

“Was your father also in the emperor’s service?” Amara asks.

“His last post was with Pliny, in Spain, when Pliny held the procuratorship there,” Julia replies. “My father had great experience in financial affairs—it was how he earned his freedom at the Imperial court, many years before I was born of course.” Amara knows from the inscription on the Venus Baths, describing her friend as the daughter of Spurius, that Julia is illegitimate, her mother perhaps a concubine like Amara herself. “I was a child of his winter years,” Julia says. “I am grateful he lived to so great an age.”

Amara grasps the railing as the oars rise from the water. She can hear shouting but cannot make out the command. The quadrireme makes its way slowly out of the port, skirting the column of Venus at the mouth of the harbor. The goddess is even more enormous this close, and as Amara looks up, she has an irrational fear Aphrodite might reach out a giant hand to crush her like an ant.

As soon as they reach the open water, there are further shouted commands, and the oars rise and fall in rapid succession, the ship swiftly reaching an astonishing speed. Wind tears Amara’s hair from her face as she clings to the railing.

“It takes a little getting used to,” Livia remarks.

Amara stays crouched over the bar, too fearful to stand any straighter, as Pliny advances on them. He moves with ease on deck, undeterred by the motion of the water. Amara forces herself to stand upright, not wanting him to think her feeble.

Pliny does not waste time with greetings but points straight toward the coastline. “You get an unrivaled view of Campania from the water,” he declares, urging them to look in the direction he is pointing. Amara gazes out over the brilliant blue they are scudding over at such terrifying speed, to study the coastline as he commands. The land is moving past at a less dizzying pace, though Pompeii is already in the distance, the Venus of her harbor shrinking. “Those darker hollows on Vesuvius that you can see,” Pliny informs her, “are some of the finest vineyards in Italy. People there train the vines to poplar trees, and the plants climb to the highest branches, which makes them extremely difficult to harvest. I’ve even heard,” he adds, with a smile, so that Amara is unsure if he is joking, “that those harvesting the grapes make a point of arranging for a pyre and a grave in their terms of employment.”