“And besides, you intrigue me. A prostitute who persuaded Pliny—of all people!—to free her, who seems quite unmoved by an offer from one of the richest men in Campania. I’d like to know what your secret is.”

Amara is well aware that Julia would be horrified to know her real secret, but she hides her fear, as always, and smiles. “What makes you think I have a secret?”

“Everyone does.” The look in Julia’s eyes is no longer playful, and Amara understands. Julia is not prying—she’s talking of herself.

“I rather envy you and Livia,” Amara says carefully. “To have the solace of sharing so much with one other. Men rarely understand such things.”

Julia rises, kissing Amara gently on the top of her head. “There’s my clever girl,” she murmurs.

The following day, Demetrius does not trouble Amara or seek her out. She is relieved and, although it shames her to admit it, also a little disappointed. Pliny has offered to send her home, expressing a half-hearted concern that Rufus might be missing her, and Amara had felt duty-bound to agree. She has no doubt that Julia must have suggested the idea to him, realizing the danger of making Rufus too jealous. Amara’s feelings about returning are more complicated than she cares to admit. The last time she stayed with Pliny, she had imagined life in one of Pompeii’s grander homes represented a height of indulgence that could never be surpassed, but the villa at Misenum has shown her that wealth, and its pleasures, are limitless.

She is deep in her reading when she becomes aware of someone standing near her. Amara looks up, expecting it to be Demetrius, but instead, it is Secundus. She glances round the garden, wondering who sent him, and realizes they are completely alone.

“You startled me,” she says.

“Forgive me.” He sits beside her. “I heard you were leaving.”

“Tomorrow. I’m very sorry to go, but Rufus will be missing me. And I have duties to my household.”

“Of course,” Secundus agrees. “Though I’m sure your patron’s steward is taking good care of it all for you. What was his name again? The handsome young man who was kind enough to keep me company while the admiral dined with you. He had the most unusual gray eyes.”

Already wary, Amara’s anxiety increases. “Philos,” she says, putting no emotion into the name.

“Beloved,” Secundus says, nodding. “How could I forget. That’s what Philos means in Greek, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He seems a capable boy,” Secundus says, his tone light. “Impeccably discreet on the habits of his master, as I would expect. Discreet about his master’s concubine too, though surprisingly well-informed.”