Emperor

Lepidina came running up. She showed off a new necklace and a comb for her mother's hair, and both men made appreciative noises. 'So what do you think of Camulodunum, Brigonius?'

Brigonius peered up at the Temple's cold, beautiful lines. How could this be a holy place? His ancestors had lived close to the earth, and the divine had been an integral part of an ancient way of life. To them wood was alive, stone was dead. The stone town that was rising here was like a vast tomb.

He looked into Lepidina's excited, sparkling eyes, his feelings deep and confused, regretting that he couldn't share her joy. He merely said, 'It'll look good when it's finished.'

The lawyer turned away. Perhaps Karus detected his true mood.

Lepidina impulsively ruffled Brigonius's beard. 'If you're living in a Roman town you have to look like a Roman. I found a barber in the middle of the forum.'

Brigonius held back. 'Not my beard. You're not taking my beard.'

Lepidina pouted. 'Your hair, then. That mane could do with a good shearing. The barber is good; he knows the latest fashions.'

'How do you know that?'

Lepidina held up a coin, imprinted with a picture of the Emperor and his coiffed hair. 'How do you think? Come on.' She dragged Brigonius back towards the forum. Like a hound submitting to the feeble pull of a puppy, Brigonius followed.

VII

A day after the arrival of Hadrian's caravan at Camulodunum, Severa and her tame architect were to present their case for a stone wall across the northern boundary of the province. It would be in the course of a grand meal to be hosted by one of Camulodunum's wealthier citizens, Marcus Claudius Verecundus. It took Severa only days to win Verecundus's confidence and set this up. 'She really is a charmer, and so good at getting her foot in the door,' Karus said admiringly. 'Isn't she marvellous?'

Brigonius had no idea what to expect of this occasion. He had met plenty of Romans, but in his line of work, selling his cut stone, he dealt only with soldiers. Hadrian ruled the world, and was worshipped as a god by millions of people; surely nothing about dealing with such a being was going to be normal.

On the day of the meal Brigonius arrived early at Verecundus's home. Planted square in the centre of the town, it was a sprawling complex of buildings. Brigonius wandered, somewhat bemused, awkward in his clean tunic. Other guests circulated, citizens all, mostly dressed in the Roman style. Brigonius exchanged wary nods, but he felt he was making few friends.

The heart of the house was an atrium, an open area flagged by stone but set with beds of flowers. There were benches to sit on, statues and wall carvings to admire, and even a small fountain to gawp at. Brigonius, always fascinated by stonework, architecture and engineering, was impressed to learn that the fountain ran purely from the pressure of the water supplied by the town's public system.

The atrium was enclosed on three sides by a colonnade of slim pillars, and beyond that were the main buildings. Inside, the space was divided up in the usual Roman way into square rooms with different purposes, from reception rooms set out with low couches and tables, offices crammed with scrolls and tablets, and a grand kitchen with a huge hearth over which pots and kettles were suspended on chains. There was even a small bath house, with a boiler under the heated floor.

Slaves stood in every corner, bearing trays of food and drink. All very young, with their hair dyed blond and piled up on their heads, the barefoot slaves shivered in their skimpy clothing.

Given Karus's regular complaints about how expensive land now was in the town, Brigonius deduced that Verecundus's spread was a sign of old wealth; his ancestors must have got here first. And indeed it turned out that Verecundus's grandfather had been a soldier who had come over to Britain in the first wave of Claudius's invasion. On retirement after twenty-five years' service Verecundus's ancestor had chosen to settle here, in a colony of veterans planted as a kind of military reserve in unstable territory. But though Verecundus's house was grand in Brigonius's eyes, it wasn't terribly ostentatious, Karus told him. Perhaps something of Verecundus's austere military ancestry lingered in his blood.

Brigonius was relieved to find the two rooms Severa's party had been allocated. Severa and her daughter were sharing one room, while the other was shared by Brigonius, Karus and Severa's architect, Xander. But there was no space for Brigonius. Xander, a small, fat, fussy Greek, was assembling an elaborate architectural model with the help of a hapless slave who seemed able to do nothing right, and the floor was covered by green-painted plaster hills, blue-ribbon rivers, and toy-like forts and turrets. When Brigonius nearly wiped out a fortress by stepping on it, Xander chased him out in a flurry of Greek.

So Brigonius made his way to the room shared by Severa and her daughter. Furnished with two couches and a variety of low tables and cupboards, the room was strewn with clothes. Severa wasn't there-but Lepidina sat with her back to the door, facing a mirror. Brigonius, holding his breath, stood and watched.

Lepidina had opened her tunic and pushed it back so her shoulders were bare, and her hair was roughly tied up. She was applying cream to her face, scooping it up from a tin jar with her fingers and smoothing it onto her cheeks. With her clothing disarrayed, and her loose-limbed movements as she quietly massaged her flesh, she had an air of abandonment.

Of course she knew he was there. 'You may as well come in, Brigonius, and have a proper look.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.' She ducked so she could see him in her mirror, and smiled. 'I'm getting myself ready to be seen, after all.' She patted a couch beside her dressing table, and he sat down. 'I suppose all this seems terribly exotic to a rough-hewn barbarian like you. Decadent!'

He glanced over her grooming kit, touching bronze tweezers, nail cleaners and nail files, a toothpick, an ear scoop. This was a kit for travelling; the tools had holes so they could be looped onto a carrying ring. There was a range of pots, but not terribly many: tins of white cream, rouge, powders black as coal, and glass bottles of scent. 'This isn't so much,' he said. 'I've met hairy-arsed Roman soldiers with more stuff.'

'This travel kit was my great-grandmother's, Agrippina's. It is very well made and it still works perfectly well.'

Again she struck him as deeply sensible, under her flighty surface. It only added to her appeal for him.

'Here.' She dug out a little of the white cream and raised her fingers to his face to rub the cream into his cheek. 'How does that feel?'

'It's pleasant.' So it was. The cream was smooth, and cold at first, but soon warmed on his skin, and as she rubbed it in further he felt a powdery, gritty texture. 'What's it made of?'

She shrugged. 'Animal fat, I think. Starch. And some complicated compound of tin.'

'Tin? I thought Roman ladies used lead on their faces.'

'Oh, that's very old-fashioned. Lead's poisonous-didn't you know?'

She continued to rub cream into his cheek, and he relished the warmth of her touch, the close sweetness of her breath on his face. But he pulled back. 'Perhaps that's enough.'

'Oh, but this is just the start. This is a foundation cream which will make my skin glow like a marble statue. Then I'll apply rouge and mascara-this is burned rose petals, see?-to highlight my cheeks and eyes. I will whiten my teeth with powdered pumice, and sprinkle my neck with perfume-this one is my favourite, myrrh mixed with spices.'

He took her hand in his, silencing her. The bones of her fingers felt fragile, like a baby bird's, and her skin was pale against his. Compared to his earthy darkness she was like a ghost, he thought.