The Course of Honour Page 25

  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 quarrelling 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 humour. 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.

  Afterwards 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 revellers dispersed to their beds, while the early morning street-sounds of bakers and labourers 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.

  Only gradually did Caenis realise that she had woken more comfortable, warmer, more tranquilly rested than usual. Only slowly did she become aware that her pillow was Vespasian’s firm chest and that she was trapped in utter security under the weight of his arm across her back and his hand at her breast. She lay motionless, but her eyelashes had been tickling his ribs; she felt his fingers intertwine in her hair, where it grew thickest at the back of her head, softening away any last shreds of tension from her neck. He was awake. He had been awake for perhaps an hour before.

  ‘Titus; you’re still here!’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He always woke in the early hours. At home he would rise and use this time to read or attend to his correspondence without interruptions while others slept. Here he had simply lain still, lost in thought, holding Caenis in his arms.

  She snuggled closer but said dutifully, ‘I shan’t mind if you want to go.’

  There was no change in the slow motion massaging the tendons of her neck. ‘Wanted to say good morning to you first.’

  Then she leant up on one elbow looking at him. ‘Hello, Titus.’

  ‘Hello, my lass.’ In the grey light she could make out nothing of his face, but his voice was full of amusement. ‘Oh, Caenis! . . . People will think we are mad.’

  ‘People,’ remarked Caenis tartly, ‘don’t think! Thank the gods none of them need know that you bought back my favours with a sack of Sabine apples and half a crate of plums.’

  ‘If they find out your weakness, you could be swamped under punnets of soft fruit . . .’ Vespasian sounded unusually dreamy. ‘Rome soaking up raspberry juice like a must-cake pudding. Trolleyloads of apricots blocking the Sacred Way. Quagmires of quinces, pears piled like the Pannonian Alps – mmm!’ He stopped speculating to allow Caenis to kiss him quiet. ‘Blackberries – mmm! Mulberries – mm-mmm!’

  She was still fretting about his public life. ‘Do you want me to get up with you, Titus?’

  His sudden roll caught her unawares as he swept her back against the pillows full length, lying above her in his most sensual embrace. ‘I said,’ he said, ‘I wanted to say good morning to you first.’

  Then Caenis stopped worrying about his waiting secretary at home; she recognised from his wicked tone that he intended far more than a mere verbal greeting. She stopped worrying about anything, as Vespasian began once again to touch her where she needed to be touched and hold her as she wanted to be held. This time there was no difficulty. He knew as Caenis knew herself that he was, and that he would always be, welcome.

  The next time she woke he was no longer with her, but her body and all her spirit sang with the joy of his having been there.

  XXXII

  The noise from the Praetorian Camp was now quite loud even though the whole house was orientated towards its inner courtyards. Light increased the disturbance, as somebody unkind unfastened a shutter. ‘Morning, madam. Rise and shine!’

  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 table 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.’

  Cae
nis 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 as his 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.’