She was a middle-aged woman with lucid eyes set in a calm expression. It was deceptive; she was trained to appear tranquil in public. Not tall, not beautiful, she moved with self-contained assurance though her rig was far from ornate: a green-grape gown and a bangle she had owned for years. Her hair, still dark but with fine silver wings above the ears, was rolled simply for an afternoon at home, then speared in place with a couple of wooden combs. A whisk of some clear, pleasant perfume enlivened the room as she entered. Behind her shoulder the steward ogled anxiously.
She had recovered from her illness but seemed quieter than ever before. After the first few seconds Vespasian really did not register that she was older, and heavier, and perhaps her spirit was more tired. She was herself. For him, nothing about her that mattered would ever change. His breathing quickened; his brows knit.
She had obviously guessed who it must be. For old times' sake he rather hoped she would exclaim, "Skip over the Styx; you're not allowed in here!" But age and polite manners overtake everyone.
"Hello, Caenis!"
"Good afternoon, Consul." Caenis insulted him with the title she must know had expired. "Please don't get up."
She could probably tell it had not until that moment struck him that he ought to rise. She was a freedwoman, one of some standing and in her own house; her house, to which she had stubbornly declined to invite him. Her voice sounded steady. It was only in the set of her mouth that an old acquaintance could identify irritation and distaste.
"Aglaus, you should have recognized this gentleman; his statue is in the Forum of Augustus—though perhaps when you're scuttling to and fro you never glance above their noble marble feet. This one is Flavius Vespasianus—the Hero of Britain."
The Hero of Britain twitched his living feet and decided that everything was going to be a great deal more difficult than he had hoped.
There were fairly decent women, Vespasian knew since they had already made the situation plain to him, who would readily tolerate a man of forty-six if his statue stood in the Forum of Augustus and he was entitled to wear a triumphal wreath at public festivals. They would expect him to give them money (he had learned this too from experience) and he believed it was unlikely that any of them would want to stay friends—if that was the correct designation for such types—for as long as twenty years.
It never once occurred to him that Antonia Caenis might no longer be his friend.
Nor after twenty years was he surprised to find her angry; she had been angry all her life—Narcissus had told him that. Resting his chin on one hand, watching her while she briskly dismissed her servant, he noticed changes—particularly in the assured way she moved, here in her home, and the low tenor of her voice as she spoke familiarly to the steward. He noticed too, with an internal burn of excitement, what had not changed about this woman: that her scowl made him smile; that her hard edge made him soft; that merely to sit in her presence for a few moments had brought him peace, and a sense of wellbeing he had not known for years.
That was when he knew he still thought, What an interesting girl!
THIRTY
Caenis had been furious when they told her he was here.
After her nap she was as usual good-tempered, joking with Chloe as the girl massaged her throat: "Rub the oil well in, girl; if the neck's half-decent I may get away with an antique face—strong cheese: intriguingly mature!"
Then Aglaus appeared, looking oddly smug. "Madam, someone came to see you. I don't know his name." She had told him before; he would make a poor secretary.
"A man," Chloe informed her. "He says, a friend!"
People liked Caenis, but she had always limited her friends. Her standards were too high, her patience and her temper both too short. She scoffed, "A brave man, then!"
When she had asked what this brave friend of hers was doing, they said he appeared to be asleep. So then she knew. She tried to stop herself from wondering what he must want.
Now Vespasian was fixing her with that long grim stare of his; Caenis ignored it, finding herself a chair.
Aglaus did his best. "The Hero of Britain! Yes, madam! Another time I'll demand a boot inspection on the step so I can match the feet. . . . Will you want refreshments?"
"Later perhaps."
"Shall I send your woman?"
"No need."
As soon as they were alone she began to settle down.
His face had once been older than his years, so he had grown into his looks. The frown had stayed; the deep wrinkles on the forehead; the steadiness of his eyes when he looked at her.
Caenis felt fragile as a lovelorn girl. To find him here, in her house, plunged her into fluttering formality. "Consul! My word, what an honor. What can we do for you?"
Vespasian hated her when she was arch. "Do you mind?" he felt obliged to inquire. "Should I have made an appointment? Do you mind?"
Without thinking she replied sourly, "Apparently not!"
They were talking in odd jerks. He seemed very quiet. He looked as if he had forgotten how to smile. She felt awkward. A different kind of woman would retreat behind her embroidery, but Caenis had never been one for handicrafts; as a slave she had had no time, and as a freedwoman in the early days no money for the silk.
Despite all he had become, Vespasian was at a loss in this situation. She watched him run his hand over his hair—what was left of it—and though he was far from vain, she could see he wished at this moment that he had not lost quite so much. It was a strangely unsettling gesture. "I still have your money," he reminded her, for something to say. "Need it?"
He had been here no time at all before managing to arouse her indignation: "That's for my old age, Titus—I don't, thanks; not yet!"
The fact that she had automatically called him by his personal name disturbed them both, yet he was laughing a little when he replied, "No. You look glowing."
"The nap, dear!" Caenis snapped. They were already recovering their way of speaking to each other. "And a sensible diet. Lots of fruit. In fact, almost too much to get through—"
"I'm sorry. Still repaying my debts . . . You can always hurl it after me when you send me out through your door with your foot in the small of my back." He was testing her out. Caenis said nothing. "Friends with me?" he cajoled her softly.
They were absolute strangers, Caenis thought bleakly; yet for the sake of the past she nodded, staring into her lap.
Vespasian stood up. It seemed premature; Caenis experienced a thread of disappointment. Still, ex-consuls were much in demand when they visited Rome from the country.
They knew they had failed to make real contact. They both realized this visit had been an error on his part. No point prolonging it.
"Thank you for seeing me."
"My pleasure, lord."
Not until she had risen too and was walking across the room to escort him to the door in her old way, did Vespasian diffidently come to the point: "There's music this afternoon in the theater. I've found out about it. It's a water organ—some newfangled machine Nero's discovered. Might be interesting . . . Were you intending to go?"
I don't want to! Caenis thought.
I don't blame you! answered Vespasian with his eyes. "Afterward," he stated aloud, when she did not reply, "I am invited to dinner at my cousin's house—bringing the guest of my choice."
Caenis guessed that his family was worried about him. A widower, especially one in charge of two young boys, was easy game for well-meaning ladies who wanted to flap. He must be hating it. In fact, he seemed so subdued, she was tempted to worry about his welfare herself. By now they were standing so near to one another that he was able to lift her hand in his, lightly by the fingers as if he were afraid he might offend her. With an effort he asked, "Will I be stepping on anybody's toes if I ask you to go with me?"