The Course of Honour Read Online Free PDF Page B

here; he suspected that people deceived him, so inevitably they did. Still, Antonia could act as she liked nowadays. She was the Mother of Rome.
    The room had a depressed air. It was cold. It smelt of hibernating animals. The paintwork on the frescos was faded. In the Emperor’s absence large areas of his palace were declining in neglect; unsupervised, the imperial stewards took a slack attitude to redecorating any quarters they did not wish to lounge in themselves. Caenis, a girl who could get things done, intended to make friends with the prefect of works.
    Vespasian prodded at a patch of wall plaster which was effervescing oddly: ‘Bit rough.’
    â€˜The whole of Rome is collapsing,’ Caenis observed. ‘Why should the Emperor’s house be different?’
    Tiberius had a desultory approach to public construction; he began a Temple of Augustus and restoring the Theatre of Pompey, but both remained unfinished. He had occupied the Palace only fitfully before retiring from Rome. Vespasian grumbled, ‘He should build properly. He should build more, build better, encourage others, and set a decent standard.’
    He turned his critical attention to Caenis.
    She showed distinct signs of improvement. She looked clean and neat; Antonia’s staff were allowed to attend the women’s sessions at the public baths. Her dark hair was knotted at the nape of her neck and she had acquired a better quality dress. Although she worked at a rickety table with a fillet of wood to prop up one leg, she occupied her place with an air of grand possessiveness. She had been promoted to be in charge. None of her juniors was present; she stayed here lateon purpose, adoring her authority as she read and corrected their work. Faced with somebody she knew, Caenis openly glowed.
    The returning tribune absorbed everything; she was sure he had noticed the subtle change in her situation.
    â€˜A tyrant of the secretariats!’ he teased as he approached. He seemed larger and even fitter than she remembered, deeply tanned by outdoor army life. ‘That marvellously frightening glint in the eye . . .’ Caenis ignored this.
    He had wandered right up to her table. Perching on the edge, he went on gazing around as if even a run-down cubbyhole in the Palace were new to him. An oil lamp tilted alarmingly. Caenis leant down hard with her elbows so the table would not rock over and tip him on the floor. He knew she was doing it but made no attempt to shift his weight. She folded her hands atop the tablets which she had just finished sorting to prevent Vespasian (who was craning his head) from reading them.
    â€˜Good evening, lord.’
    Flavius Vespasianus had a rare but wonderful grin. ‘You’re mellowing. Last time I was told to skip over the Styx!’
    â€˜The lady Antonia’s secretariat respects the privilege of rank.’ Caenis was now allowed to be as ironic as the person she was addressing would accept. Authority attached to her through the importance of her mistress and the responsibility of her post. Antonia’s visitors treated her with deference. ‘Are you rich yet, tribune?’ she taunted.
    â€˜I shall never be rich; but I have brought you a present. Don’t get excited; it’s nothing to wear.’ He had come completely unattended. There was a rather greasy parcel squashed under his arm.
    â€˜Can you eat it?’ she giggled unexpectedly.
    â€˜I owe you a sausage.’
    â€˜And this is it? After
two years
, lord?’
    â€˜I had to go to Thrace,’ he told her gravely. ‘If I had missed the sea-crossing it would have been the end of my career.’ He spoke as if he had seriously considered missing his ship anyway. Caenis felt an odd flutter. She ignored it stalwartly. He handed her the parcel. ‘I presumeyou are a girl who likes pickled fish?’ She loved pickled fish. ‘Manage a stuffed egg?’
    â€˜Only one?’
    â€˜I ate