“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 realized 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 theater. I’ve found out about it. It’s a water organ—some newfangled 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. “Afterward,” 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 was 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 realized just how badly she wanted to go. She reached a rapid, defiant decision: “I would 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 specialty. 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 he 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 realized 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 honor 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 across from her. 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’ shouting 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.

  Dressing to go out had taken her longer than usual—even though Caenis was impatient of fiddling and liked to follow a steady routine. Now preparing for sleep took no time at all. Her elegant white-and-gold gown was already over the back of a chair; she felt spitefully glad she had decided against a brighter color, which she knew Vespasian would prefer. She poured water for herself, one-handedly scrubbing the cosmetics from her face with a sponge. There came a succession of angry sounds at the snapping down of hairpins and brooches; then her bangle clanged on the shelf. The decorative hairstyle that had taken Chloe an hour to create took Caenis two minutes to unwind before she was bending forward to comb the tangled mass with brisk swishing strokes. She stopped muttering, but among all the noise that she had introduced she failed to notice the distant knocking, then a low murmur of voices. In her room, after more vicious combing, she straightened with a great sweep of hair; then one earring chinked.

  Aglaus knocked quickly and entered at once, carefully closing the door. Caenis did not encourage anyone to come into her room without permission; something had occurred. “Excuse me, madam; your friend’s popped back. . . .”

  She understood his haste, and the low voice. Then Vespasian himself opened the door.

  Aglaus was shocked. “Oh! Sir! I know there are special rules for heroes, but the lady’s in her bedroom in her slip!”

  She was perfectly decent, in a good undertunic from neck to floor, yet she felt deeply embarrassed. Vespasian quickly brushed courtesies aside. “Sorry, Caenis. Something I meant to say.” Somewhere, perhaps in her own hall, he had shed the heavy folds of his toga. It made him look much more comfortable: the country boy with brown arms and his tunic slouched over his belt.

  Aglaus was an excellent steward. He had a fine ear, or eye, or whatever it took, for dealing with visitors just as his lady required. His problems started when Caenis herself did not know what she wanted to do. Scooping up her trail of discarded shoes, shawl, belt, he crossed swiftly and forced the shutters closed, snuffing the outside noise. It gave her time to think. “I’ll ask one of the girls—”

  Caenis found she was furious, though not with him. “Don’t bother. Thanks, Aglaus.”

  “Right. Well! As things seem to be so informal I expect you can let the gent out for yourself.”

  “I expect I can,” Caenis agreed grimly. “Good night, Aglaus.”

  He stomped off in a huff.

  Then once again they were alone. Because she was so flustered, Caenis began speaking too rapidly: “Vespasian, I never was a proud girl, but I would not from choice receive you in my slippers with my face paint all scrubbed off!”

  He stayed where he was, in the center of the room.

  “Luckily I had not yet put my teeth away in their silver box and my wig on its stand. . . .” She wished she had not said that, for it made her self-conscious about having her hair loose. She was too old; it looked foolish. It was her own hair really; they were indeed her own teeth. He might not recognize the joke.

  She turned away to replace the comb on her dressing shelf, only to hear him approach. She spun back, but it was worse; he had come right behind her, so she turned almost into his arms. Drawing an agitated breath, she stepped away, but was stopped by the shelf behind her. A warm tremor shimmered over her skin.

  “You’ve still got one earring—” Vespasian offered simply, beginning to reach for it.

  “I can manage!” She wrenched it off and hurled it to join its fellow with another skedaddling chink. He had lost her goodwill. She wanted him to go.

  “Calm down,” he appealed, though a gleam in his eyes said frankly that she would not be Caenis unless she were pointlessly ranting, most of the time. He was not the least put out by it. “What’s the matter?”

  Caenis sighed; she heard Vespasian grunt; they both relaxed. “What did you come to say?” she asked in a quieter tone.

  In his aimless, curious way he picked up her bangle. “Did I give you this?”

  “You did.” She was terse with irritation; their two names were still engraved clearly enough inside.

  “Sweet of you to take it out.”

  “I wear it every day. It’s good gold, and I’m fond of it.”

  He put it down. “It’s very plain. Would you like a better one?”

  “No.”

  Now he was at the earrings. “Who gave you those?”

  “Marius.”

  For a moment he needed to think who Marius was; she enjoyed that. He dropped the earrings quickly into a box where they did not belong. Tetchily, Caenis moved them out of the box to a tray. On reflection she remembered that these—gold acorns dangling from rectangles of green glass that could almost pass for emeralds—were a present from Veronica. She decided not to correct herself.

  For the first time their eyes really met. She and Vespasian had never been shy with one another; they were shy now.

  “I’m frightened to touch you,” he admitted, very close and quiet. Frightened or not, she found he was looping up a strand of her hair on one finger to watch the light shimmer along it.

  Caenis tossed her head to pull free, but she replied sensibly enough, “I’m not used to you anymore; you’re not used to me.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just the same.”

  He was so close that Caenis could see the intentions forming in his face; instinctively she put her hands on his shoulders as if to keep him at a distance. His face set.

  “You are the Hero of Britain!” she scoffed. Conscience dissolved her. She was at least old enough now to ask directly for what she wanted. She intended him to know it was her choice. Her voice dropped. “Would that Hero accept a kiss from an admirer?”

  Vespasian frowned, evaluating the change in her mood.

  Without waiting she leaned forward and kissed him—a mere brush of the lips like a moth landing on a sleeper’s face in the night. It was really to see what he would do. He closed his eyes briefly, but otherwise hardly moved.

  The sensation of their kiss clung with alarming intensity even when she drew away. Vespasian prevented her moving again with one warm hand on her shoulder, his fingers catching in her hair. Caenis could hear the blood in her own veins. He looked desperately sad; at first she thought she had made a terrible mistake.

  The mistake was in doubting him. Suddenly she could see how great his self-control had been. She glimpsed the moment when he broke. He began to draw close to kiss her conventionally, but it was too much for him. “Oh, lass!”

  Then her cheek banged against his as they hugged one another like people meeting on a quayside after a long separation in far distant countries, two people falling into one another’s arms and holding each other tight as if they would never be able to let go.

  After a while his breathing eased, and she heard him whisper hoarsely, “What can I say to you?”

  Still locked in his embrace, never wanting it to end, Caenis closed her eyes. Buried in the braided edge on his tunic, her face had crumpled. She would not let him see her misery, but he must know; he must be able to feel her shaking. “I suppose the Hero of Britain has a great many women asking to go to bed with him?”

  “Some.”

  “And what about my old friend Vespasian?”

  “Poor unimportant beggar—rather less!”

  Caenis leaned away so she could look at him. Her face was drawn. His too. “Well, there’s an offer here—if he wants it.”

  She watched the shadows go out of his expression, to be replaced by some tenderness that she could not bear to contemplate. He released her completely, with a small open-palmed gesture, but his hand found hers as at once they walked together to the bed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Caenis had begun to believe she could not do it.

  Nothing was going to happen. The situation was too important, and she was still standing on her dignity. It was all going wrong. She felt lumped like wood, an unresponsive trunk.

  She had accepted it. She was content merely to be with him, content with whatever companionship there inevitably was, and yet despite herself she must have made some sound. Hearing her distress, he stopped. “Sorry.”

  She realized he had been waiting for her. She kept perfectly still. He was not a man with whom she wanted to pretend.

  Being careful to disturb nothing else, Vespasian stretched one arm to the small table at the side of the bed and gradually moved the tiny pottery lamp that gave the only light in the room. She realized, with misgivings, it was the lamp she hated, where a satyr and a faun were doing unspeakable things to each other around the air hole and the wick. She was relieved he left it there.

  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.