The Course of Honour Page 32

  The equerry was none too keen on reporting this rhetoric to a twelve-lictor general with a tricky reputation. ‘I can’t say that!’

  ‘You must. So long as you don’t ask him for money he doesn’t bite. By the way, regarding money – you always do have to ask him, and when you do he always bites. As for this, tell him straight out – then stand back a bit just in case.’

  ‘Oh she can’t!’

  ‘Yes she can.’

  ‘Extraordinary woman!’

  Aglaus said, ‘He’s an extraordinary man.’

  Then it was over.

  Her freedman left her a short time to compose herself, then stumped in. ‘You all right?’ She nodded but did not speak. ‘Want anything?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Yes, madam!’ He waited.

  ‘What is it, Aglaus?’

  ‘If you don’t need me, I’ll go out for a walk. As there’s nothing going on here would you object if later I invited round one of my friends?’

  ‘Do what you like,’ replied Caenis drably.

  She was well aware that as her slave Aglaus had felt free to consort in her kitchen with every kind of unsavoury customer. There had never been any disturbances so she had never pulled him up. He spared her the trouble of being asked for permission. Then when she gave him his freedom he had married with a promptness that informed her it was an established relationship; three children appeared overnight. She had told him she was annoyed because if she had known they existed she could have been spoiling them.

  Now Caenis barked at him tetchily, ‘Just do what you like. Rome has a new emperor and its citizens can play all night.’

  He returned her sourness with a short puff of laugher. ‘Fun, isn’t it, madam?’ Later he went off, with a distinct pang of uncertainty leaving her alone in the empty house.

  He was quite right: there was something Caenis intended to do.

  Once all was silent Caenis rose and walked stiffly to her room. She had always hated fuss, but there was a routine she sometimes followed so for perhaps an hour she attended to her person as thoroughly as she had previously attacked her home. Even Veronica might have approved.

  Her house had its own water supply, so from head to foot she washed off the grime of her day’s labour. She bathed twice; Veronica had always held a theory that the first time only moved the dirt about. Slowly, thinking of Veronica, Caenis oiled her still-elastic skin. Years of sitting properly and standing well, combined with regular swimming, had preserved her figure and fine carriage. Her life had turned out much less hard than she had once imagined it must. There had been decent food, rest, time and money enough to nourish both body and soul. She had lived simply from choice but there was always rose-water and almond oil, then later perfumes and unguents that were more exotic, more expensive, more silky to apply, more agreeable and subtle to wear. She used them now, enjoying the tonic of massaged limbs, a face that felt groomed but not sticky or rigid with paint, manicured hands, clean-scented hair.

  In other ways, even better ways, life had been generous. She had known contentment and a quiet mind. Whatever happened to her now, never again would she feel that tearing sense of unfulfilment she had struggled against as a young girl. She was born a slave; she won herself the rank of a Roman citizen. She had belonged to a family. Not as a slave; not as a freedwoman: in her own right she had become a Flavian.

  From her fastidious wardrobe she chose a light formal gown that always made her feel graceful, which she fastened on the shoulders with two British blue-stone brooches. No other jewellery . . . none at all. She held her gold bangle in her hand.

  She walked back to the room where Aglaus had left her; on his eventual return he would look for her there. She sat down. It was rather like preparing to take Antonia’s dictation. She cleared her mind of all thought and all pain, all prospects of the future, all yearning for the past.

  She felt like Cleopatra, bereft of her Mark Antony; Caenis, who herself bore Mark Antony’s name, waiting like Cleopatra for the last exulting Roman to stride into her palace and confront her. Cleopatra, robed in a blue that was clearer and deeper than gentians: Cleopatra, defeated, on the day that she died.

  XLI

  Rome: city of light.

  Aglaus had found his friend on the Palatine. Now they were striding down from the old administrative Palace, across the eastern end of the Forum, and towards the Quirinal. They walked swiftly, for the city was humming and this was not an occasion for a quiet evening stroll. By now there were few people about. Some took no notice of the two men; others looked after them thoughtfully, as they disappeared unobtrusively, heading for the Viminal Gate.

  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 harbour 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 which 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 draught 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 towards 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.

  Afterwards 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 grandpapa, 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 organise a girl for him. He stared.

  Then the Emperor said, no thanks; he had always preferred to organise 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-coloured 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 fetch 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 over 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 frescos 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. Amidst 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 amongst 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 marvellously 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 practising: ‘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.

  XLII

  ‘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 on to 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 Ptolomaïs, 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 laughing stock. 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 seige 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 realised 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 splendour, slightly rumpled after a long day, and ignoring the effect he must know all that colour 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 lawcourts and smart 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 Theatre 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 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.