The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis

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.
    â€˜Hello, Caenis!’ He must have gone to find two slaves, his own ormore likely his brother’s, who now followed behind him with cudgels through their belts. ‘Sorry; have I kept you waiting?’
    â€˜It didn’t matter,’ she lied gallantly.
    Â 
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜
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 standardsof 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.
    â€˜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