The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis Page A

her own woman. To hold her back would condemn her. Anyone who cared for her must sympathise.
    â€˜Perhaps you will be good enough,’ the lady Antonia instructed her, with petulant formality, ‘to prepare for me another of these documents.’ Caenis knew her well enough to wait. ‘You will not be asked to buy your citizenship. Caenis, you are stubborn and independent—but, my dear, this was to be my gift to you and I refuse to forgo that pleasure!’
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    So it was now to a distinguished imperial freedwoman that Vespasian had to dispatch his least ruffianly slave. Not only was Antonia’s house the highest ranking private home in Rome, by virtue of their position close to the imperial family, her freedwoman possessed more clout than any tax collector’s son. Vespasian would not consider visiting the House of Livia without his own patron, Lucius Vitellius, and he felt wary of making a personal approach to Caenis before he knew how she would react. He was not entirely certain his scab-kneed lad would be admitted.
    He was right that here they had no ‘Welcome’ sign set into their scrubbed mosaic floor. However, letters addressed to Caenis were always promptly delivered and Vespasian’s slave was permitted towait for her reply. At ease in her long chair in one of the tasteful reception rooms, with her own slavegirl in attendance for decency’s sake, Caenis smiled a little as she dictated it to a thin Greek scribe.
So pleasant to hear from you; so kind of you to remember me. You may visit me here at any time, tomorrow perhaps if you wish.
I
should very much like to see
you
!
    A. C.
    Vespasian decided not to wait until tomorrow.

 
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11
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    T he House of Livia, Antonia’s house, like any substantial residence in Rome turned inwards on courtyards full of quiet sunlight and the soothing splash of fountains. Blank walls faced outwards, even though this dwelling possessed the added seclusion of a position on the Palatine. Everything was designed to eliminate the bustle of exterior crowds and to provide, even within the capital, a family haven of strict privacy and peace. The architects had not reckoned with the havoc that the mad Julio-Claudian family could cause in any haven, but for once the defect was not the architects’ fault.
    There was one courtyard garden, shaded in summer by a fig tree and overhead roses, surrounded by a colonnade. Nobody went there much nowadays. The wicker chairs and folding tables were stored on one side, together with terracotta urns of tender bulbs which had been brought under the roof for shelter. Entranced by a neglected sprawl of jasmine, Caenis had made this her private domain. It was a faintly dusty, comfortable place, kept private from formal visitors. She liked to lounge there even late in the day when the palest sunshine lancing down low over the main pantiles soon made it surprisingly warm. Sometimes after dinner when Antonia retired early to bed, Caenis sat there in silence in the dark.
    Her little slave, a child who lacked any susceptibility to the romanceof private thought, usually brought her a bowl of pistachios and a proper table lamp.
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    â€˜Hello, Caenis.’
    There was a lamp being brought but no nuts, and it was not her little slave.
    â€˜Who is it?’ she gurgled foolishly. Pointless: no one else spoke her name with the solemnity of a religious address. Vespasian’s substantial shadow unravelled and shrank down and up the folding doors that led out from the house. ‘Oh! I had better call my girl.’
    â€˜You had better not,’ he retorted calmly. ‘I’ve just given her a copper to keep out of the way.’
    Reaching her, he held aloft his pottery lamp: the same sunny disposition, the same frowning face. Gazing back, where she reclined amongst cushions wrapped in a deep blue robe, Caenis felt herself breaking into a slow, tranquil grin to welcome him.
    â€˜Antonia Caenis;