Amara says nothing, not wanting to arouse suspicion by begging to know what he means. “It just so happened,” Secundus continues, “that Pliny had asked Rufus a number of questions about you when we walked to your house. About your hometown, your father and so on. Rufus hardly knew any of the answers. Whereas your ‘Beloved’ knew them all.”

“I’m sure he’s not the first steward to have a better memory than his master.”

Secundus smiles. “True. A steward’s first role is to protect his master. I am always careful to protect the admiral’s reputation. A responsibility you share with me, given Pliny granted you the extraordinary honor of his name.”

“I would rather die than dishonor the admiral.”

Secundus nods as if he believes her, though his eyes are cold. “No doubt Philos is keen to protect his own master’s reputation. Perhaps he does not approve of you. Perhaps that is the reason he turned his face to the side when Rufus kissed you. It was such a slight gesture; I would never have noticed it, if I had not been looking straight at him at the time.”

“Perhaps,” Amara says. “I’m aware not everyone approves of my change in station.”

“It is quite an astonishing change. And Rufus’s patronage raises you still further.” Secundus leans toward her, a more aggressive posture than she has ever known him adopt. “A woman’s status is only as high as that of the man she allows to master her. Or if you allow me to put it more crudely, her body only holds the value of the man who uses it.”

“That is a little crude.” Amara wrinkles her nose. “For you.”

“I saw you,” Secundus says, lowering his voice. “The look on your face, when you thought I was him. That would have been enough to tell me what he is, even without the lover’s language. Rufus may have forgotten that a slave is also a man, but I never do.”

“You insult me.” They stare at one another, their hostility now open. Amara is expecting Secundus to go on, but instead, he is silent, waiting, and she knows that she cannot leave the conversation on such a knife-edge. “When the admiral hired me for a week,” she says, trying to ignore her sweating palms, the frightened thumping of her heart, “I remember you telling me you wagered him a denarius I would beg and wheedle for gifts, but I did not. So perhaps you will believe me now when I tell you no man’s reputation is more precious to me than his. I swear to you, I will never bring Pliny dishonor.”

Secundus blinks, and Amara sees, at last, the emotion he has been struggling to hide. It is fear. “I truly hope you mean that.”

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