On the Palatine there would be sufficient light from flares, but they had to reach it first; one of his slaves had become their lantern-bearer. Even so, the narrow streets were dim, and Caenis began to be afraid Vespasian might risk public familiarity. All he ever did, when builders' wagons or wine merchants' delivery carts trundled dangerously near, was to move her into the shelter of a house portico or close against the shuttered frontage of a shop with a light touch on her arm, at once lifted. She hoped he did not notice how even that raised goose bumps.

He did notice. His question was typically abrupt: "Caenis, will you go to bed with me?"

"Certainly not!" She rapped back her refusal; then, with the issue broached, relief flooded over her.

"You don't like me?"

"I like you far too much!" she found herself explaining briskly.

Vespasian rounded on her, forcing her to stop. "What's that supposed to mean?" He was a big man, extremely blunt, and far superior in rank. She experienced real alarm. His chin was up, his mouth furiously set.

She faced him with a pattering heart. "It means: I cannot afford the risk. I told you; I told you right at the start—I am the property of my mistress, and her approval matters to me. Please come along; people are staring."

He ignored that. He was standing in the road, refusing to move.

"You need to take care of yourself too," Caenis muttered morosely. "Find a rich senator with a decent daughter you can marry. You need a fat landed dowry, and you must become respectable if you want a career." This was true; he acknowledged her wise advice. Duty and propriety compelled a citizen to marry, marry a woman of good background and character, then produce children. The cursus honorum, the official career ladder for senators, depended on it. "I am sorry if there has been a misunderstanding," Caenis concluded in anxious apology.