“I am leaving today,” Amara says, and this time there is nothing artful to her sadness.

“That’s a shame!” he exclaims. “Will you be leaving Pompeii altogether?”

“No, I live in the town.” She can see Rufus is intrigued. She needs to press his interest past the tipping point. “I was interested to hear you enjoy the theater. Which plays do you like?”

His face lights up. “There’s nothing more truthful than a play, is there? I love them all, but do you know, I think comedies are braver somehow. All of life up there on the stage, and actors have the courage to say what one cannot say elsewhere.” He stops, looking a little embarrassed for gushing. “But you must know all this already, doing what you do. I must say, I rather envy you for being a performer.”

The thought that this wealthy young man, with the entire world at his feet, might envy a penniless slave who sings to lecherous punters at parties is so absurd Amara cannot, at first, think of a reply. But he is gazing at her earnestly without any idea how ridiculous he sounds. “That’s so sweet of you,” she says. “I particularly enjoy arranging the words to music, finding ways to tell the story.”

“What fun you must have,” Rufus says, disarming her with his infectious smile. “Do you get the chance to go to the theater much yourself?”

“No, sadly,” Amara says. “Though I should like to. It has been such happiness for me here, having time to read. But losing yourself in the story of a play is another pleasure entirely.”

“You must let me take you one night,” Rufus says. “That is, if you are really sure it wouldn’t be stepping on Pliny’s toes.”

For the first time since they began talking, Amara sees a degree of calculation in the way Rufus is looking at her. He still thinks Pliny had her, she realizes. “I used to live a very different life,” she says carefully. “I was a doctor’s daughter. The admiral is the first man to have treated me as if my past were still my present. At no time has he shown me anything other than a fatherly kindness.” It is a lie, and yet, as she says it, she knows there is also truth in it. None of the usual rules quite apply to her relationship with Pliny. Amara remembers last night, the humiliation of begging, his uncomprehending rejection and, for a moment, fears she might cry again.

Rufus mistakes her sudden emotion and rushes to sit beside her. “I’m sorry,” he says, clasping her hand. “What an oaf I am. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He gazes into her eyes. His own are hazel, wide now with concern. “What a tragic life you must have! And how insensitive I have been, asking you such things.”