The Senate briefly fancied that the Republic might be restored, though individual members were acutely aware that would threaten their personal power. But then an odd accident intervened. Some soldiers, cheerily looting the Palace, found the last remaining adult male of the imperial family hiding behind a curtain, and for a joke proclaimed him Emperor.

  The poor soul they seized on was Claudius, the son whom Antonia had always called ridiculous.

  TWENTY

  The imperial freedman Narcissus could not remember who this woman was.

  “Well,” she cried, with more irony than most people were using nowadays. “A new Emperor; a new Chief Secretary!” He was the most important man on Claudius’ staff; he was expected to recognize everyone.

  She had probably touched thirty. She had neither the flounces nor the necklaces of some citizen’s matronly wife, yet despite all the spear-carriers, cloak and footwear attendants, name-takers and doorkeepers, she had got into his office, brushing off the paraphernalia of delay as carelessly as a naiad paddling through foam; she knew palaces. He wondered: One of us?

  “Narcissus.” Yes. And she knew she had floored him. “Little did I imagine that one day I should find you in an office as big as a wrestling hall, with a desk like Aphrodite’s bedstead and a ruby signet ring. Come to that, which of us foresaw clownish Claudius’ being shouldered through the streets by the Praetorian Guards? Did somebody in the Praetorians get up with a headache, or did they only get the headache after they realized what they had done?”

  Narcissus, who had shared some interesting conversations in the last few weeks, made no answer while he went on sizing her up. Quality clothes—sage-green linen, evenly dyed and belted in with simple cords; a modest stole; gold on her arm; a pair of shoulder brooches, with very good garnets in antique metalwork. A stately walk; a gloss of hair folded back neatly from a vividly reminiscent face; that rapid gaze. He was certain he knew her. He knew those searching eyes.

  Since he had not asked her to sit, she stood. His stern act rebounded; the freedman felt himself rebuked. He cleared his throat and signaled her to a stool.

  Damn it; he definitely knew that air of haughty rebellion as she declined.

  “It has been a long time,” she derided him gently. “I used to think you were wonderful.” Her eyes had a teasing gleam that must be new. “Easily the most intelligent man that I had ever known . . . So this elevation of yours is not, O my master, entirely unexpected.” She had excellent manners; she was graciously helping him out now. “You always said I was the quickest child you ever taught—but I should never get anywhere until my handwriting was neat.”

  Of course!

  Twenty years ago. He remembered now; he had a meticulous brain with a long reach. Thin as a strip of wind, and that morose, wounded stare that ripped into you like teasel hooks. Oh, he remembered this one; he used to start explaining something difficult, but before he was halfway through the logic, she would be up and asking questions on a point he hadn’t intended to cover for another hour. The only thing that ever really held her back was that she understood the end of the lesson before her leaping brain had properly learned the steps along the way.

  The others all hated her. Because she found everything so effortless—but most of all because, in a dull world, that ferocious scrap was bound to be any teacher’s favorite.

  “Caenis!” exclaimed the freedman Narcissus.

  Then all the whifflers and fly-swatters who cluttered up his office leaned back in alarm from the roar as the Emperor’s Chief Secretary laughed.

  * * *

  She would never be a beauty, but working for Antonia had turned her out immaculate. Fastidious, austere, sinfully clever—and probably still furious underneath.

  They surveyed one another, smiling; neither was giving anything away.

  “Want a favor, miss?”

  “Do you one, sir.”

  These days, that was a pleasant change.

  Caenis had worked out that an emperor whose popularity among the establishment was so shaky must be looking for new men. To cope, Claudius was setting up an organization at the Palace from the trusted ex-slaves of his own household: his mother’s freedman Pallas at the Treasury, Caligula’s man Callistus as Secretary of Petitions, and this fellow who had once been her own teacher, Narcissus, as the overall head of administration. Putting the Empire in the hands of his freedmen would never be approved by the patricians, but it would work. The Emperor’s freedmen had a vested interest in keeping their patron on the throne.

  With a new emperor the convention was that every senior post in provincial government and the army would be looked at afresh. Many officials would be changed. Narcissus was now in charge of that. So Caenis knew Narcissus would be recruiting the new men.

  He was magnificently able. Wary to the point of seeming sinister, he would certainly use his grand position to his own advantage, but he could be relied on to enjoy organizing the Empire. He had dedication and flair. Quite likely a Greek in origin, he spoke with the extremely cultured voice of a foreigner who had the ear to overcome his oiliness; his Latin was better than that of most senators, and his Greek impeccable. He must be hated too.

  “What favor, and why?” he demanded. He had always been testy.

  “You sound just like a woman, Chief Secretary!”

  “It’s the job, dear. Organizing fools all day. Don’t mess with me,” he commanded. “What’s his name?”

  They were speaking now in low, familiar voices, people who had once worked together as slaves. No point in further delay. “Flavius Vespasianus,” she said crisply. “His brother is a commanding legate in the army on the Rhine.” There was a slight pause. “This one’s brighter and more thorough,” Caenis claimed. She still remembered the criteria Narcissus applied when judging people.

  The Emperor’s freedman pursed his lips and stared up at the ceiling high above his head. It was decorated with rotund cherubs and fauns surrounded by exquisite bouquets of flowers. Caligula had extended the Palace to take in the Temple of Castor and Pollux as his vestibule. At the same time some superb redecoration had been done. The Chief Secretary had allocated himself a showpiece suite. Well; he had an excuse. This was where ambassadors would soon be homing in from all over the world.

  “Lover?” grilled the freedman nastily.

  “No,” Caenis replied, keeping her tone level. She had come prepared for his direct methods. “Was my lover, I admit. It’s not at all relevant; you will find out when you check.”

  He laughed. So far there were not many people who gave him credit for cautiousness. And there would never again be many who dared stand up to him. “She wants him back!” Narcissus tried her, with that terrible grisly grin.

  “No. Married. Haven’t seen him for years.”

  “Years! You owe him money, girl?”

  “Freedman, you taught me better than that!” Careful herself, she declined to confess that the debt owed was from Vespasian to her. He had never managed to repay the loan (although he kept his word and sent her interest via an embarrassed accountant once a year).

  Narcissus hauled himself upright and moved to a carved chest behind his chair; she noticed that the padded braid on his tunic was a good handspan deep, stiffening out the neck and hem. As he turned away she recognized the signs; he wanted one of his special lists. Here it came, and he was running his split pen-nib down the names with a secretive air that told her he always knew his way about these characters much better than he wanted to reveal. He glanced up sharply as she craned her neck, searching for telltale notches beside the names. “You haven’t seen this!”

  “No, sir,” she simpered, enjoying herself hugely.

  “Flavius Vespasianus . . . Titus, would that be?”

  “Titus,” she agreed, more awkwardly than she had hoped.

  “Titus,” he repeated; he had always been an aggravating man. “Hmm. Military service in Thrace, kept his nose clean—”

  “He liked the army,” Caenis interrupted quickly.

  “And how did the army like him?” Narcissus barked. “Quaestor in Cyrenaica and Crete; produced a good report. Must be bloody good, if they acknowledged it! Aedile . . .” It was all there. He stared for a moment, then scoffed; evidently he had a record of that business with the mud. “Praetor at first attempt. What’s this—it was he who made that speech when Caligula sent his sister home with the ashes of her lover? For plotting against the Emperor Lepidus should be denied public burial? I could call that crawling! I don’t want him if his judgment is flawed—”

  “No choice,” Caenis defended Vespasian.

  “It looks inept.”

  “Expedient. Caligula had taken command of the situation. The Senate had to support him or go down with the conspirators. Besides, who would want that wretch Agrippina to succeed in a plot?”

  “Who would want Agrippina as an enemy, Caenis?” After the sharp retort Narcissus let it go. “Brother of Sabinus . . . I know the brother; he waffles, but he’s all right.” He laid down the list abruptly and looked at her. “Difficult.”

  “Narcissus, the man is good.”

  “It’s not his turn.”

  “He has no money, no reputation, and no famous ancestors. You condemn him, Narcissus; it will never be his turn!”

  Narcissus gave her his vile laugh. “Keep your wig on! I’ll look at him. There’s plenty for a good man to do.” That was interesting. “Come and see me this evening; ask them in the outer office for the map to find my house.”

  Caenis chuckled. How like the old fusspot to arrange for a map. “Your house? Don’t you want a suite here, three steps from the Emperor?”

  To her, since they knew one another well and from a different time, Narcissus made the admission in a low voice: “Of course! And only two steps from his interfering bloody wife. But sometimes I shall want to be unavailable. Besides, woman,” said the Emperor’s Chief Secretary, “I prefer to keep a private corner to entertain my own friends.”

  * * *

  His idea of a private corner boded well for his friends.

  Narcissus, who was to make himself the master of four million sesterces, the richest man in Rome, lived even at that stage in a house of distinctive opulence. Deft slaves silently slipped about. Caenis permitted a houseboy to lift off her outdoor shoes. She eased herself into a sleekly tasseled mound of swansdown cushions, accepted a sweetmeat, toyed with honeyed wine.

  “Nice!” she teased Narcissus skeptically.

  He gave her a look. Even before he spoke she guessed he had made inquiries about where and how she lived herself. “Better than your musty eggcup off the Via Appia. Do you know that Claudius never sold his mother’s house? I pointed out that you’ve been polishing his daughter’s shorthand without a salary.” Claudia Antonia was now to be married, so any education she needed would be of a different kind. “He agrees; I’ve earmarked you half a wing.”

  She had forgotten how hard he worked. Nor had she reckoned on his establishing his kitchen cabinet so speedily.

  “I can’t go back to Antonia’s house. It would break my heart. Besides, who gets the other half of the wing?”

  “Agrippina; she’s being allowed back from exile.” As Caenis exploded with disgust, Narcissus rushed on, “We’ll find you some cash, then, and you can find your own place.”

  “I want a nice apartment with a fig tree and a female landlady who’s too embarrassed to ask for a high rent.”

  “I interviewed your man.”

  Their eyes clashed. Caenis snapped, “Not mine!”

  “Sorry, I forgot! He wasn’t what I expected; we had an interesting chat. Has an infant son, did you know? Poor little sprat came into the world in a back bedroom not much better than the flea-trap you lurk in yourself: Titus.”

  Caenis wondered what sort of chat. “What?”

  “Vespasian’s son.” As a family the Flavians still lacked inspiration when it came to naming their boys. “You might have mentioned the son, Caenis.”

  “Why? So what have you offered his obviously virile papa?”

  “Nothing yet. It’s up to my man.”

  Caenis made herself more comfortable among the swansdown, and to assist her task of trying out all his sweetmeats, she commandeered their little silver plate. In such matters Narcissus had excellent Greek taste. The honeyed balls were packed all over with sesame seeds: twice the fun—eating them first, then hours of extra pleasure picking your teeth. “What we may offer him,” Narcissus said carefully, “would hardly be a hammock in the sun.”

  “Something going on?” Caenis rapped back at once.

  The Empire stretched from Africa to Gaul, from Farther Spain to Syria. Decades ago, when Varus lost three legions in the traumatic massacre in Germany, Augustus had decreed this far was enough. For thirty-five years now the policy had been to contain military effort within Rome’s existing boundaries. Trying to expand would involve vast tracts of territory, small profit for a large outlay, and no particular prestige. There remained only one possibility that might be tempting for an emperor who needed a mad rapid exploit to confirm his position at a time when the legions were not even sure who he was and the Senate was tolerating him only until they thought of somebody to hoist up in his place.

  Narcissus watched her working it out; he was proud of her.

  “You’re not serious, freedman! Not another crack at Britain?”

  The island beyond the edge of the known world. It hummed with mystery; there was talk of deposits of silver and gold; Julius Caesar had been there, though he had had the sense to back off hastily; the great British King Conubelinus, who for years had preserved stability in the south and was tolerant of trade with Rome, had recently died, leaving a nest of ambitious, more hostile sons.

  And the stores were already in the warehouses in Gaul; the plans worked up and filed; the triremes built.

  Narcissus shrugged. “Thanks to Caligula all the logistical work has been done. There’s even a glorious new lighthouse to beacon the way. Does he shrink in the wet, your Sabine friend? Will he frighten at blue men and druids’ spells?”

  “He can cope. Especially if there’s a salary.”

  “Oh, I do like an army full of men who need the money! So reliable and keen.” The freedman’s voice suddenly dropped. After all, she had once been his favorite. “What do you want, miss? Shall I tell him you spoke to me?”

  “No!” Caenis was horrified.

  “Want to hear that he’s happy and well?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Sulking? Wants him miserable and off-color instead.”

  She lost her temper. “I just want him to be given his chance! I want a man who has real talent, and energy, and the will to serve, to stop being hampered by the snobberies of the system—”

  “Caenis! You predicate a society in which a man rises through merit!” Narcissus broke in with a shocked voice. She was still wondering whether to deflate him for “predicate” when he gave her an evil grin: bad teeth—a poor diet in infancy exaggerated lately by luxuries for which his constitution was ill prepared. He held out a warning hand. “Excuse me; I have another guest.” For one dreadful moment she thought it would be Vespasian himself.

  It was not. Shuffling apologetically, it was the emperor.

  * * *

  The slave who had showed him in was asking whether to light the lamps. Narcissus declined. “Leave them there for the moment. It’s good to sit quietly at dusk among friends.”

  Caenis wondered whether she should leave. It seemed easier to sit tight. She noticed that here in his own house, even for the Emperor, Narcissus did not rise. Claudius, that white hair and the limp instantly recognizable despite the half-light that had fallen while she and Narcissus talked, found himself a couch with touching informality.

  “Antonia Caenis, let me introduce you to my patron—”

  “I know your patron,” she interrupted quickly. Despite everything, Claudius might possibly not remember her; he drank heavily, and his recollection for faces was notoriously bad. “I am his mother’s freedwoman; he is my patron too.”

  The Emperor nodded to her with that helpless quirk of the head.

  They all sat, as Narcissus had suggested, quietly in the twilight. It was then for the first time that Caenis realized she was part of something new. Some strain that she had always known was lifting from Rome. By chance she belonged to the private household that was so unexpectedly governing the world. Narcissus, who approved of her, would bring her into this Emperor’s tight-knit circle to watch, and if she wanted, to help.

  Narcissus was saying openly to the Emperor, as if Caenis were already acknowledged as a colleague, “I left you the list to consider for army legates. You might give thought to Vespasianus. He could suit the Second Augusta. They’re at Argentoratum now; ideal candidates for your British scheme.”

  Argentoratum was one of the big military bases on the Rhine. Caenis knew the legions there had been fractious for years. It would be useful to pull them out of their secure site, where they fraternized too closely with the locals and were apt to forget they owed allegiance to Rome. In other respects the legions in Germany were first-class. It would be a good command.

  Claudius had turned to her. “I know Vespasianus, don’t I?”

  She reminded him quietly, “You met him, sir; at your mother’s house.”

  “Yes . . . oh yes.” He had taken on his wandering air. Oddly, it seemed to be settled at that. The freedman winked at her.

  “If you take to him,” Narcissus mentioned to Claudius after a time, “he has a boy we may educate with your own.” Suddenly Caenis understood why he had been so interested in Vespasian’s son.

  Messalina had crowned the Emperor’s astonishing rise to power by presenting Claudius with a male heir just twenty-two days after he accepted the throne. It would be seven years before the little prince went formally to school; Narcissus must be making long-term plans. With one Caesar barely pinned into his gown of woven gold, he was already plotting the school curriculum to produce a dynasty.