Caenis was so ill, for so long, that she reached a point of not even understanding who or where she was. Aglaus must have coped. She never really knew. Doctors came, though not often; Aglaus told her afterward that despite any delirium, at the first sniff of poppyseed and cabbage water she had managed to be magnificently rude. Even when she started to recover she could barely find the energy to lie in bed, hoping there would be nothing to decide or do.
Eventually she passed into a stage of being bored yet unable to concentrate, so once again she could only drowse, while occasional tears whimpered down the line of her cheekbone and chin. Even her flute girl was more than she could bear; after a few minutes of the softest music her head hurt. People sent fruit, which she did not eat. People came; she begged not to have to see them because she realized she was too miserable to cope—then when she knew they had gone, she became desolate with loneliness.
Every night, when the delirium returned, there was the dream: young Titus falling to the floor at her feet while she begged him not to die. That dream at least grew so familiar, it seemed almost comforting.
* * *
At last the day arrived when she woke and knew she was much better than the day before.
"You have a visitor," Chloe, her maid, offered, at which for the first time Caenis looked keen to know who.
Then a familiar scathing voice burbled, "Don't worry, it's only me! And don't try to turn me out." It was Veronica. To see her was glorious. "Juno, Caenis; look at you! The rumor's true then, that you had pneumonia?"
"That rumor's not true; I have not had pneumonia, I've still got it."
Veronica dismissed the maid herself. At first she sat beside the bed, so wonderfully sane, with that well-groomed inquisitive face. It was a tall bed, so she soon gave up the wicker chair, which made her crane her slender neck; instead she perched up on the edge of the coverlet, with one slim foot on the step at the side.
Caenis drifted back to the real shore of the world. Her room, which had for so long been a hall of leaping ghosts, assumed its familiar shape: smaller, and even on a wintry afternoon full of light. Once again it became her special place—the great screw-down clothespress in one corner smoothing her own tunics and cloaks, the long Egyptian chest, the wicker chair, her dressing table, which was set with her jumble of knickknack boxes, half-empty cream pots, pin trays, combs, and perfume jars. Though she had lived among them for many days and nights, she greeted her own things now like a traveler returning from a long journey: her silver scarfcase, her sandalwood trinket drawers, her pottery lamps, that ancient rug in warm stripes of cinnabar red and umber, which clashed with the cushions and the crimson counterpane but was so cozy and comforting under her feet while she dressed that she never managed to change it for a newer, harsher one. . . .
"I have brought you some nice barley broth, Caenis; I left it with your cook. Don't for one moment imagine I made it myself, though I did give it a poke with a spoon so my woman would think I know what kitchens are about."
Veronica had wonderful taste in clothes. She had come in a purple so deep-dyed it was certainly illegal; her presence filled the room with vibrant color even before she began to speak in that familiar racy style. They looked at one another, and were at once as they had always been, two women who spoke one language, two women who shared a conspiracy against life.
Veronica said softly, "Love, I met your Sabine friend. He was in the Saepta Julia of all places. I gathered there had been an amount of feeble family debate, and the upshot was they felt a polite Flavian ambassador should call on you. Well; I soon stopped that."
Caenis managed to smile.
"Your old friend the Hero . . ." Veronica went on. She stopped. She was usually so candid, her obvious reluctance felt odd. "Vespasian apologizes. He has had a bereavement—"
"Oh—not the boy?" Caenis could hardly bear to ask.
Veronica patted her hand. "No. No; not the boy. I saw the boy too. A heartbreaker if ever I met one! He has been dangerously poorly—but will live, though he's a disgusting saffron color at the moment."
"He seemed a tough little shoot. Is he yellow? I was terrified," Caenis worried, "that his liver might be damaged."
"Yes. His father was fretting, but their doctor says he will recover. He looks strong. You will have to brace yourself: I found them buying an antique Greek vase painted with a whole ocean, including a hideous octopus—just your type of thing! The object will come by night on an oxcart, and you'll need to build a viewing gallery to hold it. It will have cost the child his life savings, though I dare say the loss will be replenished by discreet paternal hands—assuming Vespasian ever has any money. . . . I mention it so you can have your smile of gracious pleasure ready."
Caenis practiced her gracious smile. Her brain worked only slowly nowadays: "What bereavement?"
Finally Veronica told her, still looking at the counterpane, "I believe, his wife. Flavia Domitilla had for a long while not been in the best of health." Caenis schooled her face. "I deduced that if you wanted, I could arrange for you to meet him," Veronica confessed abruptly, after which she was at last able to look up.
"No thanks."
Caenis hardly paused for consideration. She could not bear it.
Veronica smiled. She was in her way an eccentric woman. "Well!"
"Did he ask you to ask me, Veronica?"
"Yes."
Caenis took a deep breath. "Do you blame me for refusing?"
"I certainly do not. You know my views. The man was a liability from the start. Incidentally, he still has no money. And good gods, it must be nearly twenty years."
"Probably is," Caenis marveled wryly. "See him again? Juno . . ." Veronica let her grumble on. "I filled my life. I had to; it was too long to waste. I was never the docile Penelope type—what, twenty years with nothing to show but a nicely stitched sampler and ruined eyes? Then some raddled old traveler turns up, expecting you to have fed his dog and kept his favorite winecup dusted on the sideboard, and be ready to rub liniment on his scars and listen to his dreadful stories until he drops? Oh, Veronica! Whatever does the silly man expect?"
Veronica thought about it. "Who's Penelope? Do I know her?"
"Oh, in a story. She waited for a hero for twenty years."
"A man wrote that!" Veronica guessed acutely.
Vespasian would be forty-six next November. On the seventeenth: Caenis still remembered his birthday date.
It was indeed nearly twenty years. That dark corridor between rage and simple disappointment, where a bright young girl's uneasy hopes dulled into resignation; her long, tired decline into just another elderly, dowdy, ordinary woman.
It was all far too late. They could never go back. And Caenis would not like to see a man she had once loved so dearly on any lesser understanding now.
* * *
Veronica broke into her reverie to say quietly, "It's an insult. If it makes you feel any better, I told him exactly what I think."
"I'm not insulted."
Caenis imagined that Vespasian would treat Veronica warily. She was not his type, though he would admire her as an artifact. He would not, however, want her to tell him what she thought.
"Credit where credit is due," Veronica admitted, "I do believe he badly wants to thank you for saving his son."
Caenis spread her hands with a watery smile. "Tell him I am thanked. But he knows what I feel about being asked to console widowers."
"I'll soon settle him!" Veronica became brisk. She stood up, shaking her jeweled skirts. "And now, if you can face it, I want to smother you with rugs and take you in my litter to a shoemaker few people can afford, who will measure you for the prettiest and most comfortable pair of new sandals in Rome."