Free The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis Page B

Caenis produced her own battered reference sheets. She had been taught shorthand and several kinds of ciphering long ago. ‘This is a list of symbols I once made for myself. If you can read my scribble take it, please.’
    When taking notes for her own purposes she wrote so quickly her handwriting could be eccentric, but as he glanced through he nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He was just like her: set a document in his hand and he was instantly devouring it.
    While he was still reading she forced herself to say, ‘I see the Senate have published next year’s postings.’
    â€˜I’ve drawn Cyrenaïca and Crete.’
    â€˜Crete will be pleasant . . . When do you leave?’
    â€˜Tomorrow.’ Immediately he looked up. ‘Sailing when the seas are closed is traditionally the first test in the job. Sorry. I should have come before this. Stupid!’ he added tersely.
    Caenis did not reply.
    The awkward low seat finally got the better of him. He stood up, stretching, though not yet ready to go. He began to pace about the room.
    â€˜I see you had the place cleaned up.’
    â€˜How did you know it was me?’ she demanded. Vespasian let out a little laugh. Caenis blushed. ‘Well, I finally nudged the prefect of works.’
    He had been inspecting the new fresco. The painters had wanted to do a gladiatorial scene; painters always did. Instead Caenis had insisted on a soothing panorama of gardens, like the one in Livia’sHouse: cranky trellises laden with creepers in whose shade three-legged herons pecked fruit from funereal urns amidst unlikely combinations of flowers.
    â€˜What does
nudging
entail?’ Vespasian cracked, looking back over his hefty shoulder with a contempt that startled her.
    â€˜Oh—the usual!’ When caught off guard Caenis could be a belligerent tease. She glanced down, then up again through her eyelashes. Veronica imbued this gesture with resonant sexuality; Caenis got an eyelash in one eye. ‘I just took an interest in his work.’
    Vespasian stared.
    To soothe him, while she fiddled with the eyelash she commented that Antonia was unlikely to keep this office once Tiberius either died or came home to Rome. It was years since he decamped to Capri. There he now owned a dozen villas plus a series of grottoes and bowers which provided a pretty playground for acting out orgiastic fantasies—or so it was said. Some of the terrible stories were probably true.
    Sometimes the Emperor did make journeys to mainland Italy and circled Rome like a wary crab, informing the Senate that he intended to visit and yet then fleeing back to his hideaway with the headlong panic of a haunted man. Astrologers had decided that the hour of his leaving Rome had been so inauspicious that returning might be fatal. Caenis scoffed at the idea, but Vespasian folded his arms over his glossy new toga and said, ‘Not if he really believes the prophecy.’
    â€˜That I accept,’ Caenis agreed. ‘He’d be quite likely to collapse if he heard a rat in the hypocaust, or a spider ran over his foot. You know, Antonia believes that is what happened to her son in Syria.’
    â€˜Germanicus? I thought he was poisoned?’
    â€˜He was; but he might have withstood it better if witches had not filled his house with fossils, and feathery monsters, and dead babies under the floorboards until they frightened him to death.’ She was philosophical about Tiberius. ‘So long as the creatures who parade for the Emperor’s perversions volunteer, let him stay on his island.’
    â€˜Is it all true?’ Eyes bright, Vespasian had a respectable man’s shameless curiosity about the Emperor’s fusty sexual habits.
    â€˜Worse.’
    Disturbed, he saw the dismal memories clouding Caenis’ face.
    She braced herself to cope. She had never expressed her views on Tiberius; it had never been safe. Yet in Vespasian she placed absolute