"I do feel," Caenis observed in an undertone to Anicius, "that a man who owes his position to the adoration of the army was unwise to take the field unless he could live up to the gallantry the army expects!"
"Oh yes; he's a bully—but also a complete coward." Anicius poured wine for her from the flagon he had captured. He had not bothered to grab the water jug, so they tilted their cups together, and like hardened drinkers took it neat. They drank in silence, cynically observing the rest with hooded eyes.
By now the older men were lathering themselves into fine indignation over the Emperor's Ovation, a kind of secondary Triumph that he had been awarded for the British affair. After showing himself in Germany, Caligula had assembled a huge invasion force and fleet, announcing his intention of seizing the island that Julius Caesar had failed to keep. He accepted homage from a British princeling who had been exiled for arguing with his Celtic papa, and then announced Britain's surrender without even setting foot in the place.
Returning home, the Emperor abused the Senate roundly for omitting to vote him a full Triumph. It was a vicious circle; his express orders had been that they must not.
"Antonia Caenis, I'll tell you an amusing story about Britain," muttered Anicius. "In a minute."
A praetor had smoothed things over by suggesting that special Games be held to celebrate the Emperor's German campaign. This was all the more creditable to the praetor since as holder of that office he would be expected to help pay for the Games himself. He had no money, Caenis knew; it was Vespasian. He then gratified the Emperor by thanking him before the full Senate for his graciousness, simply because Caligula had invited him to dine at the Palace.
Caenis heard this praetor's name being scoffed at without a pang. "Poor lad!" she commented drily. "Dinner is going to test him a bit. He tends to nod off; Olympian Jove won't like it if he dozes over the ambrosia."
Everyone laughed.
Veronica, who was not a sentimentalist, remarked briskly, "I daresay if his eyes start to droop, his wife will give him a kick!" And without looking again at Caenis, she signaled to her waitresses to start clearing the tables and let in the Spanish dancing girls.
Caenis hated Spanish dancers. She groaned in disgust. "Oh, Juno! Not the tambourines and castanets!"
It was a cliché to have girls from Gades to entertain your dinner guests. That never prevented their popularity, sweeping the floor with their handsome hair, while furiously clicking and clattering.
She knew what would happen next. Veronica was already bestowing her charm on the man at her side; he was faintly pink, thrilled at being singled out, but forgetting the premium he would have to pay. Soon there would be other pairings and disappearings, with or without the dancers whose moral reputation ranked only slightly above Syrian flute girls (who at least could play). Then Caenis would be left here to preside over noncombatants, taking charge in Veronica's place while tiresome men tirelessly talked.
For once a surge of resentment swept her. "Lucius Anicius, your funny story would be kind."
Assenting suavely, he stabbed his knife into a peach. "They are trying to keep this dark. Apparently the conquest of Britain involved much more than giving houseroom to some British king's delinquent boy. God-on-earth conquered the Ocean."
Caenis gazed at him over the rim of her cup. "I heard God-on-earth built a lighthouse," she offered.
"True." Anicius was leering at the dancing girls. "Very public-spirited in that wild part of the world—No; I think you'll like this: I'm told he paraded all his soldiers on the beach, and commanded them to gather seashells in their helmets and tunic skirts. He's brought it all back to the Capitol in chests, and presented it to the Senate as a tribute of the sea."
Caenis flashed her teeth against the cup. "Cowries and cuttlefish, winkles and whelks? Imagine the smell! Oh yes," she agreed slowly. "Oh, I like that very much."
"Good!" responded Anicius, returning his attention lazily to her. He was the sort of man who spent a great deal of time wrestling and playing handball at the baths; he was built like a barrack wall. "This must be the first time I've seduced a woman by talking politics."
Caenis, who had enjoyed dressing for this evening more than she had done for a long time, tidied the folds of her gown with a well-manicured fingernail; for a moment she dipped her ochered eyes—then raised them and held his look. "Is that what you are doing?"
"Am I not?"
"Oh yes, I think so," she murmured, though he was not her type at all. "Lord, why me?" she asked.
She had wondered if he had instructions from Veronica, though if so his next reply was far too blunt. He laughed. "Lady, why not?"
She laid her hand formally upon his iron fist as he helped her rise and led her from the room.
* * *
She had chosen well. She knew a disaster would end her confidence for good, but there was no danger of that. Anicius used his women with a vigor that bordered on force; Caenis, in wild mood, took and was taken with a spirit that matched his. It was over very quickly; she was glad of that.
She conducted herself irreproachably. She avoided disgrace; she was free. No stranger would realize how detached she wanted to remain. Only when she thought herself awake alone afterward did she creep against a wall and give way to the relief of deep, convulsing, almost silent sobs.
After she was still Lucius Anicius moved. It hardly mattered. She had no desire to see the man again; nor would he expect to seek her out. "Too much wine?" He was curt, but not rude.
In a moment Caenis said quietly, "No. Sorry."
"Feeling all right?"
"Wonderful, lord!"
"What is the lady thinking then?"
Drained of all feeling, Caenis spoke candidly, with her head against the wall. "That the saddest part of this stupid reign must be a decent man reduced to flattering a political grotesque." The name of the praetor Vespasianus remained unsaid.
She heard Anicius move again. Not without instinct, he asked wryly, "Do I take it we have just crossed your Rubicon?" Then, when she did not answer, he proved she had chosen someone more generous than she had thought, he whistled softly. "Why me?"
Allowing her to fling it back to him—"Why not?"
* * *
After four mad years the Emperor Gaius, nicknamed Caligula, was to die during the Augustan Games in the Portico of the Danaids on the Palatine. The plot was so open, conspirators called out and wished each other luck as they took their seats. A mime was produced, which involved the death of a king and his daughter, with the use of much stage blood. Retiring for lunch, the Emperor declined to follow his uncle Claudius down the alley lined with imperial slaves, but paused to greet a group of young boys practicing to sing for him later, then took a shortcut down one of the covered passages. There Cassius Chaerea, the Guards commander, came to ask for the day's password, and was given the usual obscene answer. Chaerea drew his sword and stabbed Caligula, after which the group he had organized rushed in to finish off their victim before his special cohort of German bodyguards, shut out from the corridor, could burst in to save him. The conspirators then fled through the nearby House of Livia.
Chaos broke out. The German bodyguards ran amok and killed three senators. A group of Praetorian Guards invaded the imperial quarters, discovered Caesonia, the Emperor's wife, murdered her, and dashed out the brains of Drusilla, her infant child. The Senate gathered on the Capitol, which was defensible, having had the forethought to take with them the State and Military Treasuries so they could pay their way out of trouble. The mob milled about in the Forum below, where they were harangued by men from noble families who wanted to claim they had not been involved in the plot.