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 were present; she stayed here late on 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.

"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 marvelously 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 leaned 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 that she had just finished sorting, to prevent Vespasian (who was craning his head) from reading them.

"Good evening, lord."

Flavius Vespasianus had a rare but wonderful grin. "You're mellowing. Last time I was told to skip over the Styx!"

"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.

"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.