At the Forum they had paused. They had come on to the Via Sacra, just by the round Temple of Vesta with its little pointed roof and distinctive latticework. Looking to their left down the long southern edge of the Forum, past the Julian courthouse and the massive portico of the Temple of Saturn, they could see at the far end the Tabularium, solid as a harbor wall around the base of the Capitol. Above it, the brow of the hill stood shockingly altered. Gone was the glittering roof of the Temple of Jupiter, gone the Temple itself. All the buildings that clothed the lower flanks of the hill were blackened; some leaned dangerously, others were reduced to occasional half-walls upthrust in stark jags to the evening sky. To the far right beside the prison, deserted and deceptively bathed in sunlight, lay the Gemonian Steps, where the bodies of dead traitors were flung.

  Without a word they moved on.

  It was the time of the evening that took the breath away. As the dusk fell, there was always this magical moment in Rome, when the tufa blocks of the buildings and the pavements seemed to reflect their own glow, exuding an aureole of mellow golden light, faintly tinged rose, as if that light had been held back like the day’s warmth within the city’s stones and now slowly released itself. The freedman with the blue chin smiled.

  A city of statues. At every crossroad, on every level, before and beside every temple, clustering around every square: faces both men knew so well they normally hardly noticed them became suddenly vivid that evening. Some tranquil eyes stared out over their heads; others followed them. The gods, the generals, the Caesars—impassive noble faces in gilded marble and bronze, soon to be joined by Vespasian’s wrinkled brow and blithe expression. Catching Aglaus’ thought, his companion smiled faintly too. His expression was ironical.

  A city of water. The fountains played only a little sluggishly as the pressure sank after an exceptional draft of millions of gallons had been sucked from the aqueducts into the bathhouses, which took priority. Fountain spray drifted across the deserted streets in a fine haze. Occasionally as they crossed a paved-in conduit they could hear the chuckling of the water that rushed so energetically from the baths toward the mighty caverns of the main sewers.

  The Romans were in their houses. After the joyous excitement of their Emperor’s long-awaited entry that afternoon, only their litter remained behind in the streets. They were at home, snatching at food, loudly comparing notes on what they had managed to see. Later that night every one of them was to sit down by voting tribe and district to a thanksgiving banquet, the whole city feasting like a big cheerful family presided over by their fatherly Emperor.

  Once the Emperor was known to be in residence, the city had relaxed. He would be living, since it existed, in Nero’s dreadful Golden House; its hated entrance was opposite them now, studded with gemstones and glittering gold, its approach from the Forum surrounded by a triple colonnade. Nearby stood the mighty bronze Colossus: Nero in a radiate crown, dominating the skyline from every direction.

  Something would have to be done about all that, Vespasian had already decreed. The extensive grounds of the Golden House must be restored as soon as possible to public use. For the rest, perhaps the best thing would be to pull it all down, fill in that vast lake, then build over the crater something for all Rome: some wonder to unite the city and excite the world. . . . He and Titus could always live in the old Palace of Tiberius and Caligula. That place of tall cold corridors, rarely used staterooms, abandoned offices. And pantries.

  He had asked after Caenis. He had been told what she had said.

  At the Golden House, after his baggage was brought in, the Emperor had made a personal sacrifice to his household gods. “Who arranged for my lares to be here?”

  Standing beside him, his teenaged granddaughter Flavia raged through her teeth, “Who do you think?”

  Caenis.

  Afterward Flavia Domitilla interviewed her grandfather just long enough to accept the present he had brought her, then to inform him that in the matter of Caenis he was an unprincipled pig. The Emperor Vespasian would be famous for allowing people to be frank. “Thanks for the opinion!” growled her grandfather to Flavia. “Come and give me a kiss.”

  “No,” said Flavia. He looked at her with mooning eyes. She knew what Caenis would say. So Flavia, who was fiercely fond of her grand-papa, gave him a pecky kiss.

  Shaken, the Emperor requested a bedroom—not too fancy and nothing Nero had ever used—where before the banquet that evening he could give his elderly bones a quiet lie-down. Someone with no sense asked if they should provide a girl for him. He stared.

  Then the Emperor said, no thanks; he had always preferred to provide his own.

  * * *

  Aglaus and his friend had reached the Porta Nomentana. They walked more quickly, for here people were standing about looking curious. The Via Nomentana, home to a famous female resident, had been expecting something better than one seedy chamberlain today. In a small crowd outside the Gate there was an air of disappointment, mingled with lingering hope. Aglaus saluted those who greeted him. He seemed harassed and unfriendly. His companion, modestly smothered in an old mulberry-colored cloak with its clasp hanging off by a thread, looked endearingly shy. Behind them a dog barked; then, when Aglaus spun angrily, it scampered away.

  Aglaus banged on the door, but although the parade was over the porter had not returned. He swore briefly, then scrambled to get out his own keys. He swiftly unlocked the formidable ironmongery, talking now all the time. He was beginning to feel nervous. The dead silence of the deserted house gave him an unexpected chill.

  “Come in. Mind how you step. There may still be water about. You must be entering the cleanest house in Rome; try not to slip on the tiles. Let me relieve you of that terrible cloak. Today all Rome took to the streets, but in this house we polished up our door-furniture and washed our frescoes down. All Rome troops off to cheer, but our lady tucks her skirt in her belt and scrubs out the latrine. We, sir, have rearranged our sideboards, swept our steps, and poked out the nasty desiccated things that were lying in dark crevices under the beds. . . .”

  He lowered his voice as they crossed the atrium.

  He went first. That way Caenis would have her moment of warning, his companion a moment of grace, and Aglaus his moment of fun.

  “Madam?”

  He opened the door to its widest extent. Amid the quiet barley-and-buttermilk tones of her house blazed one bright nub of brilliant sapphire blue. Caenis sat upright in a chair opposite the door. She was holding her plain gold bangle between her two hands in her lap. She looked as if she had a headache. Her eyes were closed. She was completely still. Someone drew a scorching breath.

  At an involuntary movement, light shivered among the delicate scrolls of embroidery at the neck of her vivid blue robe. To have supposed her anything other than fiercely alive was to misunderstand her completely. She seemed pale, but neat, alert, ready to be marvelously truculent.

  “Madam, I’d like to introduce my friend.”

  She opened her eyes. She looked up. She scowled. Aglaus swallowed. The man behind him frowned.

  Caenis assumed the restrained expression of a first-class secretary to whom an ill-timed request had just been made to give priority to an illegible draft many pages long. But before she could say anything, her freedman announced with a clarity that proved he had been practicing: “Antonia Caenis: Here is Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Conqueror of Britain and Hero of Judaea; Vespasianus Caesar Augustus—Consul, Chief Priest, father of his country, and Emperor of Rome!”

  Her Sabine friend. She had expected him, of course.

  FORTY-TWO

  “Hello, Caenis.”

  Unsmiling, his dark gaze absorbed her.

  “Hail Caesar!” Caenis retorted, trying not to let it sound like an insult. He received it quietly enough. After a year of Egyptian flummery, presumably he was used to it.

  Caenis saw Aglaus nervously shift his weight.

  “Don’t worry,” Vespasian reassured him, without moving. “The first thing she ever said to me was ‘Skip over the Styx!’ ” From the front he was completely bald. Still, his character would always come from that light in his eyes and the handsome muscles of his face. “As you see, I’m still here.”

  “And how long,” murmured Aglaus, newly suave, “will your Caesarship be staying?”

  His Caesarship pronounced ominously: “As long as it takes.”

  Aglaus went straight out and closed the door.

  * * *

  “Don’t get up,” he said as he paced farther in. “I’m sick of people bobbing about.”

  She did not get up. “What are you doing here?”

  He was taking off his shoes. Slowly he went to a couch. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “You live with me.”

  “I can’t come.”

  “I’ve come to fetch you.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Overruled. Privilege of my rank!”

  “Not in my house.”

  “All right.” Vespasian eased himself onto the couch, where he reclined on his elbow. “I’ve brought nothing to eat, since you’ll be coming to dinner. Titus sent some Persian slippers; your freedman has those in case you decide to wear them tonight. When you come you’ll find a great bale of Tyrian silk, some crystal from Ptolomais, and one or two decent books I found for you in Alexandria. Plus—if you want it—a ravenous appetite for taking you to bed.”

  Their eyes locked for an interesting moment.

  “You don’t want it,” he observed, testing her. She did. He knew she did.

  He could not waste time. The Praetorians would soon come crawling through the city nosing after their lost charge, before they became a laughingstock. He had stolen his last stroll as a private citizen. Emperors could never slope off by themselves.

  “Now! Is this about Berenice? Want me to explain?”

  Caenis was torn between relief, pride, and sheer nastiness. “No thanks; I am expertly briefed: At Caesarea Philippi after reducing Jotapata, Vespasian was entertained by King Agrippa—and his sister. High standards of entertainment at Caesarea Philippi! If you must tangle with a slut, dear, it may as well be one crusted with emeralds and decently crowned. They tell me she’s forty but ravishing.”

  He actually laughed. It was a soft, engaging laugh, with her and not against her. “Oh she’s a lovely girl!” he exclaimed laconically.

  Caenis became furiously sarcastic: “And Titus admires her too? What a positive sense of family she has! . . . I’m sorry.” She hated to quarrel.

  “Fair enough.” So did he.

  “Oh, you’re so understanding I could spit!”

  Suddenly Caenis found she did not care about Berenice. Titus was supposed to be seriously in love with the woman; best leave it at that. There would be enough to do trying to ensure that that damned romantic Titus was not too badly hurt.

  Of course, worrying about the Emperor’s son was not for her.

  She was squinting at Vespasian’s feet. Everyone knew he had stopped an arrow at the siege of Jotapata. There had been so much blood and pain he had fainted; then the army panicked, until Titus galloped up distraught, thinking him dead. Now Vespasian raised one foot quietly so she could inspect the healed scar. She realized it was unlikely Queen Berenice had been able to conduct two separate conversations with him at the same time. He was a very private man.

  He was staring at her. Caenis glared back. He was vividly tanned. He was covered with purple—gaudy folds of the stuff drooping almost to the floor—and so stiff with padded gold she could hardly take it in. Embroidered acanthus leaves writhed about his neck. Her familiar friend had become something abominable. Thank the gods he had left his wreath behind; she could not have stomached the sight of him ceremonially crowned.

  Yet he looked utterly right. He was matter-of-fact in his new splendor, slightly rumpled after a long day, and ignoring the effect he must know all that color and bullion braid would make. This was the man for Rome. Rome looked to this man, and his gifted sons, for common sense and stability. Rome would not be disappointed: a quiet life with high taxes, business moving in the law courts, and elegant new civic buildings. Order in the provinces and fine wares in the marketplace. Oratory valued, but philosophy too dangerous: old-fashioned public service virtues. Music and the arts modestly encouraged. Plenty of work for schoolteachers, accountants, and engineers. Decent statues set up in safe clean streets to an amiable Emperor whose way of life would be notorious only for its simplicity.

  None of the Caesars had ever kept a concubine. Yet after the antics of the Claudians, would anybody notice? Would anybody care?

  They were silent together, as only friends can be. The longer he stayed with her the more difficult parting would be, yet Caenis felt calmed by his presence in a way she had not dared to expect. It was impossible to pretend to feel hostility. Between them lay too great a legacy of frankness in the past.

  Vespasian was remembering that astrologer at the Theater of Balbus, who said her face could never be upon the coinage. On the obverse the old man, grinning with embarrassment; flip over—only some suitable religious scene: Mars perhaps, or Fortune. He needed a great coin issue; soon would have to decide its design.

  Not Caenis; no. Thinking of all the prinked madams who did make it through the mint—Messalina with corrugated rolls of hair all across her great fat head, or starched Livia with her long nose and that wild squint, or worst, Agrippina—he was glad. Caenis would never belong in that mad company. Besides, no dye-cutter could catch her character. And he would not like to see her debased, reduced, diminished to some staring nag in an improbable coiffure: Caenis slipping through the filthy fingers of fishmongers and fornicators; Caenis dropped down drains at all the outposts of the Empire; Caenis cemented under the footings of every barracks and basilica.

  Yet the man in the booth had known it; she was his life’s true reverse.

  “So much to tell you!” His voice was soft. Spotting her stiff look, he added wryly, “And no doubt one or two points of order you intend putting to me.”

  Certainly: Cremona; the Flavian generals; Domitian; Sabinus; whatever Vespasian could have imagined he was doing when he let himself be lured into faith-healing at Alexandria . . . Caenis said none of it. For one thing, he knew. For another, he probably agreed with her.

  “I’m a republican,” she told him.

  “Every Caesar should keep one,” he returned patiently.

  “I shall always say what I think.”

  “Wonderful—” He moved abruptly. “Look at me, Caenis! Just look, will you? Well?”

  “What?” She pretended she could not fathom him. She noticed there were laughter lines, seamed white by the desert sun, at the corners of his eyes. “What?” she demanded again gruffly, though she knew.

  “Look here! This man collapsed on your couch is Vespasian—older, balder, paunchier, a little more scratchy and a great deal more slow. Tired out with grief and sick of Eastern food, yet your man . . .”

  His tone dropped. “Why won’t you come?” he asked.

  “You would be disgraced—”

  “You’re worth it.”

  “Oh, stop staring!”

  “Stop ranting! I’m just looking at you. Such a relief to be in the same room again. See you. Hear your voice . . . To wonder which of us will win.”

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Of course. Been longing for a wrangle with you.” Caenis was blindingly tired. She knew he could see it. He was offering to let her bury her weariness in him. “Your house was always so wonderfully peaceful, lass. . . . You look all in; have you had anything to eat today?”

  “No.”

  He was reaching for the handbell, but she stopped him with a violent shake of her head. He gave her a look that said she would dine decently tonight if he had to grip her jaws and force in the food, like feeding medicine to a sick dog. Caenis stared down at the floor. When she looked up again Vespasian mouthed her a kiss, like some liquid-eyed lad lounging on the steps of a temple, annoying female passers-by. She could not help it; she blushed.

  “You had better go,” she told him. “The banquet.”

  He shrugged. He stopped flirting and became more businesslike. “Entirely up to you. If you don’t want to go, we’ll just have a quiet night in. I don’t mind. Might as well enjoy my position. Entire city reclines at table formally, only to be told: The Emperor is having a bite of supper at home instead. Don’t suppose they’ll mind either, so long as they all get a nice slice of goose in sesame sauce and a pomegranate to take home.”

  He was being ridiculous. Caenis ignored him.

  He waited a short time, then tried again. “Caenis, don’t renege. I never asked you, ‘Live with me just until something better crops up.’ ”

  “No. No; you were always generous to me. Don’t worry; I won’t grumble or throw vases or make you watch me cry—”

  “No,” he answered bleakly. “I remember that. But don’t you know your stricken face haunted me for twenty years?”

  Caenis thought she knew. “I forgot to say,” she murmured, soothing him because he was upset, “you may of course keep my set of silver knives.”

  “Oh thanks! Those were all I was worrying about.” She saw him sigh slightly, still in a low mood. She gazed at him with smiling eyes until she knew he had rallied, because he exclaimed, with one of his surges of energy, “Caenis, stop clinging to your rock like a stubborn winkle! Lass, you have your fixed view of what you are allowed—not much. An emperor invites you to dinner with all Rome, and you have to prove that you’re still down-to-earth by cleaning out the lavatory yourself!”

  “I keep a tidy house,” she muttered defiantly.

  “You’ll keep a tidy palace.”