"Good character?" Caenis encouraged drily.

He answered like a man under examination in the Senate on some imperial informer's wild charge of impropriety: "Oh; all right!" He relented. He sighed. He forced himself to be less offhand. "No; let's be fair—a decent woman."

"You've seen her?"

"Yes."

"Slept with her?" Caenis demanded.

"No," Vespasian answered patiently. Really it could not matter anymore, yet Caenis was glad of that. "I had better tell you; she has been someone's mistress—Statilius Capella, a senator from Africa—"

Gods, she was nothing! Caenis snapped, "Excellent! A senator? Decent of you both to leave one free for the rest of us. . . ." She took back her hand and stood up, pacing the room.

"Caenis, don't."

He followed her, as she ought to have known that he would. She wanted to crouch in some dark place like a hurt beast. There was this dreadful need to be civilized. There was this appalling obligation: not to hurt him. She had no escape.

"Caenis, I'm desperately sorry. Don't be brave and bitter. Scream at me if you like, rant, rave, beat my chest with your fists, cry; cry all you want, and I'll probably join in. . . ." It was hideous; he was frantic.

Caenis let him take her into his arms.

"Titus, hush. It was brave of you to come. I appreciate your honesty. You don't have to dread a scene."

She stood there, not responding, but leaning patiently up against him until, helpless, he let her go. "Shall I leave you now?"

It was over. Everything was over.

"Wait a moment; please." Her numb brain reminded her to make everything absolutely clear. "You know I shall not see you again."

"No."

He would not create difficulties. Nor would she, come to that. There was only one kind of discipline for either of them now.

"Not even acknowledge you; it's best. . . . What are your plans?" she asked more gently.

"Oh—aedile, praetor, then start angling for an army post." His tone was more harsh than she had ever heard it. "The cursus honorum stretches idyllically away!"

"Titus? Oh love, what is it?" Caenis had to ask.

It was Vespasian's turn to move away. He stood rigid, that face still as drained of color as it was of permitted emotion. He was quite obviously deeply upset.

For the first and only time he said curtly, "You were right all along. We should never have done this."

There was nothing she could safely reply.

She held him; what else could she do?

"Stupidity."

"Never say that. Don't devalue it." She folded her arms around him, rocking slightly, with her face against his, though safely turned away.

She was surprised to hear anyone else so bitter: "Was it worth this?"

And, "Yes!" Caenis bellowed gloriously: Vespasian winced.

By then they were laughing together, painfully verging on tears.

"Oh, Titus, Titus; don't. I am supposed to make the fuss, not you. Ah, you great softhearted wretch, how dare you be upset? Be a monster, damn you—be a man—be typical!"

Ruefully he laid his forehead against hers. "I'm doing my best."

"Not good enough. Are you short of cash?"

He was thunderstruck. "Oh, Jupiter! What a ludicrous question!" He had drawn back; she had steadied him; he had lost his temper; it would be all right. "In the first place, I'm always running short, and in the second, lass, spare yourself that. You are not obliged to worry anymore about me and my filthy bank account."

Caenis decided she would worry about just whomsoever in Hades she chose. "Never mind that. Listen. I have ten thousand sesterces; Antonia's legacy. I can't spend it, it's my insurance, and I don't want to trust it to a strongbox in the Forum to be fiddled away by some obnoxious Eastern banker who swarms around his abacus trying for a kiss when all I want is a decent rate of interest. . . ." She was running out of breath.

"No, Caenis. Caenis; not your savings—"

"Yes! Borrow it; use it for your good. Enhance your state; buy some support. It won't achieve much, but it's a gesture: Somebody believes in you."

"It's a wicked gamble," he scoffed.

"A shrewd investment," Caenis quipped back. "I want you to have it; no one else in Rome is worth it. If I can't have you, then by the Good Goddess I'll help to make you—you owe me that!"

He buried his face in his hands. His voice was very quiet. "I will send you the interest—and I will pay you back."

"Perhaps!" Caenis barked, more like herself.

"If you need it, just ask me."

Since she was never intending to speak to him, that would be difficult. "Titus—I must return this to you."

The bangle he had given her to celebrate her freedom was on her arm now; he had bought her occasional trinkets since—pins, a shell necklace, an ivory comb—but her only other good pieces were gifts from Antonia. Antonia's presents had been of impressive antique workmanship, set with garnets, opals, tourmalines. Caenis' gold bangle was to her still the most beautiful thing she had ever owned.

Vespasian was furious at her offer. "No, damn it!"

"Is it paid for?" she insisted. He never answered that.

"Caenis, that's yours; yours from me; yours to keep. If you don't want it, all right, get rid of it, but don't tell me, and don't try to antagonize me by handing it back!"

She assumed he had forgotten how both their names were engraved inside. Doggedly she pulled off the bangle and gestured to the lettering: "Don't you mind?"

"No."

"You may one day."

He folded his arms grimly. "Shall I really?"

Caenis slowly replaced her gift, with a feeling of relief. He laid his hand there briefly, where the gold burned on the fine skin of her arm. Their eyes met. She whispered, "I'd like you to go now."

"Are you all right?"

"Don't worry. Are you all right?"

Another question he refused to answer. So he was not all right; she was learning his language. She had after all been the star of her cipher class.

People were supposed to quarrel. Quarreling made it bearable. Here they were, nursing one another through; something would have to be done; she, of course, would have to be the one who did it. "Just go—go now!"

Men so liked to drag things out. "I'll never forget you."

"Men always say that." How touching, thought Caenis, forced beyond the bounds of charity again, to be the romantic blossom a man chooses to remember from his youth.

Vespasian argued anxiously, "Women say they'll never forgive."

She was brisk. "Not me."

"No. Thanks, Caenis."

"Titus."

She stood quietly, with the humility a woman was expected to show, while Vespasian gently kissed her cheek to say good-bye.

But at that, in her one gesture of absolute defiance, Antonia Caenis blazed with the love she was never permitted to acknowledge, as she seized him and kissed him back: fiercely and furiously, full on the mouth, intending that the man should know exactly how she felt.

All things considered, he took it very well. She thought the bastard smiled at her, in fact. So, with a regretful little smile from him, Caenis was left.

And even then, she did not cry.

* * *

The woman was called Flavia Domitilla. Veronica told her.

"Capella's mistress," she announced angrily. Caenis had been right; people did so want her to have to know. "Capella's nothing; I don't know why she bothered. Come to that, she's nobody herself. Her father actually had to appear before a tribunal to disprove some claim that she was born a slave—"

"She won't be a slave," Caenis commented quietly.

"I thought your high-and-mighty Flavians like to parade themselves as a respectable family?"

Veronica fell silent. She finally realized that even where a mistress had always known disaster would be unavoidable, she might prefer to be abandoned for a person who was somebody.