He materialized from the dispersing crowd just in time.

"Hello, Caenis!" He must have gone to find two slaves, his own or more likely his brother's, who now followed behind him with cudgels through their belts. "Sorry; have I kept you waiting?"

"It didn't matter," she lied gallantly.

* * *

"Want your fortune told?" Vespasian was glancing at the booth; a man of evil Egyptian aspect, with a red pointed cap and no teeth, popped up like a puppet over the canvas half-door the moment he spoke; evidently able to prophesy customers. "I'll pay for it—are you frightened?" Very little frightened Caenis. She said nothing, and Vespasian egged her on. "Don't you believe in horoscopes? You old skeptic!"

"I know my future: hard work, hard luck, and a hard death at a hard age!" Caenis told him grimly. "I can't do it. You need to say when you were born."

For a moment he did not understand.

Each freeborn Roman citizen, male or female, was registered with the Censor within eight or nine days of birth. A free citizen honored his own birthday and those of his ancestors and family as his happiest private festivals, when his household gods were wreathed with garlands while everyone who owed him respect gave thanks. Important men honored the birthdays of political figures they admired. The birthday of the Emperor was a public festival.

Caenis was a slave; she did not know when her birthday was.

He was quick; no need now to explain.

Pride made her do so anyway; she could be brutal when she chose: "Slavegirls' brats, sir, are not heralded by proud fathers in the Daily Gazette. The fact that I exist is marked only by my standing here before you, blood and bone decked out in a new dress. The modern philosophers may grant me a soul, but nobody—lord, nobody—burdens me with a fate to be foreseen!"