His companion has his back to her, but she can hear the amusement in his voice. “Caecilius saw her when he dropped in this week. Quite pretty, he said, but perfectly ridiculous. So lovelorn she was practically quivering, gazing at the admiral with tragic dormouse eyes. And Pliny paid her no mind at all!”

The first man snorts with stifled laugher. “Well, you have to hand it to him. I’ll be quite happy if I can fuck a whore into a state of devotion at that age.”

“The old boy’s put a bit of weight on. Let’s hope she doesn’t give him a heart attack.”

The men’s mockery doesn’t hurt Amara, but her powerlessness does. Across the garden, standing silently in the colonnade, she realizes Secundus is also listening. His exact role in Pliny’s life is unclear to her, but she soon guessed that he is more than a steward—he is his master’s eyes and ears. She can see from his face, usually so inscrutable, that he is angry. The two men carry on chatting idly at the fountain, oblivious to the two slaves listening. Secundus looks at her. He has always known she was there. He smiles, inclining his head slightly toward the men. She knows then that whatever favor the pair came to seek from the admiral today will not be granted.

It is Secundus who tells her later that Pliny will dine alone with her that night.

“Do you think he would like me to sing for him?” she asks.

“I think he enjoys your reading voice most,” Secundus replies, tactfully. “He has told me how helpful you have been, reading to him for hours, long into the night without any complaint.”

“It has only been a pleasure for me.”

The look Secundus gives her has more than a little pity in it. Her sense of foreboding grows.

Pliny is in a good mood at dinner, more than usually solicitous about what she has been reading, complimenting her, even, at one point, kissing her hand, the only sign of physical affection he has ever shown her outside his bedroom.

He is saying goodbye to me, she thinks. She watches Pliny’s mouth move as he talks. There is no cruelty in his face. The merry splash of the fountain mingles with his well-considered words, the air is scented with jasmine. She cannot imagine going back to Felix, back to the brothel with all its darkness, its daily violence. It will kill her.

“I shall miss you,” Pliny says at last, when one of the slaves brings out a large bowl of fruit. He takes an apple. “It has been a pleasure to have you here.”