Amara remains braced in the same position, expecting that perhaps he wanted to be the one doing the seducing, until she realizes, as his hand grows heavier and his breathing deeper, that he is asleep.

She gently lifts his arm, moving his hand from her body and placing it on the bed, then shuffles away slightly, not wanting to roll into him later by mistake. Amara closes her eyes. She thinks this is going to be a very pleasant week.

23

“No other part of the body supplies more evidence of the state of mind. This is the same with all animals, but especially with man; that is, the eyes show signs of self-restraint, mercy, pity, hatred, love, sorrow, joy; in fact, the eyes are the windows of the soul.”

—Pliny the Elder, Natural History

Pliny is stroking his fingers through her hair. The sensation wakes her. She opens her eyes to see him staring down at her. Daylight is less forgiving of his age. There is gray hair on his bare chest and an oddly intent expression on his face. She wonders how long he has been watching her.

“I’m so glad you don’t dye your hair like so many silly women,” he says, by way of greeting. “Yours is such a lovely natural shade. Soft like a squirrel.” He leans over and gives her a dry kiss on the nose.

He is such a bewildering mixture of affectionate and creepy, Amara isn’t sure what to say. “Thank you,” she manages, hoping he will stop looming over her soon, so she can sit upright and move away.

He leans down again, this time kissing her on the forehead. Then he sits up, swinging his legs over his side of the bed.

“I need to write this morning,” he says. “But I should like you to read to me in the afternoon. In the meantime, take a scroll or two and enjoy the gardens. Secundus will bring you anything you might need; he knows you are staying for the week.” Pliny has been dressing himself as he talks—again she is surprised by the absence of slaves in his private room—but when he sees her pick up the transparent silk robe, he stops. “You’re not wearing that, are you?”

“I don’t have anything else,” she replies, amazed such a clever man is capable of being so obtuse.

“I suppose not.” He looks round absently, as if expecting sensible women’s clothes to sprout from one of the travel cases. “It will have to do for now. Maybe . . .” He frowns, watching her. “Maybe fold it a few more times?”