Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

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?”

Amara doesn’t trust herself to reply. When she is dressed, he fusses round her while she chooses a scroll or rather accepts the bundle he gives her, then he escorts her to the door, seemingly now anxious for her to leave so he can work. She steps out onto the interior balcony, the glorious sweep of the gardens below. “Just take the stairs,” he says with a vague gesture before disappearing back into his study.

She walks slowly down into the garden with a sense of total enchantment. It is the cool of early morning but already the sky is blue, a promise of the blazing day ahead. The scent of flowers she cannot name is sweet in the air, and the fountain sparkles as it falls, the gentle rhythm of its splash like light footsteps. The balcony of the upper floor forms part of the shaded colonnade, and there are a number of benches, already strewn with cushions for whoever might wish to rest. Amara stands and stares, unable to believe what she sees. All this is hers for the day. She has nothing else to do than sit and read and look at this beautiful garden.

“Would you like some refreshment, mistress?”

A man, who may or may not be the Secundus Pliny mentioned, is standing a polite distance away.

Amara is embarrassed by the formality of his address. She clutches the scrolls to her chest, hoping to cover the thin fabric. “That would be very kind, thank you.”

The man leaves, and she sits down on one of the benches, facing the fountain. It’s a little chilly in the shade. She inspects the scrolls Pliny has given her. Both are Greek. Homer, she is familiar with, even though her family only owned a copy of two sections of The Odyssey , but she has never seen Apollonius’s The Argonautica . She unravels the top carefully and starts to read, when the same man comes back with a tray and a blanket.

“I thought you might be cold,” he says.

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you,” Amara replies, wrapping the throw round her shoulders. “Are you Secundus?”

“Yes.”

“I am Amara. It is very nice to meet you.”

His mouth twitches slightly in amusement, but he remains studiously polite. “Nice to meet you too, Mistress Amara.”

“Thank you,” she says again, as he sets down his tray on a small table beside the bench. “Do you know what music the admiral likes? I am hoping to play for him later; he has been so kind to me. I should very much like to sing something he might enjoy?”

“I am certain the admiral would be delighted to hear whatever you might wish to sing,” Secundus says, gravely. “Given he has been pleased to invite you here as his guest.” He bows and leaves her.

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 tranquillity.

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.

“You have a musical voice,” Pliny says. “Not too cloying. I can see why your father found you so useful. I find many women’s voices hard to listen to for long periods, but yours has just the right quality.”

“Will you let me sing for you?” she asks.

“I’m not sure I’m really a man to be serenaded with Sappho,” he says, sounding amused rather than unkind.

“I wasn’t going to,” she replies. “I used to sing a version of Nausicaa’s meeting with Odysseus for my parents. I thought you might find it pleasant.”

“By all means then,” he says, though his tone suggests he has agreed more through politeness than eagerness.

Amara and Pliny have dinner in the garden. With only the two of them present, there is no question of the dining room. He asks her about The Argonautica , about her views of Apollonius’s depiction of the love between Jason and Medea. She is grateful to have read enough to discuss it. After they have eaten, one of the slaves brings her the lyre, and she plays for him, a tune that takes her back to her childhood and the affectionate gaze of her parents.

She looks at him expectantly when she finishes, hoping he has enjoyed it. But the expression she sees on his face is one of immense sadness.

“Your parents did not serve you well, Amara,” he says at last. “You are a lovely girl. They should have ensured you had a dowry.”

“Please,” she says. “They are both dead. I cannot think badly of them.”