“No, Consul.” He was startled. So was she; yet she continued without mercy: “You knew me,” Caenis told him bluntly, “for a short while, a very long time ago!”

  She shot to her feet, tight-lipped, and walked away to another part of the garden by herself.

  There was a tense silence. Narcissus had no idea what he ought to do. “Shall I—”

  “Leave her!” Vespasian whipped toward him. “So long as she gets angry,” he explained clearly, as if it were important that in future Narcissus understood this, “she’s all right.” There was another pause. Vespasian was staring the way Caenis had gone.

  Narcissus muttered, “I’ll—”

  “No. I’ll go.”

  “Then I had better explain why she’s—”

  “No need,” said Vespasian. “I know. Of course I know.”

  * * *

  Her feelings had nothing to do with Vespasian being there.

  She sat on a seat beside the dripping fronds of a monumental fern, breathing hard, with one hand to her head. It was all too much. Marius dead, and now his stupid will . . . He had left her precisely half as much again as he had left to each of his freedmen: enough to embarrass his family, yet a harshly unequal gesture for a woman who had been prepared to become his wife. She wanted to refuse the legacy, as any heir was entitled to do. His cautiousness was so insulting.

  She sat, thinking about this, and thinking too about Marius. She still knew he was a comparatively decent man. He had not understood what he had done.

  Someone was coming for her. She heard the footsteps, while trying to ignore them.

  “Caenis?” Her Sabine friend.

  He waited, on the other side of the fern, to let her readjust. Probably afraid she had been crying. Left to herself she probably would have been. People never knew when to leave you to yourself.

  “Your old Greek nanny panicked.”

  “I’ll come.” Caenis sat forward, intending to rise, but Vespasian was on the narrow path, sticky with fallen leaves. He was blocking her way.

  “Don’t get up.” He stayed there; so she stayed on the seat. “You’re wanting advice?”

  Caenis said nothing. Obviously Narcissus had told him everything. Politicians were so arrogant about other people’s private affairs.

  Vespasian risked it: “Share your troubles with a friendly magistrate. I won’t charge,” he chivvied, as she still sat stony-faced. He was more heavily built and a great deal more pompous nowadays. “Though you might consider a drop in the interest on my loan.” She still said nothing. He went on, with the natural complaisant assumption that no one in good society would ever be deliberately rude, “Tell me to mind my own business if you like—”

  “Mind your own business, Consul!” Caenis roared.

  She turned away bitterly.

  But all he said was, “Don’t be daft, lass!” then came and sat beside her on the bench. Caenis was probably forty. Even in the country, nobody was ever going to call her “lass” again.

  “Don’t fight.”

  “Don’t interfere!”

  “Look; Caenis—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “I can’t; I promised your lady a long time ago—I had heard you were planning to get married. I’m so sorry.” Caenis once again spun to her feet. He snapped: “Oh, sit down, you short-tempered shrike, and listen to me!”

  Marius would never have called her names. Nor, she knew, would she ever in fact have married him. This stranger knew her better than Marius would ever have done.

  “Come on; come back.”

  Although she did not storm off, she huddled away, shrouding herself in the white robe he so hated. He sighed. Then, speaking formally as a magistrate he told her, “Listen then. It’s quite simple. Legally the choice is yours. But unless you feel very strongly, my advice is to keep quiet. The man is dead; you can’t get back at him. Taking a stand is fine in principle, but you’ll be the one who ends up feeling wretched. If you reject his miserable legacy, you’ll stir up more bad feeling than if you meekly accept and spend it all on a new hat.” Caenis had the grace to nod. His voice softened. “There’s a knee here you can sit on if you want to have a cry.” She ignored that. After a moment he demanded sourly, “Whatever did you want to get married for anyway?”

  “Oh, the usual reasons!” Caenis flared. “Bed, board, someone to bully—and a half-decent companion for my old age!”

  Vespasian laughed.

  She whirled back toward him so at last he could see just how colorless she was, and her despair. He was truly appalled. Whatever she was intending to hurl at him died on the instant.

  In fact they had frightened one another.

  Yet he was not Rome’s Consul for nothing. His face went blank. He turned the situation at once. He stood up. “Yes; quite right. Better go back. That oily-chinned old woman of a freedman will think something’s going on.”

  So they went back.

  “Get your advice?” Narcissus fluffed.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you take it?”

  “Probably.”

  “There!” Narcissus exclaimed, like the nanny Vespasian had called him; Vespasian, to his credit, openly winced.

  Unable to bear any more of this, Caenis was determined to go home. Narcissus embraced her as he usually did when she left. He said to Vespasian (so Caenis began to wonder just how many conversations about her these two had held), “I’ll have to fix her up with a nice tolerant widower; somebody brave, someone the Empire owes a favor to—”

  Caenis broke free. “Oh, you brass-necked cretin! Being saddled with a half-baked widower is not what I require at all.”

  Even Vespasian crackled, “Great gods, Narcissus—leave the poor girl alone!”

  For a second she felt they were haggling over her, as Vespasian had once done with Antonia. They talked across her, about her, at her, with men’s knowing air. They liked to flatter themselves they could help in her business affairs. They liked to fidget when she showed distress. Because they were men they were competitive. Neither wanted her. Neither wanted to know anything of her private aches. But neither wanted the other to show he knew her best.

  Vespasian held out his hand. In front of Narcissus, she really had no choice; Caenis gave him her own. A Consul probably shook hands with hundreds of people every day. But not crushing most of them in such a deliberate grip. “Antonia Caenis.”

  When he spoke her name she had to look away.

  * * *

  After she had gone, Narcissus agitated primly, “Thanks. Anything happen?”

  “We had a brief but bloody fight.” Vespasian was staring at him. “Nothing unusual.”

  “Actually, I was afraid that seeing you might upset her.”

  Some grim jest twitched at one corner of the Consul’s mouth.

  “She’s all right,” he said. Helpless, Narcissus realized the full extent of the mistake he had made. “She’s used to it,” Vespasian stated drably. Then, after the faintest pause, “No doubt one day I’ll get used to it myself.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Claudius had married Agrippina on the New Year’s Day immediately following Messalina’s death. On that occasion Caenis made an excuse not to attend the wedding. She could not in conscience offer her support.

  On the day Claudius was married, Lucius Silanus, who had been betrothed for years to the Emperor’s infant daughter, Octavia, accepted the inevitable and committed suicide (a heavy hint that he was in disgrace had been dropped when he was struck off as praetor with only one day of the magistracy left to serve). Agrippina’s son by her previous marriage, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, was betrothed to Octavia instead.

  At Agrippina’s urging, Ahenobarbus was soon also adopted by Claudius. This raised some eyebrows. No outsider had ever been adopted into the patrician Claudian house, and besides, the Emperor had a son of his own; the adoption unnecessarily supplanted Britannicus. As a newcomer to the family Ahenobarbus took a Claudian surname; now he was called Nero.

  One of the arguments used by Pallas to secure Nero’s adoption was that Claudius ought to arrange a protector for his own boy. Ironically, from then on, even during his father’s lifetime, Britannicus was treated at the Palace as an unwelcome guest of doubtful parentage; any slaves or freedmen loyal to him were gradually removed, and officers in the army who gave him their allegiance were encouraged to transfer abroad or promoted out of the way. His new brother gave him no support; entirely the opposite.

  Next, Claudius agreed that Nero should be declared of age early, and start his public career. He became a consul designate without holding other positions, and was styled Prince of Youth. There was a difficult scene when Britannicus refused to address him by his adopted name. Britannicus was disciplined, his best tutors were dismissed, and he lost even more of his slaves.

  At the age of sixteen Nero married Octavia. This made Octavia his sister, his cousin, and his wife; Claudius was both his father and father-in-law. Even by the contorted standards of the Julio-Claudian house it was unusual. Nero arranged celebratory Games in honor of the Emperor, appearing himself in full triumphal robes while Britannicus wore the usual narrow-striped tunic of a boy at school. People in the audience exchanged old-fashioned looks.

  There was now a most unfortunate change: Britannicus briefly became popular again. Claudius, who for a long time after Messalina’s death had viewed Britannicus with painful reserve, seemed to rediscover his original dislike of Nero, who was indeed regarded as highly unpleasant by all people of style and taste. Instead, the Emperor took to flinging his arms round Britannicus whenever they met, quoting darkly in Greek and exclaiming, “Grow up quickly, my boy, and your father will tell you his plan!”

  Britannicus had become a stoical child. He took all this in apparent good part. He had two sensible allies throughout; one was Narcissus. The other, who held no official post, so she could never be dismissed, was his grandmother’s freedwoman Antonia Caenis.

  * * *

  Caenis and Britannicus became good friends. Caenis was well-presented enough to carry a sniff of danger for an adolescent boy, yet ancient enough to be safe; she said she refused to mother him, though when he needed it she always did. Britannicus had been brought up rather primly; she discussed politics with him in a way that sounded treasonous and told him stories that were definitely rude. They played a private game of challenging each other in any situation to find a song from the drama to fit. He had an excellent voice. It was natural that Caenis should be drawn to a child growing up in the Palace so starved of affection yet so good-humored and sane.

  She was giving Britannicus secret shorthand coaching so he could catch up with one of the other boys who shared his education. It was while they were practicing, ready to surprise the Other Boy, that the door flung open and someone shot into the room. There was no doubt who it was. It had to be the competitive rival, because Britannicus, with great presence of mind, slipped his notebook down the back of his reading couch and adjusted a vase to hide the water clock by which he had been timing himself. Then he winked at Caenis.

  She had never seen him before, but she recognized the Other Boy at once.

  Her protégé, Britannicus, was by now as tall as many men, with the same gaunt neck and prominent ears as his father; at thirteen he was going through a gangly, self-conscious phase. Since their mother’s death both he and his sister Octavia were understandably solemn and withdrawn. This boy was quite different. Britannicus’ friend—they were obviously friends—was a short, square, dynamic tugboat of a boy. He was built with the graceful solidity of an obelisk. He had a thick thatch of tightly curling hair, and though his nose was straighter than his father’s, an identical upjerking chin and rectangular brow.

  “Aha! New ladylove?” he cried, stopping in surprise. Britannicus blushed; he was old enough to be interested, yet young enough to be terrified of women.

  Caenis tried to adopt the air of a sophisticated, extremely expensive witch. “You must be Titus!” she divined coolly. “Titus Flavius Vespasianus, son of Titus, voting tribe Quirina, citizen of Reate.”

  Both children were deeply impressed.

  “This is the face-detector?” Titus demanded of Britannicus eagerly.

  Britannicus replied with a nicely suave, secretive smile. He was learning fast; it was wonderful to watch. “Just a friend,” he tormented the other, who was bursting with curiosity. “Going to give me a second opinion, I hope.”

  Caenis endured the odd experience of being eyed appraisingly by Vespasian’s teenaged son.

  * * *

  It turned out that Narcissus was still worrying over his dynasty, pointless though that was beginning to appear. He had called in a physiognomist, someone who would tell Britannicus’ fortune from his face. Since Narcissus entered the room almost immediately with this character, Caenis had no opportunity to say to the boys just what she thought of that.

  The seer was an overweight greasy Chaldean in a shiny emerald overshirt, his knuckles carbuncled with mysterious scarab rings. He wore bright green laced-up pointed shoes: Caenis had made it her lifelong rule never to trust a man with peculiar footwear.

  Narcissus, who knew just what she would think about this business, avoided meeting her eye; he was obviously hoping Caenis would go away. She crossed her ankles calmly, looked dignified, and stayed. When Britannicus noticed how Narcissus was flapping he winked at Caenis again. She had taught him to wink. His upbringing had been first at the hands of slaves hand-picked by Messalina as easy to manipulate, then seedy nominees chosen by Agrippina out of spite; it had been uninspiring, and totally neglected useful social accomplishments. Still, he could sing, and he did; no one would ever be a complete failure while he could sing.

  Britannicus was poignantly nervous of having his face read. Narcissus and the physiognomist at last finished fiddling about, setting a stool in the best light. Caenis placed herself behind their reluctant subject, resting her light protective hands on his shoulders and staring belligerently at the Chaldean over the top of the prince’s head. Young Titus scrambled over and knelt beside the stool to get a good view of what went on. As Caenis said to them afterward, it was sensible to be nervous of someone who smelled of such a strange mixture of patchouli and onions.

  The physiognomist stood in silence, looking at Britannicus from directly in front. He came close, giving the Emperor’s son a full blast of his onions, then lifted Britannicus’ chin on one finger. At a younger age Britannicus would certainly have bitten him. At thirteen he was, thank the gods, too proud.

  The physiognomist stepped back. Caenis and Britannicus stopped holding their breath. The Chaldean turned to Narcissus. “No,” he said offhandedly, and prepared to leave.

  Even Narcissus seemed nonplussed.

  Titus, who was lively as a monkey in a warehouse of soft fruit, was bursting to ask a question, but he was forestalled. Narcissus had not been a bureaucrat for thirty years in order to be baffled by the mysteries of Ur. “No?” he challenged briskly. The pained monosyllable indicated that this verdict was too short, too vague, and much too expensive for the Privy Purse.

  “No,” repeated the Chaldean. Sensing a proposed abatement in his fee, he condescended to explain: “He will never succeed his father. I presume that is what you wish to know?”

  It seemed to Caenis that anyone with the smallest knowledge of Claudian family life—or as much awareness of recent history as could be gleaned from skimming lightly through the obituaries in the Daily Gazette—would be able to make that prophecy.

  “Are you sure?” Narcissus was bound to be disappointed.

  “Certainly!” The man brushed him aside with an irritation that Caenis quite enjoyed.

  He was heading for the door, but Narcissus liked to get his money’s worth from specialists. “So what do you expect to happen to him instead?”

  A prince learns to put up with impertinence; Britannicus did not move.

  The physiognomist gave Narcissus a pitying look. “He will live out his span, sir, as we all must, then as we all must he will die.”

  “How long is the span?” urged the Chief Secretary harshly.

  This time Caenis felt the long-limbed boy tense beneath her hands. At once she stated curtly, “Britannicus prefers not to know!”

  The physiognomist seemed to like her firmness; he nodded to the boy. Some things were confidential to the victim, apparently, even when the Privy Purse was footing the bill. Narcissus had to subside.

  Only when he reached the door did the man turn back. “Of course,” he said, “the other will.”

  There was a small pause. He had hardly glanced at Titus the whole time. No one liked to risk offending the man again, but when the attendant started to lift the door curtain, so she thought they were going to lose him, Caenis demanded patiently, “Titus will what?”

  The Chaldean did not hesitate. “He will succeed his father.”

  “As what?”

  “As whatever his father is or becomes!” Even Caenis was making his hackles rise. “I cannot tell you that, lady, without seeing the father’s face.”

  Caenis laughed. She pointed to her Sabine friend’s son, then told the man in ringing tones, “There! Is there no imagination in the Chaldees? Add a nose like a boxer on the brink of retirement, and you have it.”

  For the first time the man showed that he too could smile. “Ah, that face!” he mocked. (He was not being paid for Titus, let alone his Sabine papa.) “That would be the face of a nobody.”

  Then at once Caenis wished she had not asked, because although she was certain Vespasian himself would have roared with delight, the poor child kneeling beside Britannicus was bitterly upset. She was so concerned about Titus, it caught her off guard when the Chaldean asked quietly, “And your own face, my lady? Will you not ask?”

  Yet she found an answer for him: “Oh, that has been prophesied,” said Caenis, with a slight smile. “Of my face one has said, ‘It can never be upon the coinage.’ ”