When he’s safely out of sight, Amara eagerly inspects the tray. It contains a piece of soft crumbling bread with honey spread on top, a glass of water and a plate of fruit—apricots and damsons. She tries not to eat it all too fast or too greedily then gets up to dip her fingers in the fountain. She is certain Pliny would not like honey or damson stains on his parchment. Then she settles back to the cushions with a sigh and begins The Argonautica.

It is a morning unlike any other in Amara’s life. Even at her father’s house she never knew such leisure and luxury. Secundus appears with another light tray of food—cheese, olives and more bread, a small glass of sweet wine—but otherwise, she is left completely undisturbed. She reads, she strolls round the garden inspecting the flowers, admiring the jasmine that she knows will smell even sweeter in the evening. She looks at the paintings around the colonnade—exquisite garden scenes, wild birds in flight, a dove resting at a fountain that mirrors the real one which splashes gently through the day. She knows she is near the hustle of the street, but very little of its noise disturbs her tranquility.

By late afternoon, the sun’s heat has warmed every corner of the garden, and she has discarded the blanket Secundus brought her. She is beginning to feel a little anxious that Pliny has forgotten her, when he arrives, followed by a slave carrying a trunk. “How have you enjoyed the gardens?” he asks, joining her in the shaded colonnade.

“They are wonderful,” she says. “I’ve never known such happiness.”

He nods, looking pleased. “If you would read a little to me now,” he says; “I will be able to tell if I find your voice easy to listen to or not.” The slave hands her a scroll. “I brought Herophilos’s On Pulses; I need to study him in any case, and it helps if you are familiar with the text.”

The scroll in Amara’s hands is a thousand times finer than the one from her father’s house, but she feels a flood of emotion unrolling it. “Is there a section you would prefer?” she asks.

“Start from the beginning,” Pliny says wryly. “I generally find that helps.”

Amara begins to read. The text is more complete than the one her father owned, but the phrases and cadences are still familiar. It is like recounting a prayer, an incantation to all she used to hold dear. She has been reading for some minutes, with Pliny scribbling notes, when he stops her. “Go back a little,” he says. “Just a couple of lines.” She obliges, and he nods, satisfied. She continues, reading solidly for several hours, helped by the odd glass of water brought by the ever diligent Secundus. Eventually, they break for dinner.