Among the guests, it is Demetrius of whom Pliny seems fondest, and watching the two men together, Amara is relieved she answered the questions about her history as honestly as possible. Demetrius is a man who would likely make his own inquiries on any subject. Attendants lay out the dinner while the guests speak: boiled eggs, then a seasoned broth of sea urchins caught in the bay, and platters of expensive fruit, grown out of season. Everything is so delicious, Amara is unable to restrain herself from eating properly, resigned to annoying Rufus by putting on weight. After the meal, she can tell Pliny is distracted, and remembers his remark about only having time to work at night. His eyes come to rest on her.

“Amara,” he says. “I wonder if you might delight everyone with your reading, while I make some notes. The texts I am thinking of are in Greek, not Latin, so should be easy for you to manage. You have such a musical voice—I’m sure the others would enjoy hearing you.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” she replies, pleased to have some means of repaying him. She waits while two slaves bring out the scrolls and Pliny’s writing materials, along with a small table. He fusses a little when she sits beside him, making sure she has the correct section of text, but when she bends to read it, he rests his hand briefly on top of her head, a gesture she remembers from her father, and one she saw Pliny use earlier in the evening toward his nephew.

The text, by the philosopher Democritus, is written in a clear hand, but is the strangest Amara has ever encountered. She reads it slowly while Pliny scribbles notes. The other guests linger for a while then start to retire. Plinia is the first to leave, shepherding her son to bed. Julia, Livia and Alexios slip away a little later. Nobody bids Pliny good night, evidently judging he would be irritated to have his train of thought broken. Eventually, only Demetrius remains. Amara cannot see him, but is aware of his presence, and the strong scent of lavender from the pipe he is smoking. Then he too leaves, and there is only Pliny. The garden has fallen into total darkness, the void filled with the whisper of crickets and the splash of invisible fountains. The only reason Amara can still see to read is thanks to the exhausted slaves who keep returning to replenish the oil lamps.

It is deep into the night, and her voice is growing hoarse, by the time Pliny finally allows her to stop. “What did you think of it?” he asks.

It is some hours since Amara has been able to concentrate fully on the sense of the text. “I had not heard this idea before. That we are made of indivisible atoms, that even the soul within us is material and cannot be destroyed.”