Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“I’m sorry…?” Amara is bewildered by the question.

“Your wine. You’ve barely touched it all night.”

Amara looks at her glass. It stands beside her companion’s which is equally full. “Ah,” she says. “Well, I find drinking too much is akin to falling asleep, and I prefer to be awake to whatever life offers.”

He stares at her. “Interesting,” he says. “We are of the same view.”

Having caught his attention, she is quick to press further. “Are you studying the medicinal quality of plants?”

Pliny’s mouth twitches, a dismissive look she does not like. “Are you going to tell me all the special properties they have for women?”

“I wasn’t talking about love potions,” Amara says, her cheeks flushing. “My father was a disciple of Herophilos.”

“ Herophilos ? Is he a favourite of yours? Perhaps you could set him to music.”

There is laughter from the guests, who have been listening to their conversation with amusement. Amara has endured so many insults, usually dressed as compliments, from the men at these dinners. She knows it is irrational, as well as foolish, for this one man to provoke her above any other, but her heart is racing, and she cannot stop herself from retaliating. “ When health is absent ,” she says, raising her voice and switching to Greek, “ wisdom cannot reveal itself, art cannot become manifest, strength cannot be exerted, wealth is useless and reason is powerless . I would not set Herophilus to music, sir , but I would live my life by his wisdom.”

“I have offended you.” There is surprise, not anger on Pliny’s face. He looks at her, almost as if she were a dog that had started talking. “Forgive me. There is no reason why you should not have read Herophilos. What did your father teach you about him?”

His question snuffs out the flame of Amara’s anger. She feels afraid of having exposed herself. “I should not have presumed…” she murmurs.

“Of course you should have presumed! Why should you let me be pompous?” Pliny sounds irritated. “Enough with the false modesty. Just answer my question.”

“My father, Timaios, was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “He had no son, and he wanted a companion to read to him. Which I did.” Pliny is silent, so she continues. “He was particularly interested in Herophilos’s theory of the circulation of the blood.” Amara pauses. “May I?” She motions permission to take Pliny’s hand. She takes his wrist, feeling for the pulse, senses it quicken at the light touch of her fingers. “That is your blood’s rhythm, driven by your heart,” she says. “Or at least, that is what Herophilos believed.”

“Careful! Don’t let her bleed you!” one of the guests jokes.

Amara lets go of Pliny’s wrist, and they both laugh. The conversation moves on, she and Dido get up to perform another song. Pliny says nothing when she rejoins him on the couch. But even though he does not speak, she can sense his intense awareness of her.

She is not surprised that he chooses to leave early, but before he rises, he addresses her again. “Would your master spare you for a week? I should like to take you home.”

He makes his request so casually, no more than if he were asking to borrow a coat, that it takes her a moment to understand. “I’m certain he could spare me,” she says.

“Good.”

Across the room, she can see Dido staring at her. Amara’s eyes dart to Pliny and then back to Dido again. Explain to Felix . Dido nods.

There is a great deal of smirking between guests as she follows Pliny from the room, though none are quite bold enough to tease the admiral outright. Aurelius comes closest. “I hope you have a delightful night, my dear friend,” he says, with a pointed look at Amara. “I’m glad the dinner pleased you.”

Pliny thanks him serenely, choosing to ignore or, perhaps, oblivious to his hint. They walk through to the atrium, Amara following at a distance, joining his silent retinue of slaves. One of them has picked up her lyre. The porter helps her on with her cloak. Then she steps out into the moonlit street.

The house Pliny takes her to is near the Forum, only a short walk from the brothel, but stepping over its threshold is like entering another world. A delicate fountain of a faun greets them as they enter the atrium, starlight reflected on its waters. The air is heavy with the smell of jasmine.

“My friends were kind enough to let me have the run of the house while they are in Rome,” Pliny says, taking a lamp from a slave and leading her across the darkened hall. “It’s this way.” They climb the stairs, walking along an interior balcony, until he pushes open a door. The smell of jasmine is particularly intense here, and she can hear the splash of another fountain. Amara guesses the room must overlook the garden.

“Here we are.” He gestures for her to enter. She had expected him to be attended by slaves so is a little nervous to step into the room alone. The walls are painted with maritime scenes, tiny boats in picturesque battles, plumes of smoke rising from the defeated enemy fleet. She wonders if Pliny visits regularly, if this room was painted specially for him. Travelling cases overflowing with scrolls and wax tablets trail across the floor. Another pile sits on the large bed. Pliny lifts them off carefully.

“If you could get undressed,” he says, turning to fuss over his tablets while she does so.

There’s no point doing a seductive striptease if he’s not even watching. She removes the cloak, carefully folds up the silk dress and undoes her hair. Then she arranges it artfully over one shoulder and perches at the end of the bed.

Pliny is a while flipping through his notes but eventually turns back to her, a wax booklet and stylus in hand. They look at each other. “Could I get a better view?” he says.

Amara is nonplussed. Is her pose not sexy enough? What is it he wants to see? She arches her back, pouting.

“No, no,” he says. “Not that. Just lie down or something, so I can take a better look. See more of you.”

She lies back on the bed, feeling more nervous by the minute. Pliny looks her over, scratching away at his tablets. He is taking notes , she realizes. The thought is so funny, she has to cough to hide the laugh that rises up her throat.

“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.”