“I have offended you.” There is surprise, not anger on Pliny’s face. He looks at her, almost as if she were a dog that had started talking. “Forgive me. There is no reason why you should not have read Herophilos. What did your father teach you about him?”

His question snuffs out the flame of Amara’s anger. She feels afraid of having exposed herself. “I should not have presumed . . .” she murmurs.

“Of course you should have presumed! Why should you let me be pompous?” Pliny sounds irritated. “Enough with the false modesty. Just answer my question.”

“My father, Timaios, was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “He had no son, and he wanted a companion to read to him. Which I did.” Pliny is silent, so she continues. “He was particularly interested in Herophilos’s theory of the circulation of the blood.” Amara pauses. “May I?” She motions permission to take Pliny’s hand. She takes his wrist, feeling for the pulse, senses it quicken at the light touch of her fingers. “That is your blood’s rhythm, driven by your heart,” she says. “Or at least, that is what Herophilos believed.”

“Careful! Don’t let her bleed you!” one of the guests jokes.

Amara lets go of Pliny’s wrist, and they both laugh. The conversation moves on, she and Dido get up to perform another song. Pliny says nothing when she rejoins him on the couch. But even though he does not speak, she can sense his intense awareness of her.

She is not surprised that he chooses to leave early, but before he rises, he addresses her again. “Would your master spare you for a week? I should like to take you home.”

He makes his request so casually, no more than if he were asking to borrow a coat, that it takes her a moment to understand. “I’m certain he could spare me,” she says.

“Good.”

Across the room, she can see Dido staring at her. Amara’s eyes dart to Pliny and then back to Dido again. Explain to Felix. Dido nods.

There is a great deal of smirking between guests as she follows Pliny from the room, though none are quite bold enough to tease the admiral outright. Aurelius comes closest. “I hope you have a delightful night, my dear friend,” he says, with a pointed look at Amara. “I’m glad the dinner pleased you.”

Pliny thanks him serenely, choosing to ignore or, perhaps, oblivious to his hint. They walk through to the atrium, Amara following at a distance, joining his silent retinue of slaves. One of them has picked up her lyre. The porter helps her on with her cloak. Then she steps out into the moonlit street.

22

“I pursue my research in odd hours, that is at night—just in case any of you think I pack up work then!”

—Pliny the Elder, Natural History