In the slight increase of light, Vespasian brought his arm back and set his hand on her brow, shading her eyes while he searched for whatever she was thinking. He could not be sure whether, after all, he was entirely welcome. Caenis herself was experiencing belated doubt. Perhaps the truth was that even though she wanted him so badly, she could not bear to admit how she felt. She must be still quarreling with him for leaving her.
"Not doing very well, am I?"
Suddenly he was smiling. The intimate sunny grin he kept for his friends was inviting her to share his self-mockery, and she found it irresistible. She was already reabsorbing the familiar feel, the scent, the size, the warmth, the pleasure of him.
For Caenis he had always been a good-looking man. He had a wonderful face. The interplay of strain and amusement was fascinating; she could watch his concentration at work, then without warning he would brighten into a crackle of shared good humor. All the time those deep, steady eyes were seeking hers. He was a man of such passionate decency. It was impossible to deal with him in her normal mood of prickly resentment.
"It's me," he told her softly. The tension went sliding from her. His straightforwardness reached out to her. "You remember me."
She remembered: her Sabine friend; the second half of her.
She felt her senses afloat at once, almost before he bent his head to kiss her and moved to start making love again. Her body began to answer his. When the moment came, they were together. When the moment came, it was with an intensity that seemed not to have diminished but increased with time, and experience, and their separate knowledge of triumph and loss.
Afterward he stayed with her, in complete silence, for a long while. Even when he was compelled to move from her he would not speak. But he held her; he was still holding her when she plunged abruptly into sleep and when, many hours later, she awoke.
* * *
It was just before dawn. For a short period the hubbub around the city gate had faded as the carters and revelers dispersed to their beds, while the early morning street sounds of bakers and laborers going to their work had yet to begin. Even the sick were sleeping now. In this silent room the lamp had long snuffed itself; there was the faintest shift in the dim quality of the natural light.
Only gradually did Caenis realize that she had woken more comfortable, warmer, more tranquilly rested than usual. Only slowly did she become aware that her pillow was Vespasian's firm chest and that she was trapped in utter security under the weight of his arm across her back and his hand at her breast. She lay motionless, but her eyelashes had been tickling his ribs; she felt his fingers intertwine in her hair, where it grew thickest at the back of her head, softening away any last shreds of tension from her neck. He was awake. He had been awake for perhaps an hour before.
"Titus; you're still here!"
"Mmm."
He always woke in the early hours. At home he would rise and use this time to read or attend to his correspondence without interruptions while others slept. Here he had simply lain still, lost in thought, holding Caenis in his arms.
She snuggled closer, but said dutifully, "I shan't mind if you want to go."
There was no change in the slow motion massaging the tendons of her neck. "Wanted to say good morning to you first."
Then she leaned up on one elbow, looking at him. "Hello, Titus."
"Hello, my lass." In the gray light she could make out nothing of his face, but his voice was full of amusement. "Oh, Caenis! . . . People will think we are mad."
"People," remarked Caenis tartly, "don't think! Thank the gods none of them need know that you bought back my favors with a sack of Sabine apples and half a crate of plums."
"If they find out your weakness, you could be swamped under baskets of soft fruit. . . ." Vespasian sounded unusually dreamy. "Rome soaking up raspberry juice like a must-cake pudding. Trolleyloads of apricots blocking the Sacred Way. Quagmires of quinces, pears piled like the Pannonian Alps—mmm!" He stopped speculating to allow Caenis to kiss him quiet. "Blackberries—mmm! Mulberries—mm-mmm!"
She was still fretting about his public life. "Do you want me to get up with you, Titus?"
His sudden roll caught her unawares as he swept her back against the pillows full length, lying above her in his most sensual embrace. "I said," he said, "I wanted to say good morning to you first."
Then Caenis stopped worrying about his waiting secretary at home; she recognized from his wicked tone that he intended far more than a mere verbal greeting. She stopped worrying about anything, as Vespasian began once again to touch her where she needed to be touched and hold her as she wanted to be held. This time there was no difficulty. He knew as Caenis knew herself that he was, and that he would always be, welcome.
The next time she woke he was no longer with her, but her body and all her spirit sang with the joy of his having been there.
THIRTY-TWO
The noise from the Praetorian Camp was now quite loud even though the whole house was orientated toward its inner courtyards. Light increased the disturbance, as somebody unkind unfastened a shutter. "Morning, madam. Rise and shine!"
Caenis groaned. "No, thanks. Good morning, Aglaus. I shall just lie here, oozing goodwill—"
Her steward frankly whistled. "Goodwill! Things must be worse than I thought." It was the first time Aglaus had been so curious about a guest that he wanted to greet the lady of the house first himself.
"Was somebody up to see to my friend?"
"Naturally. I keep an eye on Heroes in case they pinch the silver. Breakfast out in the peristyle; his suggestion. What an amazing man! I gather we'll be seeing him again."
"I should think we may," Caenis conceded cautiously. Swathed in crumpled counterpane, she sat up.
"Every five minutes, no doubt!" Aglaus quipped freely. "You don't want the breadrolls to go hard; I'll send you a girl."
* * *
The colonnade outside her dining room surrounded a very small courtyard garden that for most of the day lay in heavy shadow, a place of wet, dank greens and elongated spindles of unhealthy creeper, which was sad, though first thing in the morning it was streaming with sunlight. Caenis rarely ate breakfast, so she was surprised today to find that her steward had laid a refectory table with a minor banquet of newly baked bread, cold meat, and cheese. A banquet for two. There were also three lopsided carnations in a vase.
Caenis, who did not enjoy cheekiness so early in the day, bellowed, "Aglaus!" before she noticed somebody sitting on a stool.
A burly figure had his feet in a shrub pot, while he corrected a dictation table with a stylus. When she appeared, he tucked the stylus behind his ear and grinned at her. There was no sign of his secretary, though the man had obviously been here to bring the Flavian correspondence. Vespasian was scribbling away as if her garden was his normal morning workplace. Her Sabine friend was surprisingly well organized.
Aglaus poked his head out of a window, answering her yell. "Leave us in peace, Aglaus," Caenis countermanded herself placidly. The steward smirked at Vespasian—they were already allies—and duly obeyed. "Titus."
"Expected, surely?" Vespasian teased.
"Well, tomorrow perhaps," Caenis tried to appear cool. "Tonight even, if you're desperately keen—or just desperate. Hardly for breakfast."
Vespasian left his work on the stool and took his place on a wooden bench at the table. "Mind?" She joined him, sitting alongside, saying nothing. "Looks good. Plotted it with your man. Notice the ample supply of cold meat."