He lowered his voice as they crossed the atrium.
He went first. That way Caenis would have her moment of warning, his companion a moment of grace, and Aglaus his moment of fun.
"Madam?"
He opened the door to its widest extent. Amid the quiet barley-and-buttermilk tones of her house blazed one bright nub of brilliant sapphire blue. Caenis sat upright in a chair opposite the door. She was holding her plain gold bangle between her two hands in her lap. She looked as if she had a headache. Her eyes were closed. She was completely still. Someone drew a scorching breath.
At an involuntary movement, light shivered among the delicate scrolls of embroidery at the neck of her vivid blue robe. To have supposed her anything other than fiercely alive was to misunderstand her completely. She seemed pale, but neat, alert, ready to be marvelously truculent.
"Madam, I'd like to introduce my friend."
She opened her eyes. She looked up. She scowled. Aglaus swallowed. The man behind him frowned.
Caenis assumed the restrained expression of a first-class secretary to whom an ill-timed request had just been made to give priority to an illegible draft many pages long. But before she could say anything, her freedman announced with a clarity that proved he had been practicing: "Antonia Caenis: Here is Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Conqueror of Britain and Hero of Judaea; Vespasianus Caesar Augustus—Consul, Chief Priest, father of his country, and Emperor of Rome!"
Her Sabine friend. She had expected him, of course.
FORTY-TWO
"Hello, Caenis."
Unsmiling, his dark gaze absorbed her.
"Hail Caesar!" Caenis retorted, trying not to let it sound like an insult. He received it quietly enough. After a year of Egyptian flummery, presumably he was used to it.
Caenis saw Aglaus nervously shift his weight.
"Don't worry," Vespasian reassured him, without moving. "The first thing she ever said to me was ‘Skip over the Styx!' " From the front he was completely bald. Still, his character would always come from that light in his eyes and the handsome muscles of his face. "As you see, I'm still here."
"And how long," murmured Aglaus, newly suave, "will your Caesarship be staying?"
His Caesarship pronounced ominously: "As long as it takes."
Aglaus went straight out and closed the door.
* * *
"Don't get up," he said as he paced farther in. "I'm sick of people bobbing about."
She did not get up. "What are you doing here?"
He was taking off his shoes. Slowly he went to a couch. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here."
"You live with me."
"I can't come."
"I've come to fetch you."
"I won't let you."
"Overruled. Privilege of my rank!"
"Not in my house."
"All right." Vespasian eased himself onto the couch, where he reclined on his elbow. "I've brought nothing to eat, since you'll be coming to dinner. Titus sent some Persian slippers; your freedman has those in case you decide to wear them tonight. When you come you'll find a great bale of Tyrian silk, some crystal from Ptolomais, and one or two decent books I found for you in Alexandria. Plus—if you want it—a ravenous appetite for taking you to bed."
Their eyes locked for an interesting moment.
"You don't want it," he observed, testing her. She did. He knew she did.
He could not waste time. The Praetorians would soon come crawling through the city nosing after their lost charge, before they became a laughingstock. He had stolen his last stroll as a private citizen. Emperors could never slope off by themselves.
"Now! Is this about Berenice? Want me to explain?"
Caenis was torn between relief, pride, and sheer nastiness. "No thanks; I am expertly briefed: At Caesarea Philippi after reducing Jotapata, Vespasian was entertained by King Agrippa—and his sister. High standards of entertainment at Caesarea Philippi! If you must tangle with a slut, dear, it may as well be one crusted with emeralds and decently crowned. They tell me she's forty but ravishing."
He actually laughed. It was a soft, engaging laugh, with her and not against her. "Oh she's a lovely girl!" he exclaimed laconically.
Caenis became furiously sarcastic: "And Titus admires her too? What a positive sense of family she has! . . . I'm sorry." She hated to quarrel.
"Fair enough." So did he.
"Oh, you're so understanding I could spit!"
Suddenly Caenis found she did not care about Berenice. Titus was supposed to be seriously in love with the woman; best leave it at that. There would be enough to do trying to ensure that that damned romantic Titus was not too badly hurt.
Of course, worrying about the Emperor's son was not for her.
She was squinting at Vespasian's feet. Everyone knew he had stopped an arrow at the siege of Jotapata. There had been so much blood and pain he had fainted; then the army panicked, until Titus galloped up distraught, thinking him dead. Now Vespasian raised one foot quietly so she could inspect the healed scar. She realized it was unlikely Queen Berenice had been able to conduct two separate conversations with him at the same time. He was a very private man.
He was staring at her. Caenis glared back. He was vividly tanned. He was covered with purple—gaudy folds of the stuff drooping almost to the floor—and so stiff with padded gold she could hardly take it in. Embroidered acanthus leaves writhed about his neck. Her familiar friend had become something abominable. Thank the gods he had left his wreath behind; she could not have stomached the sight of him ceremonially crowned.
Yet he looked utterly right. He was matter-of-fact in his new splendor, slightly rumpled after a long day, and ignoring the effect he must know all that color and bullion braid would make. This was the man for Rome. Rome looked to this man, and his gifted sons, for common sense and stability. Rome would not be disappointed: a quiet life with high taxes, business moving in the law courts, and elegant new civic buildings. Order in the provinces and fine wares in the marketplace. Oratory valued, but philosophy too dangerous: old-fashioned public service virtues. Music and the arts modestly encouraged. Plenty of work for schoolteachers, accountants, and engineers. Decent statues set up in safe clean streets to an amiable Emperor whose way of life would be notorious only for its simplicity.
None of the Caesars had ever kept a concubine. Yet after the antics of the Claudians, would anybody notice? Would anybody care?
They were silent together, as only friends can be. The longer he stayed with her the more difficult parting would be, yet Caenis felt calmed by his presence in a way she had not dared to expect. It was impossible to pretend to feel hostility. Between them lay too great a legacy of frankness in the past.
Vespasian was remembering that astrologer at the Theater of Balbus, who said her face could never be upon the coinage. On the obverse the old man, grinning with embarrassment; flip over—only some suitable religious scene: Mars perhaps, or Fortune. He needed a great coin issue; soon would have to decide its design.
Not Caenis; no. Thinking of all the prinked madams who did make it through the mint—Messalina with corrugated rolls of hair all across her great fat head, or starched Livia with her long nose and that wild squint, or worst, Agrippina—he was glad. Caenis would never belong in that mad company. Besides, no dye-cutter could catch her character. And he would not like to see her debased, reduced, diminished to some staring nag in an improbable coiffure: Caenis slipping through the filthy fingers of fishmongers and fornicators; Caenis dropped down drains at all the outposts of the Empire; Caenis cemented under the footings of every barracks and basilica.