The Course of Honour (33 page)

Caenis groaned. ‘No, thanks. Good morning, Aglaus. I shall just lie here, oozing goodwill—'

Her steward frankly whistled. ‘Goodwill! Things must be worse than I thought.' It was the first time Aglaus had been so curious about a guest that he wanted to greet the lady of the house first himself.

‘Was somebody up to see to my friend?'

‘Naturally. I keep an eye on Heroes in case they pinch the silver. Breakfast out in the peristyle; his suggestion. What an amazing man! I gather we'll be seeing him again.'

‘I should think we may,' Caenis conceded cautiously. Swathed in crumpled counterpane she sat up.

‘Every five minutes, no doubt!' Aglaus quipped freely. ‘You don't want the breadrolls to go hard; I'll send you a girl.'

 

The colonnade outside her dining room surrounded a very small courtyard garden that for most of the day lay in heavy shadow, a
place of wet, dank greens and elongated spindles of unhealthy creeper which was sad, though first thing in the morning it was streaming with sunlight. Caenis rarely ate breakfast so she was surprised today to find that her steward had laid a refectory table with a minor banquet of newly baked bread, cold meat and cheese. A banquet for two. There were also three lopsided carnations in a vase.

Caenis, who did not enjoy cheekiness so early in the day, bellowed,
‘Aglaus!'
before she noticed somebody sitting on a stool.

A burly figure had his feet in a shrub-pot, while he corrected a dictation tablet with a stylus. When she appeared, he tucked the stylus behind his ear and grinned at her. There was no sign of his secretary, though the man had obviously been here to bring the Flavian correspondence. Vespasian was scribbling away as if her garden was his normal morning workplace. Her Sabine friend was surprisingly well organised.

Aglaus poked his head out of a window, answering her yell. ‘Leave us in peace, Aglaus,' Caenis countermanded herself placidly. The steward smirked at Vespasian—they were already allies—and duly obeyed. ‘Titus.'

‘Expected, surely?' Vespasian teased.

‘Well, tomorrow perhaps,' Caenis tried to appear cool. ‘Tonight even, if you're desperately keen—or just desperate. Hardly for breakfast.'

Vespasian left his work on the stool and took his place on a wooden bench at the table. ‘Mind?' She joined him, sitting alongside, saying nothing. ‘Looks good. Plotted it with your man. Notice the ample supply of cold meat.'

She had noticed.

They began to eat, Vespasian enjoying himself, Caenis more reluctant. Above them her pet finch chortled in the sunlight in a fine wire cage.

‘Well?' she demanded. Vespasian served to her cheese which she did not want; she ate it anyway in case he had paid for this spread himself.

‘Told you; something I wanted to say.'

Caenis laughed. ‘I rather assumed you had done that.'

‘Sidetracked, lady!' Grinning, he licked his fingers, which were sticky with honey from the rim of his cup, then reached out to lay his hand over hers, winsome with memories of last night. She waited. No one ever rushed him. He resumed his meal. ‘Does your birdie get the crumbs?'

‘If you like.'

Vespasian stood up and fed the finch. He chirped back at it for a while, as Caenis went on chewing; she was hungrier than she had thought. Before he sat down again he came closer and kissed her, once, on the cheek, leaning round her from behind. ‘Hello again.'

He returned to his place, checked himself, walked back, thoughtfully kissed her other cheek like a man making everything equal, then smoothed up the hair on the nape of her neck where it was turned over and pinned; automatically she bent her head under his hand so he was able to kiss her lightly all round from just beside one earlobe to the other. Caenis quivered at his enjoyment. Still teasing, he sat down again with a relaxed sigh. ‘Well! This is exceptionally pleasant.'

She could no longer bear the suspense. ‘Flavius Vespasianus, you have suborned both my steward and my singing bird; this is obviously part of some scheme. Are you asking me to become your mistress again? I can tell you want a favour; you always did feed me first.'

He laughed. ‘Blunt, bold, and up to a point astute!'

It seemed to Caenis that the subject had been fairly thoroughly agreed the night before, and the morning after too. ‘Oh love; not after twenty years?' she mocked gently. ‘The same woman! What is this—sheer laziness, or reluctance to reinvest?'

Vespasian grunted. He was neither offended nor impressed by her frankness. ‘Set in my ways. And I chose you to last.'

‘Well, I'm no spring chicken nowadays. You chose me when the hen-run was sprightlier.'

He grinned wickedly. ‘Spring chickens are very bland to mature taste. For an old broiler you can hold your own—I'm a grandfather myself.'

‘Your daughter died; I'm sorry. Were you very fond of her?'

‘Fond of them all. Even Domitian, though he's a bit of a brat. Needs careful handling. And he's on his own a lot. I tend to forget
there are more than ten years between him and Titus: separate generations; can't expect them to be as close as Sabinus and me.'

It struck Caenis, even then, before she realised just how close young Titus and his father were, that if the elder son kept his reputation for charm and talent, the younger one would spend all his childhood trying to catch up with an impossible goal. Titus was the type to attract a great deal of attention. As an ex-slave she knew about running life's races from behind.

She felt this conversation was straying from its intended path, though she was still puzzled what it was really supposed to be about. She covered what was left of the food with napkins, then turned her back against the table, lifting her face to the sun.

‘How is your brother?'

‘Same as ever.'

‘Just back from abroad?'

‘Offered the city prefecture . . . When he was still in Moesia I wrote to him that I intended seeing you. He said—'

‘What?'

‘He didn't think I should rely on getting anything to eat!'

Caenis was about to chortle, but something in Vespasian's face stopped the laughter in her throat. The brothers must have been discussing more than food.

‘Caenis. Caenis, I have done my duty. Good family man, two healthy sons, decent husband—duty done.'

For no obvious reason she was shivering.

‘There were women?' she asked drily. ‘Well; I know there were. There is the famous story of the one who squeezed four thousand sesterces out of you.'

Veronica had told her: some floozie declared she was in love with him, persuaded Vespasian into bed, and wheedled the money from him when she left. The story had whistled round Rome not because of that, but because word got out too that when his hard-tried accountant asked ruefully how to show the loss in his ledger, his master had retorted ‘Jot it down under “Canoodling for Vespasian”!' Since Romans kept their accounts as documents open for public inspection, this bold move meant more heartache for a self-respecting ledger-man.

Vespasian looked up cheerfully. ‘I keep being told that story. I can't even remember what she was like.'

They were both thinking of the money Caenis had lent him. She wondered how
that
showed in the ledger. She damned him without malice: ‘I suppose you thought she was worth it!'

‘Suppose I did!' he admitted, unabashed. ‘Must have been unusually flush with cash at the time. Anyway,' he went on, his tone jarring as it sometimes did, ‘you were no Vestal Virgin. What about that nasty piece of work Anicius who used to boast he slept with you?'

‘
Boasted
, did he?' Startled, Caenis braved it out.

‘Who wouldn't, my darling?' Vespasian caressed her quietly. She caught her breath. ‘All right,' he said. ‘There were some women. None of them was important. Not like you. You always were. I hope you knew that—I hope you still know it, lass.' She stared at the table. ‘You know perfectly well,' he insisted, ‘that was why I never tried to come.'

‘Perhaps,' she muttered, more subdued than usual. Whatever became of them now, she would never be easy mentioning those years they had spent apart.

It was then that Vespasian proved he was a most amazing man. He waited until she looked up again, then began what was to be the strangest interview of her life.

‘Live with me, Caenis,' he urged her quietly.

Not all the training in the Palace school could have prepared her for that. Caenis felt her jaw sag.
‘Live with you?'
She was flabbergasted. ‘Live with you
where?
'

Much as she knew him, he astonished her. ‘In my house.'

It was unbelievable.

The man sat, amidst the ruins of their al fresco breakfast—as he would sit, if she did live with him, every day—gazing at her as peacefully as if he had just asked her to read out the election results from the
Gazette.
They were sharing a table of the most casual kind. He must know she was happy. She had asked him for nothing. Yet he chose to offer this. ‘That was what I wanted to say.' He was perfectly serious.

Caenis sat in silence while the world rocked, and every assumption on which she had built her bitter life was smashed. Caenis believed: it
was impossible to win; it was impossible ever to regain what you had lost; life was unequal; affection was temporary; men took; men left and did not return; women lost, grieved, longed, made do with diminishing faith and fading strength . . .

With his astounding demand Vespasian had disproved it all.

‘Oh you can't!' she managed at last to gasp. ‘A senator and Consul—set up house with a freedwoman; not even one of his own? Oh Titus! Why not just marry again? Take a discreet mistress? Me if you want; you must know that I would—'

He was expecting this shocked protest from her. He stayed immobile, saying calmly, ‘Caenis, we were strong-minded enough to follow the rules; we are strong-minded enough to break them. I am asking for you.'

‘
What
are you asking?'

‘Plain enough: live with me. Share my life; share yours with me.'

For a moment she could not bear to let him see her face.

 

When she dropped her hands, Caenis started briskly to return their relationship to a normal course: ‘This is unnecessary. I would be quite content to have some regular arrangement. You don't need to cause social apoplexy. There are women a man sleeps with casually and women he takes solemnly to wife; there is no middle way. It's not respectable. It's against the law—'

‘It is not. It's against the law to marry you. If I could—I will tell you this now—I would have done it years ago. Now, the snobs won't particularly like it, but I have performed my obligations; I can choose. “Somebody to bully and a half-decent companion for your old age.” You said it. Caenis, please: have me.'

She tried one last feeble protest: ‘What about your family?'

‘Ah yes; the family!' In that deliberate way he had thought it all through. ‘Well, Titus is clean and well-tempered around the house, though he does practise the harp sometimes; Domitian is obstreperous and he's going to need attention. Sabinus seems grumpy but he's easily led. His wife thinks you are wonderful; always did. You will be one of the family—that is what I intend—so you won't expect good
manners. You, however, may be your vinegary self in return. You will have to be in charge. My role as head of the household will be to disappear to the Senate whenever there's a row: you'll have to cope all by yourself, of course. Normal home life with an antique hero—no money, no slaves, dismal food, poor conversation and endless bickering. I expect you to be a drudge, a nurse, an entertainer, a very sharp accountant and a provider of much physical comfort for me . . . I have every confidence in you, Caenis.'

Caenis wondered whether this speech, which was not obviously preplanned or overrehearsed, rated applause. She sighed, feeling helpless.

His voice fell to that low, benevolent tone that churned her stomach. ‘Do you want a promise about how much you mean to me, and what I'll do for you?'

‘Don't be disgusting; we're better friends than that!'

He laughed happily.

There was sunshine on her face, birdsong overhead. Someone in the house had begun to rattle a broom around the dining room in the normal daily routine. She rubbed her temples with both hands.

Vespasian offered wryly, ‘I hope the unusual request speaks for itself.'

‘Oh it does! You have spotted I come with a set of silver knives and the best steward in Rome—'

‘It's your wonderful knives I want, of course! Are there matching salad-servers too? . . . Will you take me on then?'

‘You and I?'

‘You and I. I knew a girl once, Caenis—odd little scrap, fierce as a lion, didn't care who she was rude to, nice girl, very good in bed, a true friend—who said: life would be what we made it for ourselves.'

For the first time since he fed the finch he got to his feet and came to her, holding out his hands. Caenis was trembling. He always knew how to reduce her to rubble, then say exactly the right thing. ‘Oh I have missed you!' declared Vespasian in a low voice; she was lost.

With her hands twined in his but still seated, Caenis spoke, once, what sooner or later she would have to say. Better now, than in some
unrelated quarrel afterwards. ‘I have lived the best years of my life, and lived them without you.'

He did not flinch. ‘Agreed.'

‘I built my own life.'

‘Yes.'

He drew her to her feet. Coming to him, Caenis said, ‘I missed you too. I missed you more than you or anybody else will ever understand. I have to tell you this. For the sake of what I have been, what I endured, what I have done. This has to be acknowledged between us now.'

Gravely he let her speak; probably he did not fear anything she might say because he knew she would always be just. He did not even agitate for her answer. Perhaps he knew what it would be. Then because even now Caenis could not bear to let him see her cry, she stayed silent for longer than she wanted. She had to struggle to control herself but in the end she managed in her calm, trained, competent voice: ‘If it is what you want, yes I will come.'