Flavius Vespasianus was now eligible for the next rank in the Senate. He ran for election—and came nowhere.

Caenis was in a mood to feel guilty over anything; she convinced herself that her position in his life had contributed to his defeat. Some years one bad blow follows another until it becomes impossible to tell how far each has been caused by the depletion of spirits resulting from the rest. Losing Antonia had buffeted her badly; she was physically tired and emotionally drained. However, her need to grieve had really made her so abstracted it left Vespasian free to canvass support. He did all he could. When he failed, his brother told him his approach had been too diffident; he remained a stranger to many in the Senate. He would have to establish himself more strongly and try again next year.

He started to organize straightaway. Caenis watched with reviving fascination as he and Sabinus worked through the entire senatorial list, analyzing the voting, then discussing whom they might sway. They could only use verbal persuasion; they had no money for bribes.

She realized Vespasian was by no means as politically halfhearted as his initial reluctance had implied. She noticed his incisive mind, his thoroughness, his ability both to plan ahead and then to carry the plan through. Not many men could claim such talents. Of the two brothers it was he who possessed the steadier resolution. Once Vespasian did decide to act, his energy was fiercer and his imagination more acute.

So he sat with Sabinus, lists covering a low table, both leaning forward on their stools, endlessly turning over names. Although they had courted patrons, it was always his brother Vespasian really worked with. Men from the Sabine territory had a tradition of public service, and the Flavians were particularly clannish. They kept their political trust within the family.

Caenis was a frequent visitor at the tiny apartment Vespasian now rented; without Antonia she had little to keep her at home. While the men worked, their voices at one constant, thoughtful pitch, she sent away the hesitant skivvy. She served them wine herself, moving about the ill-furnished room in her silent way, drawing the mothy door curtain to deaden the racket from the copper-beater's workshop downstairs, opening the rickety shutters slightly to let in a breeze, which if no less malodorous and hot in such a decrepit neighborhood was at least different air. Then she would curl up by herself on a battered couch, with an old cloak of Vespasian's over her feet, glad of an opportunity in this low period of her life to lose herself in her own thoughts.

It was taking her a long time to recover from Antonia's death. Caenis, who had respected and loved her as a friend, continued to churn with anger that her last weeks had been marred by discord with the new Emperor. She never found out whether Antonia's death had been by her own hand. Other people in the household assumed she had heard the full details; in fact, she preferred not to know.

Claudius had had to speak to her about the will; Antonia had left modest bequests to all her freedwomen, and as her primary heir it fell to her son to distribute the money. He said he would do what he could—but it depended on the Emperor. The House of Livia remained imperial property, and so far there was no suggestion that Antonia's freed clients needed to move on; later it was bound to become convenient that they did so—one more problem that Caenis would need to address.

Though they never discussed his mother, she found herself more at ease with Claudius nowadays. For one thing she had noticed that ever since she was known to be Vespasian's mistress, other men had ceased to make unwelcome advances. She could not tell whether this was due to some masculine code, or whether she had herself ceased to signal that she was vulnerable. Perhaps she simply looked older nowadays.

In time it was confirmed that because of its position on the Palatine, the House of Livia would not be sold, and neither did any of the imperial family want to claim a right to live there. Caenis was able to stay, preparing inventories of the furniture and household goods. This was not for the normal purpose of a sale at the Saepta Julia. Although Caligula had inherited a bulging treasury from the cautious Tiberius, he was running through his funds at an astonishing rate, as he delighted the populace with an almost daily program of theatrical extravagances, public games, and wild-beast spectaculars; presents thrown from the roof of the main courthouse; and gift vouchers left on theater seats. Already there seemed a good chance that if the thought struck he would overturn his grandmother's will and himself carry off her treasures to replenish the Privy Purse.

Caligula had not attended Antonia's funeral. He watched the burning pyre through his dining-room window, joking about it with Macro, the commander of the Guards. Antonia's ashes were placed in the Mausoleum of Augustus but with minimal ceremony.

* * *

"Caenis!" Flavius Sabinus usually took his leave with a word for her. "My wife sends you kind regards."

Caenis had not seen his wife again, nor did she honestly expect to; still the girl took trouble to send her compliments, often accompanied by flowers or some other gift. Her warmth appeared quite genuine.

"This young lady's looking tired!" Sabinus then chided his brother.

Vespasian tucked a solid arm around her waist. "She'll be all right. I've bought her a slab of must-cake—great restorative powers!"

Sabinus smiled at her sadly. He was hardworking and affable; he suspected Caenis needed more than sweetmeats. Once he had put aside his basic disapproval, he felt that his younger brother treated his mistress too casually. It was useless to try to explain that Vespasian's small but careful present meant far more to her than a string of beads snatched from a jeweler's tray with no real thought behind the gift.

"Mmm—come to bed!" murmured Vespasian, kissing her after his brother had gone.

Caenis pierced him with a steely eye. "What about my cake?"

"Well, bring it, of course."

"You'll have crumbs in the covers—"

"I have noticed," Vespasian commented, "that when you and I eat anything there are rarely any crumbs."

The must-cake was splendid, and he was absolutely right; there were no crumbs. Caenis responded with an enthusiasm that in Veronica's scale of values would equate to repaying a pair of Etruscan earrings or a silver collar.

Afterward Vespasian exclaimed, with his wild, wide grin, "Well, lady! That was an occasion to treasure when we are old and incapable!"

He was strong and endlessly healthy; even after he made love with the fervor of a man who regarded this as the most natural and enjoyable way of taking exercise, his rib cage soon rose and fell again in its normal regular rhythm.

Caenis, gasping, thumped his chest. "Oh, I'm speechless!"

"What a change."

"You great ox; you'll never be incapable. You'll still be sending for some girl—or a whole troupe—to liven your afternoons when you're seventy!"

Chortling, he flung back his great head, and for some minutes they lay together in silence before talking more reflectively.

"Wonder if we'll know each other then?"

It was an unfair question; men could be such pigs. Caenis responded drily, "I imagine I shall have died of drudgery long before."

He croaked, mimicking the astrologer at the Theater of Balbus, "Her life is kindly; kindly her death. . . ." He knew well enough that Caenis rejected omens. She had told him: Whatever either of them were to become must lie in themselves. Neither had any advantages, or anyone to help. Life would be only what they chose to make it, grappling within the straitjacket of society. "You were quiet tonight," he suddenly observed. She was less startled that he noticed than that he commented. "What were you thinking about?"