“May I?” he asks, putting down the tablets, gesturing he would like to touch her. He runs his hands over her whole body, frowning with concentration, tutting slightly to himself when he gets to the bruise on her arm. She flinches when he touches her between her legs, not sure what to expect, but he doesn’t linger any longer than he did on her elbow or her chin. “I’m glad to see you don’t remove all the hair,” he says, approvingly. “Disgusting habit.” He pats her calf. “Though that’s all nice and smooth, as it should be. Thank you,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “You can sit up now.”

Amara does as he asks, not sitting too close to him. She is not sure that even Victoria is going to believe her when she recounts this night.

“I’ve talked to a number of courtesans for my research,” he says, dignifying her with a more illustrious title than they both know she deserves. “I would be interested to know about your herbal knowledge. I wasn’t, in fact, scoffing about love potions earlier.”

“What would you like to know,” she says.

He is poised with his tablets. “Do you do anything to prevent pregnancy?”

“I insert a sponge. Soaked with honey when I can afford it. I use it as a barrier. My father let me read all of Herophilos, including his book on midwifery. He thought it would be useful to me when I married.”

Pliny nods. “Very sensible. So you don’t use any charms?”

“No, though some of the others at my establishment do. Another washes herself out with wine and vinegar. The companion I sang with this evening also uses a sponge, like me.”

He scratches away on the wax. “How did you become a . . . courtesan?”

“Which part of the story do you want?”

“Well,” he says, frowning. “All of it. You started out reading Herophilos to your father in Attica, and now, here you are in Pompeii. I should like to hear everything.”

He is asking for nothing other than her entire life laid bare. Amara isn’t sure whether sex might have been easier. “My father was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “I was his only child. He died when I was fifteen. A disease he caught from one of his patients. My mother tried to support us for a number of years, and when this was no longer possible, she sold me as a house slave to one of my father’s former patrons.”

“Wait a moment.” Pliny holds up his hand. “This makes no sense at all. Why did your mother not simply marry you off as quickly as possible? They must have been expecting you would marry soon anyway, at that age. You were an only child, what about the dowry?”