The Course of Honour Read online

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

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he assented sombrely.

  Women sat at the top of the third tier of seats in the theatre, 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, 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 wind and percussion while the words, which the audience often knew by heart, were sung either by 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 theatre 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.

  When she regained the street she thought for one wild moment that Vespasian would not come. She was waiting, sufficiently far from the main throng of people for him to pick her out yet near enough to the entrance not to feel threatened by pickpockets or pimps. She saw Vespasian heading in the opposite direction, she was sure. Still highly strung from the drama, she could not believe it. Distraught, she almost began to walk away alone.

  He materialised from the dispersing crowd just in time.

  ‘Hello, Caenis!’ He must have gone to find two slaves, his own or more likely his brother’s, who now followed behind him with cudgels through their belts. ‘Sorry; have I kept you waiting?’

  ‘It didn’t matter,’ she lied gallantly.

  ‘Want your fortune told?’ Vespasian was glancing at the booth; a man of evil Egyptian aspect, with a red pointed cap and no teeth, popped up like a puppet over the canvas half-door the moment he spoke: evidently able to prophesy customers. ‘I’ll pay for it – are you frightened?’ Very little frightened Caenis. She said nothing and Vespasian egged her on. ‘Don’t you believe in horoscopes? You old sceptic!’

  ‘I know my future: hard work, hard luck, and a hard death at a hard age!’ Caenis told him grimly. ‘I can’t do it. You need to say when you were born.’

  For a moment he did not understand.

  Each freeborn Roman citizen, male or female, was registered with the Censor within eight or nine days of birth. A free citizen honoured his own birthday and those of his ancestors and family as his happiest private festivals when his household gods were wreathed with garlands while everyone who owed him respect gave thanks. Important men honoured the birthdays of political figures they admired. The birthday of the Emperor was a public festival.

  Caenis was a slave: she did not know when her birthday was.

  He was quick; no need now to explain.

  Pride made her do so anyway; she could be brutal when she chose: ‘Slavegirls’ brats, sir, are not heralded by proud fathers in the Daily Gazette. The fact that I exist is marked only by my standing here before you, blood and bone decked out in a new dress. The modern philosophers may grant me a soul, but nobody – lord, nobody – burdens me with a fate to be foreseen!’

  ‘Ouch!’ he remarked. She felt better. He did not apologise; there was no point. Instead he turned to the astrologer in his down-to-earth way. ‘Here’s a challenge then; can we offer this lass any consolation?’

  The man let his eyes glaze with practised guile. He was draped in unclean scarves which were intended to suggest oriental mystery, though to Caenis they were simply a reflection of the poor standards of hygiene that applied here in the Ninth District. A tinsel zodiac twinkled sporadically on a string above his head. One of the Fish had lost its tail and the Twins were slowly drifting apart from their heavenly embrace.

  ‘Her face can never be upon the coinage!’ the astrologer intoned suddenly in a high-pitched voice. How subtly ambiguous, Caenis thought. The man managed to imply that some uninvited blast of truth had struck him in the midriff just above whatever he had for dinner. Caenis reckoned this could not be healthy if he did it every day. He wavered; Vespasian chinked some coppers into a grimy hand which shot out promptly despite the apparent trance. ‘Her life is kindly; kindly her death. Bones light as charcoal, thin hair . . . she goes to the gods wrapped in purple; Caesar grieves; lost is his lady, his life’s true reverse . . .’

  He fell silent, then looked up abruptly, his eyes dark with shock.

  Vespasian folded his arms. ‘Steady on with the treason,’ he tackled the man jovially, ‘but if some character’s after my turtledove I’d like to be ready for him! What Caesar is this? Not the old goat, I trust –’ Meaning Tiberius. ‘Did you manage to get a glimpse of the laundry label in his cloak?’

  Edging away in confusion at having been called his turtledove, Caenis murmured, ‘Emperors don’t have name-tags. It’s considered unnecessary on the purple, you know.’

  The astrologer gave Vespasian a nicely judged crazy stare.

  Caenis had fled.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ Vespasian offered, as he caught her up with a sniff.

  Wanting to resist being disturbed by the fraudulent predictions of a soiled Egyptian in a dirty Greek blanket, Caenis growled amiably, ‘As you see I am already walking. I presupposed you had squandered my fare home on fly-blown titbits and lukewarm wine from every tout.’ She knew he had kept his seat throughout.

  ‘No need to get tetchy,’ he complained, catching her elbow to slow her down. Unexpectedly self-conscious, she diminished her cracking pace.

  It felt strange to be escorted by other slaves. Caenis was interested to notice that after a natural stare to evaluate what their young master had picked up, Vespasian’s bodyguards bore her no obvious grudge. She was a girl doing her best; so good luck to her.

  ‘Did you enjoy the pantomime, lord?’

  Although he knew how much she wanted him to share her fierce enjoyment, he made no concessions. ‘Oh, not bad. I think I stayed awake.’

  ‘Not all the time!’ she retaliated hotly. Then she realised he was teasing again so she softened her tone: ‘As far as I could tell from upstairs you nod alarmingly, but you don’t snore. The aediles were going to prod you at one point, but you woke up anyway.’

  ‘Hah!’ He pretended to cuff her round the ears.

  This was a serious social mistake. Caenis became acutely conscious of her position as a slave. She refused the game; she walked straight, staring stiffly ahead. Vespasian gave no sign, but as long as she knew him he never made such a gesture again. His voice was deliberately friendly as he asked, ‘What about you? Glad you went?’

  ‘Yes; thank you.’

  ‘Good.’

  By mutual agreement they strolled beside the Tiber, across the Agrippan Bridge and into Caesar’s Gardens. At dusk the gardens were rather cold, faintly ominous, and clouded at head-height with scores of nipping midges. Undeterred they toured the whole length; there were not many respectable places where a gentleman and someone else�
��s slavegirl could go. Then he walked her home to Livia’s House.

  On the Palatine there would be sufficient light from flares, but they had to reach it first; one of his slaves had become their lantern-bearer. Even so, the narrow streets were dim and Caenis began to be afraid Vespasian might risk public familiarity. All he ever did, when builders’ wagons or wine merchants’ delivery carts trundled dangerously near, was to move her into the shelter of a house portico or close against the shuttered frontage of a shop with a light touch on her arm, at once lifted. She hoped he did not notice how even that raised goose-pricks.

  He did notice. His question was typically abrupt: ‘Caenis, will you go to bed with me?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ She rapped back her refusal then, with the issue broached, relief flooded over her.

  ‘You don’t like me?’

  ‘I like you far too much!’ she found herself explaining briskly.

  Vespasian rounded on her, forcing her to stop. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He was a big man, extremely blunt, and far superior in rank. She experienced real alarm. His chin was up, his mouth furiously set.

  She faced him with a pattering heart. ‘It means, I cannot afford the risk. I told you; I told you right at the start – I am the property of my mistress, and her approval matters to me. Please come along; people are staring.’

  He ignored that. He was standing in the road, refusing to move.

  ‘You need to take care of yourself too,’ Caenis muttered morosely. ‘Find a rich senator with a decent daughter you can marry. You need a fat landed dowry and you must become respectable if you want a career.’ This was true; he acknowledged her wise advice. Duty and propriety compelled a citizen to marry, marry a woman of good background and character, then produce children. The cursus honorum, the official career ladder for senators, depended on it. ‘I am sorry if there has been a misunderstanding,’ Caenis concluded in anxious apology.

  ‘Straight question: straight answer. Perfectly understood!’ He was not angry, but bitterly hurt. With an unusual flash of spite he demanded, ‘Got some fellow slave lined up, then? Jealous, is he? Think I’ll scare him off?’

  ‘Don’t be simple,’ Caenis rebuked him. ‘Though I imagine you would; you’re frightening me . . . I will not have a companion even from among the other slaves. I want to be by myself.’

  He was not yet ready to let her smooth his ruffled crest. ‘You should have told me you were so scrupulous!’

  This time she would not reply; it was up to him whether he chose to see her distress.

  Around them began Rome’s terrifying transformation into night. Goods had been whisked from pavements; leaves of folding doors were drawn across shop frontages; bolts thumped heavily into sockets and elaborate padlocks rattled on cold iron chains. Above their heads a woman’s thin-wristed arms hooked a cat and a pot of flowers from a window-ledge then slammed the shutter on a shadowy interior. It was now extremely dark. There were no streetlamps and hardly a chink of light showed where the crowded lodging houses faced the unfriendly streets. The grimmest alleys were emptying. Soon the city would be given over to a lawlessness where even the vigiles who were supposed to police the various districts were likely to dive into a drinking-house rather than answer a call for help.

  Vespasian’s slaves began to shuffle restlessly.

  ‘Please come,’ Caenis cajoled, concerned for his two guards.

  ‘Well!’ he complained crossly. ‘Why did you bother with me, girl?’

  Then Caenis answered with plain honesty, ‘Because I do like you.’ In for an as, in for an aureus. ‘I like you,’ she admitted, stony-faced, ‘more than anybody I have ever known.’

  She could tell that although he stayed where he was, indignant and disappointed in the public thoroughfare, Vespasian was utterly disarmed. Other women may have felt attracted to him, but others were not so direct. Suddenly Caenis recognised his solid exterior concealed genuine sentiment. He would never be able to resist anyone who confessed to wanting him; she dared not contemplate how warmly he would respond.

  That was not for her.

  ‘I suppose,’ she acknowledged, ‘this means I shall not see you any more?’

  It was darker; she could not properly make out his face, but she heard his short bitter laugh. ‘What do you take me for?’ She dropped her head, though his voice was already softening. ‘Oh lass; don’t be so feeble. You know when you have some poor beggar on your hook!’

  ‘Well, why do you bother with me?’ she flung back.

  He said very quietly, ‘You know that too.’

  His stance relaxed; he began to saunter on in silence, pulling her after him with a curt gesture of his head.

  He had brought her to Antonia’s house. ‘Here we are; your palace, lady!’ he declaimed mockingly. His guards were loitering discreetly behind the Temple of Victory as he lowered his voice. ‘Going to give me a kiss?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  She shrank back, but after a brief stare he merely banged on the main door for her. He was persistent, but never aggressive. The porter squinted through his grating then began the extended process of unfastening locks. In the tiny square of lamplight Caenis saw a gleam in Vespasian’s eye as he murmured back at ner, ‘Well then; are you going to let me kiss you?’ At once he mimicked her crazily, ‘“No, I’m not!” Well, don’t expect me to tussle with you in front of other people. Good night, girl. Dream of me and wonder.’

  Caenis swallowed. She had no doubt of the energy with which this strong, competent man would take his pleasures – nor his ability to give delight in return. ‘Wonder what, lord?’

  ‘Wonder – what you missed!’

  Looking at him, while trying not to, she felt aware of that.

  The house porter was starting to pay attention. She touched Vespasian’s hand briefly and turned to go in. ‘Good night, Caenis.’ They were friends again. His voice dropped; once more she felt stricken by its private, benevolent note.

  She looked back. Vespasian had started walking down the narrow alley between the house and the temple which would eventually take him back down into the Forum or to the Circus Maximus; then he also turned. Suddenly smiling, he raised his arm in farewell. She watched him retrace his steps, closely shadowed now by the two guards. Rome at night was dangerous, yet he had a knack of walking without haste so he seemed invulnerable. Lunging towards him from their dreadful alleyways, robbers and bullies would stay their intended ambush and wait for easier prey.

  It was how he walked through life: steady and unperturbed, a man who knew his way and who would arrive unscathed.

  VII

  Veronica knew about the walk in Caesar’s Gardens by next day. ‘Well; you were seen, Caenis!’

  People called Rome a place where everything was noticed, and Veronica made it her business to ensure that any snippets about anyone’s indiscretions were certainly picked up by her.

  ‘I can assure you,’ Caenis commented bitterly, ‘I have done nothing –’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Veronica interrupted. ‘Make them wait. They enjoy it more if they’re keyed up – and if they enjoy themselves there is always a slim chance you might too! He’ll bring you a present next time, to make sure.’

  About to protest that he already had done so, Caenis realised that her powers of rhetoric would not stretch to justifying a Lucanian salami and a parchment of pickled fish.

  ‘He won’t,’ she declared in a tiny saddened voice. ‘I have decided not to see him again.’

  This was dismally true. She had wrestled with the problem all night. It was the most anguished decision she had ever engineered.

  ‘Oh yes; I usually do that,’ Veronica languidly returned. ‘But when they turn up with their present, what can you say?’

  Caenis and Veronica had met at the baths. Caenis went every afternoon now, to a women-only one that was open all day (the mixed ones held women’s sessions only in the morning, which was useless). She had a general arrangement to meet Veronica, an arr
angement which Veronica kept with surprising regularity. She would arrive laden with trinkets that she had collected from admirers, filling the changing room with wafts of cheap perfume, taking up too many pegs with her baskets and mantles and handkerchiefs and scarves. She gave the impression she led a scatterbrained life, blown hither and yon by chance meetings with her numerous pursuers. In fact, fitting so many men into a regular scheme where the paths of those who minded about the others never crossed had long ago taught Veronica to be supremely organised.

  Caenis always spent her first fifteen minutes at the baths boot-faced with bad temper. There was a convention that public baths charged women an as, while men only had to pay half. Caenis did not see why. In her opinion women were cleaner. It was men who used the exercise yards and swimming baths most often; men who stayed longest clattering over court cases with their friends; men who indecently assaulted the bathhouse attendants; men, moreover, who pretended they had left their money at home and tried to sneak in without paying at all. Paying double always made her angry. Veronica liked to arrive after Caenis had been ensconced in the hot-air room in her rope-soled sandals long enough for torpor to set in.

  They had nothing in common as bathhouse companions anyway. Caenis wanted value for money. She went through the suite of rooms from the hot steam to the cold plunge with a gritty intent to extract every possible ounce of sensation and stimulus; if she had time she even patted a ball around or swam, which few women other than those of sinister athleticism ever bothered to do. Veronica came to chat. She certainly would not swim at the moment because her hair had been blonded and the dye would run. In fact she could not even float; she relied on the fine truth that when women with heart’s-ease baby faces fall into deep water there are always eager men on hand to pull them out. Caenis, who lacked this advantage, had taught herself to swim strongly years before.