Reclining modestly on Aurelius’s amply upholstered couch, Amara is grateful she and Dido decided to wear their gauzy dresses folded, making the fabric as opaque as possible. She is not sitting with Fuscus tonight. Instead, in what she suspects is a touch of teasing mischief by the host, Aurelius has placed her on a couch with one of his oldest friends: Pliny, the Admiral of the Fleet.

He is an austere-looking man, with dark gray hair and a hard-set jaw. Aurelius tries to draw him out with anecdotes of military life, but Pliny seems to be that rare person who prefers to observe rather than talk about himself. “I would be delighted,” he says to Aurelius, who offers to take him on a pleasure tour of his vineyards. “But you might find me rather dull. I’m hoping to travel a little further inland toward Vesuvius, to see some of the rarer plants. Though of course, my research touches on wine as well.”

“Wine is for drinking, not researching!” Aurelius laughs. “But we can venture further inland if you wish.”

Pliny has said nothing to Amara all evening, save a brief compliment on her and Dido’s presentation of Sappho, and so it is a surprise when he addresses her directly. “You don’t share our host’s view?”

“I’m sorry . . .?” Amara is bewildered by the question.

“Your wine. You’ve barely touched it all night.”

Amara looks at her glass. It stands beside her companion’s which is equally full. “Ah,” she says. “Well, I find drinking too much is akin to falling asleep, and I prefer to be awake to whatever life offers.”

He stares at her. “Interesting,” he says. “We are of the same view.”

Having caught his attention, she is quick to press further. “Are you studying the medicinal quality of plants?”

Pliny’s mouth twitches, a dismissive look she does not like. “Are you going to tell me all the special properties they have for women?”

“I wasn’t talking about love potions,” Amara says, her cheeks flushing. “My father was a disciple of Herophilos.”

“Herophilos? Is he a favorite of yours? Perhaps you could set him to music.”

There is laughter from the guests, who have been listening to their conversation with amusement. Amara has endured so many insults, usually dressed as compliments, from the men at these dinners. She knows it is irrational, as well as foolish, for this one man to provoke her above any other, but her heart is racing, and she cannot stop herself from retaliating. “When health is absent,” she says, raising her voice and switching to Greek, “wisdom cannot reveal itself, art cannot become manifest, strength cannot be exerted, wealth is useless and reason is powerless. I would not set Herophilus to music, sir, but I would live my life by his wisdom.”