Lindsey Davis - The course of Honor

Caenis felt fragile as a lovelorn girl. To find him here, in her house, plunged her into fluttering formality. "Consul! My word, what an honor. What can we do for you?"

Vespasian hated her when she was arch. "Do you mind?" he felt obliged to inquire. "Should I have made an appointment? Do you mind?"

Without thinking she replied sourly, "Apparently not!"

They were talking in odd jerks. He seemed very quiet. He looked as if he had forgotten how to smile. She felt awkward. A different kind of woman would retreat behind her embroidery, but Caenis had never been one for handicrafts; as a slave she had had no time, and as a freedwoman in the early days no money for the silk.

Despite all he had become, Vespasian was at a loss in this situation. She watched him run his hand over his hair—what was left of it—and though he was far from vain, she could see he wished at this moment that he had not lost quite so much. It was a strangely unsettling gesture. "I still have your money," he reminded her, for something to say. "Need it?"

He had been here no time at all before managing to arouse her indignation: "That's for my old age, Titus—I don't, thanks; not yet!"

The fact that she had automatically called him by his personal name disturbed them both, yet he was laughing a little when he replied, "No. You look glowing."

"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.