“No man?”

  Better prepared now, she was able to duck the question: “Men are not nice, lord. Sometimes useful, occasionally amusing, hardly ever genuine, and never nice.”

  “Women are worse; they cost a lot and still let you down.” He was teasing. She let it pass.

  “Actually, I go by myself because I seriously object when idiots talk to me through the music.”

  He smiled, because he recognized that was just like her. She was as single-minded as himself. “Who’s doing the mime?”

  “Blathyllos.”

  “Any good? I might come too. I don’t talk; I always go to sleep. Luckily I never snore.”

  They could not go to the theater as a couple. They would not be permitted to sit together; even women of his own rank must watch separately. Antonia’s slave should not be seen alone with him in any case. But he asked, without hesitation, “Would you meet me afterward?” Absorbing herself in biting a peppercorn from the pickled fish, Caenis tried not to answer. He interpreted her silence his own way. “Where shall I find you?”

  Too late; she was committed. Her heart pounded. “A young lord who does not know the theater rendezvous?” she reproved, still foolishly attempting to slither out of this.

  “Sheltered upbringing.”

  “Bit old-fashioned?” There was no escape. The truth had to be stated. She reminded him baldly: “I am somebody else’s slave.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Defiance overtook her. “Well then, if you mean it, you could meet me here beforehand. Ask anyone; they will find me.”

  For the first time the senator’s brother seemed uncomfortable. “Who shall I ask for?” His sources of information must be thinner than hers.

  She took a deep breath. Giving her name seemed a step she could never revoke. “Caenis,” she said awkwardly.

  “Caenis?” He tested it out in his strong voice. It was Greek; that was only a convention of slavery. “Caenis!” he exclaimed again, and his speaking her name made everything unbearably intimate.

  “Just Caenis,” she muttered.

  “Just nothing!” he retorted angrily. She guessed he meant she should not denigrate herself. “And listen, Caenis: Always ask a visitor who he is!” He was evidently wanting her to ask his own name. “The most dismal words in the world are ‘Someone called to see you; I don’t know who it was. . . . Don’t be put at a disadvantage. You can’t afford to be pushed into assumptions about anybody’s status; you need to know for sure. You have to judge whether a person rates refreshments or only your polished sneer.” He stood up. “So in answer to your next question—”

  He must have thought she would have forgotten. She interrupted calmly: “Your name is Titus Flavius Vespasianus.” He began to grin with delight at once. She recited in her most efficient voice: “Your father was Flavius Sabinus, a citizen of Reate, so your voting tribe is the Quirina; your mother is Vespasia Polla. You wear the gold ring of the knights. Your patron is the elevated Lucius Vitellius, who brings your brother to Antonia’s house—”

  “Do you speak to my brother?” he interrupted in surprise.

  “No, certainly not.” She was determined to reach her joke: “You are a second son with no reputation, but respectable, so I need to be polite.” Vespasian clenched the corner of his mouth in anticipation; he possessed a rapidly developing sense of humor and liked what he had glimpsed of hers. So Caenis said, knowing how much he would enjoy it, “As for your rating refreshments, lord—I worked out your status the first time we met!”

  FIVE

  When Vespasian came to get her he held out his hand and swiftly clasped hers. Nobody had ever done that before.

  “Hello, Caenis.” With the greeting his voice dropped half a tone. Her breath tangled somewhere above her middle ribs as she withdrew her hand with care.

  “Hello . . .” She did not know how to address him.

  He gazed at her for a moment inscrutably. “Titus,” he instructed.

  Very few people ever used his personal name. In the offhand Roman way his whole family was named Titus—grandfather, father, brothers, and cousins all the same—so people called him Vespasian, even at home. This intimacy offered to Caenis was the measure of the mistake the man was letting himself make. Presumably he did not realize; Caenis did.

  “You look nice.”

  For once she smiled. Antonia had given her a new dress.

  * * *

  She had felt compelled to mention him to Antonia.

  “Madam, when I go to the theater this evening, I have made an arrangement to meet a gentleman.” The statement plunged her into visible difficulty. Doubt was transfiguring her mistress’s face.

  They had been in a room at Livia’s House where the walls were decorated with elegant swags of greenery looped between columns, below a high golden frieze portraying tiny figures in dreamy cityscapes. Antonia reclined in a long sloping chair, while Caenis perched on a low stool with a tablet on her knees. Antonia liked to work hard without distractions, but once they finished, sometimes she kept back her secretary for a few moments of casual talk. It did her good to unbend. She tired more easily nowadays than she wanted to admit. She had lived twice as long as many people and survived more griefs than most.

  The old lady stirred. Her well-attended skin had preserved its sweet suppleness until now, but her face had grown thinner, and since Livilla’s disgrace despair was beginning to show in the fine creases at the corners of her eyes.

  The moment had become awkward.

  “Why are you telling me?” Antonia demanded. “Do you wish me to forbid it?”

  Caenis was taking an enormous risk. When the Chief Secretary, Diadumenus, had first stipulated that Antonia must be told of any approaches from knights or senators, he had meant approaches on business matters; there ought to be no other kind of commerce with their lady’s slaves.

  “I prefer to be open, madam.”

  In other households it was usually understood that other commerce did occur. . . . Not here. Or if here, it never happened openly.

  Even after knowing Caenis for several years, Antonia immediately decided her slave had loose morals and would be easy prey for a political shark. It was unfair; Caenis had always been scrupulous.

  “You ask me to condone the friendship? How long have you been dealing with this man?”

  Caenis said tersely, “I don’t deal with him. I don’t even know if he expects it.”

  Antonia moved impatiently. “Come; who is he?”

  “Flavius Vespasianus, a knight from Reate. The family is not prominent, though his brother, Sabinus, has been here as a client of Lucius Vitellius. Madam, you asked me long ago if I had male followers, and I told you no.”

  There was some improvement in Antonia’s expression. “So what is this?”

  “A slight friendship I struck up with a newcomer to Rome, nothing more.” How could it be? The sheer impossibility filled her with dread. “He has been on service abroad and has few friends in Rome.”

  “Yet he sought you out!”

  “I believe that was coincidence.”

  “You believe nothing of the sort! Is he seeking only your favors, or does he hope for influence?”

  “That I do not know,” admitted Caenis. “But if I find out what he thinks he is seeking, the sooner I can disillusion him.”

  Antonia sighed with irritation. “Are you deceiving yourself—or trying to deceive me?” Caenis wisely made no reply. “Have you confided in anybody else? I thought you were friendly with that girl Veronica?”

  With a pang of resentment, Caenis finally grasped how nearly her friendship with Veronica had jeopardized her post. She took the opportunity to speak up: “Veronica has a good heart. I do like her, but that does not mean I admire her life. And she has never influenced mine, madam.” She smiled reassuringly. “I have never even mentioned Vespasian to Veronica.”

  “I will not have my staff used by ambitious young men,” declared Antonia, though she liked people who stood up to her; she could be weakening.

  Caenis decided to show she was shrewd. “I value my position too highly to risk it through foolishness. Besides, madam, if your court is seen as a desirable forum for young men who wish to advance in public life—as it must be—then he and his brother have obtained their entrée anyway. Somebody, their father perhaps, has ensured that they are taken up by Vitellius. Vespasian cannot believe knowing me will improve on that.”

  Now her mistress seemed amused. “Then, my dear, what does he want?”

  “I suppose, what they all want,” Caenis decided, so as two women together they laughed and nodded distrustfully. “He will be due for a disappointment! Madam, if he intends to pick my brains for your secrets, I shall certainly give him a sharp answer. I believe he knows that. No—as I told you, I suspect he is just a young man who lacks friends in Rome. I am under no delusions; once he finds his feet in society that will be the end of me.”

  “You seem to have worked everything out.”

  “I think a girl in my position has to,” Caenis said quietly.

  Antonia, who favored Caenis strongly, and who disliked having to involve herself in the private lives of her staff, seemed to tire of the conversation. “Well, you were right to speak to me. I have no wish to deprive you of companionship. But rank must be respected—”

  “I am a slave,” Caenis agreed quietly. “If he wants a mistress, he has to look elsewhere.”

  “So long as you accept it. So long as you make him accept it too! Don’t let him ask questions.” Don’t get pregnant, thought Antonia. Don’t force me to discipline you; don’t betray my trust. “And don’t let yourself be hurt.”

  Squaring up the writing tablets on her knee, Caenis laughed unhappily. “Thank you, madam.”

  “Caenis, you undervalue yourself!”

  In the girl before her Antonia saw what Vespasian must see—that fine, bright, interesting look that marked an intelligent woman, a look that in drawing the eye also lifted the heart. A man with the taste to admire such quality was more dangerous than any philanderer or hustler.

  With an angry jerk at the cushions under her back, Antonia conceded, “Ask Athenaïs to find you something decent to wear.”

  Caenis felt startled. She had been intending to borrow Veronica’s best blue gown, since she knew that Veronica had worked herself an invitation to a function that required only a silver anklet and a wisp of gauze.

  “Something will be found for you,” Antonia brusquely said again.

  Then, much as she distrusted other people’s support, Caenis understood that in speaking out she had softened Antonia’s strict principles. Her mistress would keep her, and indulge her. She had earned more than her lady’s goodwill. She had become her favorite.

  * * *

  Something was found; something wonderful. Athenaïs, who mended Antonia’s clothes, carried the garment to her cubicle. Her face split with a shy grin. “Pamphila has screwed up her face and let you have this!” Pamphila was the wardrobe mistress. She always ensured that her own turnout was spectacular, but was not renowned for parting with good things to other slaves.

  Caenis whistled, which made Athenaïs giggle. She was deeply in awe of the secretary for being able to read and write, even though Caenis had made it plain since she first entered Antonia’s household that to anyone half sensible she was perfectly approachable. Athenaïs immediately made her try on the dress, then squatted on the floor to alter the hem length, frowning with concentration as her nimble fingers flew. She seemed even more excited than Caenis was herself.

  “I don’t suppose you could persuade Pamphila to find me an undertunic too?”

  Athenaïs scoffed. “I don’t suppose you would like to try being the person who asked her?”

  “No; I know my limits, dear!”

  So Caenis came to the pantomime in her own shift, but a gown that had once belonged to the daughter of Mark Antony. It was one that showed its pedigree, in a shade of amber brown, as plain as it had once been expensive. Veronica would think it dull stuff, but Caenis recognized true elegance. It was linen woven through in Tyre with Chinese silk, a material so light she found it fabulous to wear. The dress moved as she moved; it lay soft against the skin, tenderly cool during the heat of the day, then with the evening chill whisperingly warm.

  “You look nice,” Vespasian remarked. No man had ever said that to Caenis before; none had ever thought he needed to. But he, as usual, was examining her. “You look happy.”

  For the first time Caenis glimpsed that although exquisite features and fine robes must help, real good looks depended on a glad heart. “Happy?” she quipped. “Well, strolling out with a bankrupt will soon settle that! Shall we walk?” she asked helpfully.

  “I do have the price of a litter for my female companion.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. No slave traveled in such style. Teasing him helped cover her unease. “But I was afraid that if you spent your small change now, you might have to miss your intermission honeycake.”

  “Thanks!” he said, suddenly meeting her halfway. “I do like a girl who grasps the practicalities.”

  Caenis stated quietly for the second time that week, “I think a girl in my position has to.”

  They walked.

  SIX

  To walk through Rome was to bludgeon through one teeming city bazaar. The main time for trade was in the morning before the fabric of the buildings and the air in the streets heated up unbearably, but in Mediterranean tradition, after a long siesta—lunch, nap, a little light lovemaking—businesses gradually reopened for their second, more leisurely session in the afternoon. This was the time at which Caenis and Vespasian set out.

  They were starting on the Palatine, where the imperial family and those wealthy enough to imitate them had established their pleasant detached residences along the lower flank, with fine views over the Forum. When they plunged down from the Hill it was to make their way to the Theater of Balbus along the Triumphal Way; their passage was hectic. To the rest of the world the Empire was giving the elegance of planned public buildings in spacious piazzas, wide roads, and new towns built upon geometric street plans that were foursquare as the military forts from which they derived. Rome itself remained an eight-hundred-year-old honeycomb, a traditional maze of tight-cornered streets that clambered up and down the Seven Hills, often no more than inadequate passageways, twisting alleys, aimless double-backs, and crumbling cul-de-sacs. All of these were packed to the bursting point.

  “I’m going to lose you,” Vespasian muttered. “Better hold my hand.”

  “Oh no!” In horror Caenis buried her hands under the light folds of her stole. He raised a dour eyebrow; she would not give way.

  The press of people in the narrow streets did not deter a man of his sturdiness. Keeping close behind his shoulder, she slipped after him as he moved unhurriedly; he forced a path more courteously than most men of his status ever managed. He checked frequently, though she sensed he was sufficiently alive to her presence to know immediately if they did separate in the crush. Once a water-carrier with two wildly sloshing cauldrons slung on a bowed pole pushed impatiently between them on his way from a public fountain to the upper quarters of an apartment block; she caught at Vespasian’s toga, but with one of his abrupt smiles he was already slowing up to wait for her.

  Freckles of sunlight flickered on their faces as they reached the smaller streets; these were just wide enough to glimpse the sky far away between corners of the roofs on the six-story blocks whose cramped apartments were piled one upon the other like towers of slipper-limpets on a rock. Everywhere taverns and workshops spilled out in front of them, for by day life was lived in the streets. The pillars of the arcades were garlanded with metalware—bronze flagons and copper jugs with chains through their handles like preposterous necklaces. They stepped around leaning stacks of pottery, then ducked under baskets hung on ropes above their heads. They squeezed past touts with trays of piping-hot meat pies, pressed back under balconies as sedan chairs jostled by, paused to watch a game of checkers on a makeshift board scratched in the dust. Assailed by noise and smells and the shoving of a polyglot humanity that at times carried them along helpless on the tide, at length they reached their destination.

  “Show me your ticket!” Caenis commanded. “Then I can look for you—but you mustn’t wave.” Gravely he produced the ivory disc from which she memorized the number of his seat. “If you still want to see me, I’ll wait over there afterward by the fortune-teller’s booth. If I leave early I’ll send down a message.”

  “I’ll be there,” he assented somberly.

  * * *

  Women sat at the top of the third tier of seats in the theater, after the various ranks of masculine citizens; Caenis had saved up for a ticket, to avoid having to stand on the upper terrace with foreigners and less thrifty slaves. Even from this high perch she soon picked out Vespasian; already the way he moved seemed vividly familiar. Usually she followed a play almost ahead of the actor, but she constantly lost Blathyllos today. Her concentration kept skittering off to the fourteen rows in the first tier, which were reserved for knights.

  The art of the tragic pantomime had developed nearly to its peak. Few new plays were written; those shown now comprised part of the communal memory. The mood of the story was conveyed by an orchestra of winds and percussion, while the words, which the audience often knew by heart, were sung by either a small choir or a soloist. Nowadays there was only one actor, who portrayed all the parts; he honed himself for this with a strict regimen of diet and exercise. He presented the action through a combination of mime and dance, where each gesture, each glance, each delicate flexing of a muscle, each precise modulation of a nerve, caught the imagination and through the imagination the heart.

  Blathyllos was good. At first he commanded his audience simply by standing still and drawing on their expectation. His slightest movement carried right to the back of the auditorium, and as in all the best theater, it was apparently effortless. He used suspense, horror, confusion, sentiment, and joy. He brought them through heroism and pity, anger and desire, grief and triumph. By the end even Caenis felt wrung. The final applause discovered her blinking, dry-mouthed, momentarily bemused.