He could not bear it either; Caenis understood. She finally wrenched free and stood off from him. Grimly she took upon herself the duty of the bereaved to reassure those around them. “I’m sorry for what I said. I have you; of course; I know.”

  Impassive, he said nothing at first, then dismissed it with, “This is not the time.”

  Being a man he had failed to see that it was only now, now when she was too deep in some other trouble, that she could ever speak of what she felt for him. Yet he had never flinched from reality, so Caenis told him tersely, “Never lie to me. Tell me the truth, as soon as you must. Don’t just hope I will work things out for myself; Titus, don’t leave it to me—” She stopped.

  “No,” he said.

  Then as she turned to climb aboard her chair, he suddenly spoke out too. “Your idea of other people’s loyalty is as empty as your view of a country landscape. But, Caenis, in the country, just when you think you have the whole world to yourself, you wander into an olive grove and find some old shepherd squatting on his haunches in the shade.” He paused. His voice rasped. “Smiling at you, lass.”

  “The country is your world, not mine,” Caenis returned, managing to find a shred of humor for him. “And even a city girl, if she reads any poets at all, knows a shepherd is the last person to trust!”

  Despite her pleas, Vespasian insisted on going with her as far as Antonia’s house. There was nothing she could do; he marched along with the footman in front of the chair.

  Bluntly undeterred, when he left her at the door he said, “Send for me when you need me.” Then, since he was a brave man, he cupped her stricken face in his large hands. “Lass; I am here. You know that.”

  She could not risk flinging her arms around him as she wanted to do, for she must be alone when she started to cry.

  “Caenis—”

  She had to stop him. She knew that whatever he was going to say would be more than she could bear. “Yes. I know. As my lady said to us, Titus, ‘Sometimes even Caenis will need a friend.’ And when I do, you are here. Yes; I know.”

  FIFTEEN

  Flavius Vespasianus was now eligible for the next rank in the Senate. He ran for election—and came nowhere.

  Caenis was in a mood to feel guilty over anything; she convinced herself that her position in his life had contributed to his defeat. Some years one bad blow follows another until it becomes impossible to tell how far each has been caused by the depletion of spirits resulting from the rest. Losing Antonia had buffeted her badly; she was physically tired and emotionally drained. However, her need to grieve had really made her so abstracted it left Vespasian free to canvass support. He did all he could. When he failed, his brother told him his approach had been too diffident; he remained a stranger to many in the Senate. He would have to establish himself more strongly and try again next year.

  He started to organize straightaway. Caenis watched with reviving fascination as he and Sabinus worked through the entire senatorial list, analyzing the voting, then discussing whom they might sway. They could only use verbal persuasion; they had no money for bribes.

  She realized Vespasian was by no means as politically halfhearted as his initial reluctance had implied. She noticed his incisive mind, his thoroughness, his ability both to plan ahead and then to carry the plan through. Not many men could claim such talents. Of the two brothers it was he who possessed the steadier resolution. Once Vespasian did decide to act, his energy was fiercer and his imagination more acute.

  So he sat with Sabinus, lists covering a low table, both leaning forward on their stools, endlessly turning over names. Although they had courted patrons, it was always his brother Vespasian really worked with. Men from the Sabine territory had a tradition of public service, and the Flavians were particularly clannish. They kept their political trust within the family.

  Caenis was a frequent visitor at the tiny apartment Vespasian now rented; without Antonia she had little to keep her at home. While the men worked, their voices at one constant, thoughtful pitch, she sent away the hesitant skivvy. She served them wine herself, moving about the ill-furnished room in her silent way, drawing the mothy door curtain to deaden the racket from the copper-beater’s workshop downstairs, opening the rickety shutters slightly to let in a breeze, which if no less malodorous and hot in such a decrepit neighborhood was at least different air. Then she would curl up by herself on a battered couch, with an old cloak of Vespasian’s over her feet, glad of an opportunity in this low period of her life to lose herself in her own thoughts.

  It was taking her a long time to recover from Antonia’s death. Caenis, who had respected and loved her as a friend, continued to churn with anger that her last weeks had been marred by discord with the new Emperor. She never found out whether Antonia’s death had been by her own hand. Other people in the household assumed she had heard the full details; in fact, she preferred not to know.

  Claudius had had to speak to her about the will; Antonia had left modest bequests to all her freedwomen, and as her primary heir it fell to her son to distribute the money. He said he would do what he could—but it depended on the Emperor. The House of Livia remained imperial property, and so far there was no suggestion that Antonia’s freed clients needed to move on; later it was bound to become convenient that they did so—one more problem that Caenis would need to address.

  Though they never discussed his mother, she found herself more at ease with Claudius nowadays. For one thing she had noticed that ever since she was known to be Vespasian’s mistress, other men had ceased to make unwelcome advances. She could not tell whether this was due to some masculine code, or whether she had herself ceased to signal that she was vulnerable. Perhaps she simply looked older nowadays.

  In time it was confirmed that because of its position on the Palatine, the House of Livia would not be sold, and neither did any of the imperial family want to claim a right to live there. Caenis was able to stay, preparing inventories of the furniture and household goods. This was not for the normal purpose of a sale at the Saepta Julia. Although Caligula had inherited a bulging treasury from the cautious Tiberius, he was running through his funds at an astonishing rate, as he delighted the populace with an almost daily program of theatrical extravagances, public games, and wild-beast spectaculars; presents thrown from the roof of the main courthouse; and gift vouchers left on theater seats. Already there seemed a good chance that if the thought struck he would overturn his grandmother’s will and himself carry off her treasures to replenish the Privy Purse.

  Caligula had not attended Antonia’s funeral. He watched the burning pyre through his dining-room window, joking about it with Macro, the commander of the Guards. Antonia’s ashes were placed in the Mausoleum of Augustus but with minimal ceremony.

  * * *

  “Caenis!” Flavius Sabinus usually took his leave with a word for her. “My wife sends you kind regards.”

  Caenis had not seen his wife again, nor did she honestly expect to; still the girl took trouble to send her compliments, often accompanied by flowers or some other gift. Her warmth appeared quite genuine.

  “This young lady’s looking tired!” Sabinus then chided his brother.

  Vespasian tucked a solid arm around her waist. “She’ll be all right. I’ve bought her a slab of must-cake—great restorative powers!”

  Sabinus smiled at her sadly. He was hardworking and affable; he suspected Caenis needed more than sweetmeats. Once he had put aside his basic disapproval, he felt that his younger brother treated his mistress too casually. It was useless to try to explain that Vespasian’s small but careful present meant far more to her than a string of beads snatched from a jeweler’s tray with no real thought behind the gift.

  “Mmm—come to bed!” murmured Vespasian, kissing her after his brother had gone.

  Caenis pierced him with a steely eye. “What about my cake?”

  “Well, bring it, of course.”

  “You’ll have crumbs in the covers—”

  “I have noticed,” Vespasian commented, “that when you and I eat anything there are rarely any crumbs.”

  The must-cake was splendid, and he was absolutely right; there were no crumbs. Caenis responded with an enthusiasm that in Veronica’s scale of values would equate to repaying a pair of Etruscan earrings or a silver collar.

  Afterward Vespasian exclaimed, with his wild, wide grin, “Well, lady! That was an occasion to treasure when we are old and incapable!”

  He was strong and endlessly healthy; even after he made love with the fervor of a man who regarded this as the most natural and enjoyable way of taking exercise, his rib cage soon rose and fell again in its normal regular rhythm.

  Caenis, gasping, thumped his chest. “Oh, I’m speechless!”

  “What a change.”

  “You great ox; you’ll never be incapable. You’ll still be sending for some girl—or a whole troupe—to liven your afternoons when you’re seventy!”

  Chortling, he flung back his great head, and for some minutes they lay together in silence before talking more reflectively.

  “Wonder if we’ll know each other then?”

  It was an unfair question; men could be such pigs. Caenis responded drily, “I imagine I shall have died of drudgery long before.”

  He croaked, mimicking the astrologer at the Theater of Balbus, “Her life is kindly; kindly her death. . . .” He knew well enough that Caenis rejected omens. She had told him: Whatever either of them were to become must lie in themselves. Neither had any advantages, or anyone to help. Life would be only what they chose to make it, grappling within the straitjacket of society. “You were quiet tonight,” he suddenly observed. She was less startled that he noticed than that he commented. “What were you thinking about?”

  She did not answer.

  He usually knew anyway. “Has your lady’s house been reoccupied yet? What about Claudius?”

  To his own surprise as much as anyone’s, Claudius had been selected by Caligula for the honor of sharing the Consulship with his Emperor. Claudius had never held public office of any kind before, since both Augustus and Tiberius openly judged him unsuitable. As Caligula’s colleague as well as his uncle, he had been compelled to go to live at the Palace. He was bound to be looking for a way to escape, and his mother’s house might partially provide one.

  “You are quite right,” agreed Caenis, though Vespasian had not said it. “I shall need somewhere of my own to live.”

  Without any hesitation he asked her, “Want to come here?”

  She was dumbfounded.

  Caenis wanted to live with Vespasian more than anything.

  “No, Titus. No, thank you. No.”

  It was unbelievable even a man could be so crass. Damn it, she had thought Vespasian relatively humane. She sat up abruptly, hugging her knees. She could not bear this.

  “Why not?” he demanded stubbornly.

  Caenis resisted the temptation to wrench away from him, to walk out and never come back. She compressed her anger, though she had no inhibitions about letting it show: “Dear heart, I’ll never catch a rich senator if they all know I’m living with you! And how, in Juno’s name, am I expected to get you sensibly married off? Besides, if I come here while you are single, what is to happen to me afterward? Oh you bastard, you absolute bastard; you know all this!” He had an aggravating habit of merely looking intrigued when somebody completely lost control. “I do hope you have noticed,” Caenis went on coolly, fighting down her temper as she spoke, “how rare it is for me to call you names.”

  He said nothing. There was no doubt; he had noticed. He knew he had punished her beyond reasonable limits.

  Still he persisted, as if it were in some way relevant. “Caenis—do you think my career will ever come to anything?”

  More tolerant with the apparent change of subject, she answered at once: “Certainly. You know I do.”

  He sighed slowly. “If I thought not . . .” Perhaps fortunately, he did not finish. “Once, when I was a lad, my father took an augury that his second son would be something really special. This was a long time ago—and I won’t tell you what I’m supposed to become! My grandmother burst her girdle laughing. Told my father he was going dreamy. Said he should be ashamed to act the dunce in front of his own mother!”

  Caenis laughed. “I like the sound of your old granny!”

  “My old granny”—Vespasian chuckled—“would not have liked the sound of you! She would have known you were after my cash.”

  Giggling, because he was so poor it was ludicrous, she turned around to him slightly, as she did so feeling his mighty hand spread companionably on her back. His eyes seemed unusually still. “Titus, you don’t need superstitious permission. You won’t fail. You can be whatever you want.”

  His palm moved methodically along her spine. She tried to ignore the goose pimples. He was doing it on purpose, to tease her, and to calm her down. “Hah! Going to encourage me? Live out your ambitions through me like the crazed crows of the imperial family? Are you a schemer, lass? A palace puppeteer?”

  Hurt again, she dropped her head onto her knees. “You are not mine to manipulate! Oh, you’ll take your aedileship next time around, and everything will be easier for you after that. But I hope—”

  He had scrambled up close, wrapping his arms around her, knees and all. Eagerly he demanded, “What? What do you hope? Caenis, tell me your hope!”

  “That when you are grizzled and famous,” she mumbled against his shoulder, “you may still sometimes remember munching a sausage in a pantry with a bad-tempered slave.”

  “Oh, my dear lass!”

  When someone touched him on a nerve, he was utterly soft. If Caenis had owned the confidence of a Veronica, she would have realized she could easily bring him to tears. Instead he pretended to be smiling, then drew her back down with him; a man of his build needed exercise, and making love to women was an easy way to get it.

  Besides, he wanted to make another memory for their old age.

  * * *

  It was not long afterward that he made his next trip to Reate. His mother still lived there at the family home. He was a good son; Caenis was used to him visiting his mother. She never went with him; she knew that she and his mother would never meet.

  A woman of both force and tact, Vespasia Polla probably did not like the sound of Caenis either; she would never waste her breath saying so. She was one of the few people who knew how, and when, to persuade her stubborn younger son to settle into something he really did not want to do. He had loved his grandmother Tertulla; he liked to please his mother. Throughout his life he would be a man who nursed a serious regard for the women who were close to him.

  He was affectionate with his mistress. And, Caenis knew, one day he would be loyal to his wife.

  SIXTEEN

  As soon as she saw his face she understood everything.

  He had come to her at home in Antonia’s house, unexpected and unannounced, while she thought him still at Reate. She went through the motions; Caenis after all was a first-class secretary. She had been trained to behave with aplomb in any social emergency.

  “Titus! You’re back in Rome.”

  “I’m back,” he stated somberly. “Oh, Caenis!”

  It was all perfectly obvious from his face.

  * * *

  The scene fixed itself in her memory as if she were some hapless insect being slowly trapped in the bark of a stone pine, transfixed under a sluggish ooze of amber for the next two thousand years. There it all was: the woven rug in faded shades of crimson and blue at her feet, folded under at one far corner; the Greek black-figure vases displayed on the sideboard; the list she had been checking, which fell from her hand as she rose at his entrance; the pin on the shoulder of her dress that worked loose and scratched her if she moved but which she could not spare concentration to refasten. The chandelier had creaked on its ceiling-chain as he carefully closed the door.

  There was nothing unusual in his expression itself. He always frowned in that grim way; people laughed at him, but there was nothing he could do to change it. She recognized the horror only because every plane of that face had set rigid in misery.

  Her voice sounded remarkably ordinary. “Whatever’s the matter? Tell me.”

  He came right up to her. Apparently it felt inappropriate to kiss her. She did not want to be kissed—then she wanted it desperately. For a moment he placed both hands on her shoulders; meeting her stare, he let his arms drop.

  “You guess. A suitable woman has agreed to be my wife.”

  Caenis wanted to fight. She could never win. There was no enemy. She heard herself saying in a low respectable voice, “Quite right. Dear me; what took so long? Yes. You must. Well! . . . Rich I hope?”

  Vespasian was drawing her to a couch, where he made her sit, taking a place beside her, holding her hand—not so much to console her, for he would realize from her resistance that she could hardly bear to be touched, but as if he himself needed to grip some part of her in order to go on. “The rich ones,” he confided grayly, “seemed curiously slow to take me up. She is not. Do you really want to hear?”

  Caenis closed her eyes. For some quaint reason she seemed to nod her head. “Other people are bound to tell me. I would rather have it from you.”

  “Well. Someone from Ferentium. Father in the financial service; not quite a provincial, but she should understand my difficulties. Her father had to appear before a Board of Arbitration to establish her right to the full citizenship, but I think it went through on the nod . . .” He was using the tone that on other subjects had been his vehicle for asking her advice. He fell silent.

  “Good character?” Caenis encouraged drily.

  He answered like a man under examination in the Senate on some imperial informer’s wild charge of impropriety: “Oh; all right!” He relented. He sighed. He forced himself to be less offhand. “No; let’s be fair—a decent woman.”

  “You’ve seen her?”