The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis Page A

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.
    Â 
    Caenis had fled.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Yes; thank you.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Certainly not!’ She rapped back her refusal then, with the issue broached, relief flooded over her.
    â€˜You don’t like me?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You need to take care of yourself too,’ Caenis muttered morosely. ‘Find a rich senator with a decent