The road climbs steeply uphill, the harbor dropping below them, the vast blue of the bay becoming more visible the higher they rise. When they reach the summit, the admiral’s private carriage is waiting for them. Amara climbs inside, sitting beside Julia and Livia on the cushioned benches. Secundus piles in their luggage then climbs in too, keeping a discreet distance away. Amara can see the back of the driver as he steers the horses along the path, the motion causing her to tip slightly into Livia. The journey is a brief one, and when they come to a stop, and the women are helped out, blinking, into the sunlight, Amara realizes they have driven right into the heart of Pliny’s magnificent estate. It is enclosed by high walls and perched on the edge of the hillside is the villa, a vast terrace sweeping around it, facing the bay and the towering peak of Vesuvius.

“I will tell Plinia you are here,” Secundus says, leading them onto the terrace. Amara can hear the swell of the waves below, the cry of gulls and the distant murmur of sailors calling to one another. It feels very different here from Pompeii.

“Who is Plinia?” she asks in a whisper, even though there is nobody to overhear.

“The admiral’s sister,” Julia replies.

Secundus returns, and they follow him into the house, through a bewildering series of painted corridors and courtyards, until they reach a beautiful garden with an ornamental pond. Two men and a woman sit on benches under the shade of the colonnade, the sound of the fountains covering the murmur of their voices.

The woman stands to greet them, and Amara immediately sees the family resemblance. Plinia has her brother’s square jaw, even more pronounced on a stout woman in her forties. She embraces Julia and Livia affectionately and greets Amara politely. “The freedwoman.” She nods. “Delightful.”

Plinia introduces them to the other guests: Alexios, a scholar from Greece, and Demetrius, an Imperial official. It seems Julia and Demetrius are old friends, embracing one another warmly, and Amara joins them both, while Livia and Plinia talk to the scholar.

“Why are you not hard at work in Rome?” Julia asks. “I hardly expected to find you sunning yourself in a garden at this time of year.”

“I’m retired,” Demetrius declares, smiling at her.

“Nonsense! You’re like my father. You’ll never retire.”

Demetrius looks some years older than the admiral, deep lines fanning out from his eyes, marking the grooves around his mouth. From his accent, he is clearly Greek, like Amara and Alexios, and when he looks at her, she is aware it is not a casual glance but an appraisal. “Perhaps retire is an exaggeration,” he says, agreeing with Julia. “But the emperor is generous in allowing me time to visit my estates in Campania.”