Aglaus knocked quickly and entered at once, carefully closing the door. Caenis did not encourage anyone to come into her room without permission; something had occurred. "Excuse me, madam; your friend's popped back. . . ."
She understood his haste, and the low voice. Then Vespasian himself opened the door.
Aglaus was shocked. "Oh! Sir! I know there are special rules for heroes, but the lady's in her bedroom in her slip!"
She was perfectly decent, in a good undertunic from neck to floor, yet she felt deeply embarrassed. Vespasian quickly brushed courtesies aside. "Sorry, Caenis. Something I meant to say." Somewhere, perhaps in her own hall, he had shed the heavy folds of his toga. It made him look much more comfortable: the country boy with brown arms and his tunic slouched over his belt.
Aglaus was an excellent steward. He had a fine ear, or eye, or whatever it took, for dealing with visitors just as his lady required. His problems started when Caenis herself did not know what she wanted to do. Scooping up her trail of discarded shoes, shawl, belt, he crossed swiftly and forced the shutters closed, snuffing the outside noise. It gave her time to think. "I'll ask one of the girls—"
Caenis found she was furious, though not with him. "Don't bother. Thanks, Aglaus."
"Right. Well! As things seem to be so informal I expect you can let the gent out for yourself."
"I expect I can," Caenis agreed grimly. "Good night, Aglaus."
He stomped off in a huff.
Then once again they were alone. Because she was so flustered, Caenis began speaking too rapidly: "Vespasian, I never was a proud girl, but I would not from choice receive you in my slippers with my face paint all scrubbed off!"
He stayed where he was, in the center of the room.
"Luckily I had not yet put my teeth away in their silver box and my wig on its stand. . . ." She wished she had not said that, for it made her self-conscious about having her hair loose. She was too old; it looked foolish. It was her own hair really; they were indeed her own teeth. He might not recognize the joke.
She turned away to replace the comb on her dressing shelf, only to hear him approach. She spun back, but it was worse; he had come right behind her, so she turned almost into his arms. Drawing an agitated breath, she stepped away, but was stopped by the shelf behind her. A warm tremor shimmered over her skin.
"You've still got one earring—" Vespasian offered simply, beginning to reach for it.
"I can manage!" She wrenched it off and hurled it to join its fellow with another skedaddling chink. He had lost her goodwill. She wanted him to go.
"Calm down," he appealed, though a gleam in his eyes said frankly that she would not be Caenis unless she were pointlessly ranting, most of the time. He was not the least put out by it. "What's the matter?"
Caenis sighed; she heard Vespasian grunt; they both relaxed. "What did you come to say?" she asked in a quieter tone.
In his aimless, curious way he picked up her bangle. "Did I give you this?"
"You did." She was terse with irritation; their two names were still engraved clearly enough inside.
"Sweet of you to take it out."
"I wear it every day. It's good gold, and I'm fond of it."
He put it down. "It's very plain. Would you like a better one?"
"No."
Now he was at the earrings. "Who gave you those?"
"Marius."
For a moment he needed to think who Marius was; she enjoyed that. He dropped the earrings quickly into a box where they did not belong. Tetchily, Caenis moved them out of the box to a tray. On reflection she remembered that these—gold acorns dangling from rectangles of green glass that could almost pass for emeralds—were a present from Veronica. She decided not to correct herself.
For the first time their eyes really met. She and Vespasian had never been shy with one another; they were shy now.
"I'm frightened to touch you," he admitted, very close and quiet. Frightened or not, she found he was looping up a strand of her hair on one finger to watch the light shimmer along it.
Caenis tossed her head to pull free, but she replied sensibly enough, "I'm not used to you anymore; you're not used to me."
He shrugged. "I'm just the same."
He was so close that Caenis could see the intentions forming in his face; instinctively she put her hands on his shoulders as if to keep him at a distance. His face set.
"You are the Hero of Britain!" she scoffed. Conscience dissolved her. She was at least old enough now to ask directly for what she wanted. She intended him to know it was her choice. Her voice dropped. "Would that Hero accept a kiss from an admirer?"
Vespasian frowned, evaluating the change in her mood.
Without waiting she leaned forward and kissed him—a mere brush of the lips like a moth landing on a sleeper's face in the night. It was really to see what he would do. He closed his eyes briefly, but otherwise hardly moved.
The sensation of their kiss clung with alarming intensity even when she drew away. Vespasian prevented her moving again with one warm hand on her shoulder, his fingers catching in her hair. Caenis could hear the blood in her own veins. He looked desperately sad; at first she thought she had made a terrible mistake.
The mistake was in doubting him. Suddenly she could see how great his self-control had been. She glimpsed the moment when he broke. He began to draw close to kiss her conventionally, but it was too much for him. "Oh, lass!"
Then her cheek banged against his as they hugged one another like people meeting on a quayside after a long separation in far distant countries, two people falling into one another's arms and holding each other tight as if they would never be able to let go.
After a while his breathing eased, and she heard him whisper hoarsely, "What can I say to you?"
Still locked in his embrace, never wanting it to end, Caenis closed her eyes. Buried in the braided edge on his tunic, her face had crumpled. She would not let him see her misery, but he must know; he must be able to feel her shaking. "I suppose the Hero of Britain has a great many women asking to go to bed with him?"
"Some."
"And what about my old friend Vespasian?"
"Poor unimportant beggar—rather less!"
Caenis leaned away so she could look at him. Her face was drawn. His too. "Well, there's an offer here—if he wants it."
She watched the shadows go out of his expression, to be replaced by some tenderness that she could not bear to contemplate. He released her completely, with a small open-palmed gesture, but his hand found hers as at once they walked together to the bed.
THIRTY-ONE
Caenis had begun to believe she could not do it.
Nothing was going to happen. The situation was too important, and she was still standing on her dignity. It was all going wrong. She felt lumped like wood, an unresponsive trunk.
She had accepted it. She was content merely to be with him, content with whatever companionship there inevitably was, and yet despite herself she must have made some sound. Hearing her distress, he stopped. "Sorry."
She realized he had been waiting for her. She kept perfectly still. He was not a man with whom she wanted to pretend.
Being careful to disturb nothing else, Vespasian stretched one arm to the small table at the side of the bed and gradually moved the tiny pottery lamp that gave the only light in the room. She realized, with misgivings, it was the lamp she hated, where a satyr and a faun were doing unspeakable things to each other around the air hole and the wick. She was relieved he left it there.