"Ouch!" he remarked. She felt better. He did not apologize; there was no point. Instead he turned to the astrologer in his down-to-earth way. "Here's a challenge, then; can we offer this lass any consolation?"

The man let his eyes glaze with practiced guile. He was draped in unclean scarves that were intended to suggest oriental mystery, though to Caenis they were simply a reflection of the poor standards of hygiene that applied here in the Ninth District. A tinsel zodiac twinkled sporadically on a string above his head. One of the Fish had lost its tail, and the Twins were slowly drifting apart from their heavenly embrace.

"Her face can never be upon the coinage!" the astrologer intoned suddenly in a high-pitched voice. How subtly ambiguous, Caenis thought. The man managed to imply that some uninvited blast of truth had struck him in the midriff, just above whatever he had for dinner. Caenis reckoned this could not be healthy if he did it every day. He wavered; Vespasian chinked some coppers into a grimy hand, which shot out promptly despite the apparent trance. "Her life is kindly; kindly her death. Bones light as charcoal, thin hair . . . she goes to the gods wrapped in purple; Caesar grieves; lost is his lady, his life's true reverse. . . ."

He fell silent, then looked up abruptly, his eyes dark with shock.

Vespasian folded his arms. "Steady on with the treason," he tackled the man jovially, "but if some character's after my turtledove I'd like to be ready for him! What Caesar is this? Not the old goat, I trust. . . ."—meaning Tiberius—"Did you manage to get a glimpse of the laundry label in his cloak?"

Edging away in confusion at having been called his turtledove, Caenis murmured, "Emperors don't have name tags. It's considered unnecessary on the purple, you know."