The Course of Honour (31 page)

He ate two of the apples because they smelled so fresh and good, then after a moment's hesitation stowed the stalks on the rim of a lamp. He deduced this was a house where no one would mind if a stranger put his fruit-cores in the wrong place.

It was wonderfully restful. He felt liable to doze. With an effort he managed to stay the right side of sleep to hear any movement outside. So, when the sunlight finally moved around until it fell through the slatted shutters of a bedroom in another part of the house, he did catch the distant tinkle of a light bell and knew she must be awake.

 

Very soon afterwards came swift footsteps in the corridor outside.

The door began to open. Outside a familiar voice spoke tersely. He folded his arms. The lady of the house walked in.

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 recognised 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 learnt this too from experience) and he believed it 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!

 

 

 

 

C
aenis had been furious when they told her he was here.

After her nap she was as usual well-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 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 honour. What can we do for you?'

Vespasian hated her when she was arch. ‘Do you mind?' he felt obliged to enquire. ‘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 realised 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 theatre. I've found out about it. It's a water-organ—some new-fangled 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. ‘Afterwards,' 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 were 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?'

He thought he had trapped her with his long, evaluating stare. Her fingers were still balanced on his, held by the faint pressure of his great thumb. Caenis realised just how badly she wanted to go. She reached a rapid, defiant decision: ‘I should like that. Thank you.'

Amazed, the Hero of Britain cleared his throat. A hint of anxiety tightened the corners of his eyes. ‘And will I?'

‘Will you what?' demanded Caenis, whipping back her hand.

‘Will I be stepping—'

‘Mind your own business,' she said, and stalked ahead of him out of the room.

In the hall the steward Aglaus was hovering. Caenis spoke to him calmly. ‘Aglaus, I shall be going out this afternoon.' She laid her hand for a moment on Vespasian's togaed arm as he followed her. ‘This gentleman is someone I have known for a long time. If ever he comes here he is to be received as a friend of the house. Mind you—' she lifted her hand again—‘he's the type who turns up for one or two meals, kicks the cat, spanks the kitchen maids, then disappears again for twenty years.'

Being rude was a mistake. Caenis saw it at once; perhaps they both did. For one thing, the steward decided there was something going on. Nobody wanted that.

Aglaus noticed that the Hero of Britain faintly smiled. It was not, therefore, an irreversible error. The fact that Caenis was standing up to Vespasian only made both of them look forward to their outing even more.

 

The water-organ was amazing. It was played with skill by a lacquered young lady, though anyone could tell that the Emperor was already planning to make this spectacular toy his own speciality. As far as Caenis could judge from her place in the upper gallery it was a gigantic set of panpipes, partly brass and partly reed, worked by a large beam-lever that forced air into a water box; under pressure it found its way to the pipe chamber and thence to the pipes, released into them by slides which the musician operated. It was the most complicated instrument she had ever seen and versatile too, though she was uncertain whether she found the thing musical.

When she left, Vespasian was waiting for her, attended by six bearers and his personal two-seater sedan chair. ‘You're the musician. Tell me what I am supposed to think of that contraption.' He said this straight-faced; whether he was serious Caenis no longer knew him well enough to tell.

‘Very sonorous!' she exclaimed. ‘I could see it was keeping you awake.'

The dignified person who passed for Flavius Vespasianus nowadays gave her an unexpectedly melting smile.

Dinner at his cousin's was pleasant; she was glad she had gone, for it clearly relieved Vespasian's anxious relations to see him bring someone, whoever it was. Caenis knew how to behave gracefully. Vespasian made her feel at ease, though was never so fussy it troubled her. Once, when somebody asked after his son Titus, he answered and then shared with Caenis a look which for all the wrong reasons attracted notice from the others present. Caenis could not detect whether people realised he had known her in the past.

One thing that startled her was the difference between dining out in the old days with Vespasian the struggling young senator, and accompanying him now. Nowadays the consular Vespasian automatically took the place of honour next to his host in the central position. Moreover, the free couch beside him was immediately given to his guest: whoever she was.

It was a relaxed, respectable party that broke up at an early hour, without excessive drinking. Vespasian then took her home. In the chair he sat opposite. Although they were both content with their evening, neither spoke. It was dark enough for Caenis to watch him, well aware that he was watching her; it was too dark to have to meet his eye.

At her house he ordered the bearers to wait while he himself carried a torch to light her to the door. He rapped on the fat dolphin knocker then stayed until her porter came.

‘Thank you, Caenis. I enjoyed tonight.'

She was aching for him to touch her; it was quite ridiculous.

‘Yes. Thank you.'

Her door was open. The porter had stepped back out of sight. He was normally inquisitive, so Caenis guessed that Aglaus had been lecturing the staff.

‘Your door's open,' said Vespasian, without moving from the spot. There was a fractional pause. ‘Good night, Caenis.'

Great gods, the man had no idea how to provide gossip for her servants. Nor—though they must be obvious—did he understand the feelings of the lady of the house. The man had no manners. The man had no sense.

‘Titus.' She walked past him, inclining her head politely, no more.

The porter hesitated, then closed the heavy door. As he was bolting it Caenis told him everyone could go to bed; she would not need her girl. Unusually brisk, her footsteps crossed the hall and strode down the corridor to her room.

Really, she did not know why she was annoyed.

‘Damn!' Caenis said to herself. ‘Damn! Damn him! Damn!'

She had closed her bedroom door quietly enough, rather than have it known throughout the house how she felt; then to relieve her tension she flung open the shutters so all the turmoil of Rome at night flooded the room: the clatter of delivery carts barging one another at the Porta Nomentana, their drovers' barracking at traffic jams, the roar of activity from the Praetorian Camp, then from within the city the shouts, the whoops, the occasional screams, the rancid laughter, the wild soaring of solitary song as a man painless with wine leaned against a wall and admonished the stars.