Read Online The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis - Free Book Online Page A

men, moreover, who pretended they had left their money at home and tried to sneak in without paying at all. Paying double always made her angry. Veronica liked to arrive after Caenis had been ensconced in the hot-air room in her rope-soled sandals long enough for torpor to set in.
    They had nothing in common as bathhouse companions anyway. Caenis wanted value for money. She went through the suite of rooms from the hot steam to the cold plunge with a gritty intent to extract every possible ounce of sensation and stimulus; if she had time she even patted a ball around or swam, which few women other than those of sinister athleticism ever bothered to do. Veronica came to chat. She certainly would not swim at the moment because her hair had been blonded and the dye would run. In fact she could not even float; she relied on the fine truth that when women with heart’s-ease baby faces fall into deep water there are always eager men on hand topull them out. Caenis, who lacked this advantage, had taught herself to swim strongly years before.
    Veronica looked well with yellow hair. She also looked well with glossy blue-black curls, auburn towers of Celtic plaits, or rolling chestnut waves. If ever she grew old (though it seemed unlikely she would last so long) Veronica would be utterly distinguished once she settled for a smart silvery bun. Of them all, the present yellow crimping perhaps best suited the daintiness of her face.
    Her language had never been dainty. ‘Caenis, don’t be such a stupid pen-pushing cow!’
    As Caenis had said to Antonia, her old friend had a good heart. ‘Juno! I spy some terrible spots on your back, Veronica.’
    A game try.
    â€˜Oh piddle! Give me a scrape down, love—but don’t try to drive me off the racecourse. I said—’
    â€˜I heard what you said.’
    â€˜Yes, but do you
listen
?’ Veronica bawled.
    They had known each other since they were ten and as neither was in a position to bring a body-slave they had been scraping each other’s back with one borrowed strigil or another ever since. Caenis helped Veronica obliterate her shoulder rash; Veronica, using similarly brutal techniques, helped Caenis shed unsatisfactory men. Most of the men who had ever approached Caenis were hopeless; strong-minded angry girls are curiously attractive to inadequate types. She had not even told Veronica about the very worst. Nor had Veronica, who was soft-hearted in some respects, ever mentioned that there were several perfectly decent men who regarded Caenis with secret fondness; Veronica thought accepting fondness would be a fatal mistake.
    â€˜Darling, this character is completely insignificant. It’s taken me half a day even to find out his name.’ It had taken Caenis herself three weeks of hard effort with the usher Maritimus to extract any information. ‘Time you were fixed up with someone useful, girl. Why do you always frighten the good ones off? Oh, you don’t even intend to look!’
    Caenis writhed. ‘I do; I do! I tell myself an Indian pearl earring orseveral are just what I need—then I look at the types who might offer, and I curl up. It’s not just the thought of their podgy fingers paddling in your private places; most of them are so
lacking
, Veronica.’
    â€˜Keep away from men with talent,’ Veronica barked. ‘If he falls, you may follow. If he rises you’ll be dropped.
Ouch!
’
    â€˜Sorry. Give me your oil flask.
Phew!
’
    â€˜Deposited as an offering on the altar of love,’ Veronica muttered.
    â€˜It’s disgusting.’
    â€˜It’s very expensive.’
    â€˜It would be—I’ll use mine.’
    As her friend ministered, Veronica lifted her own flask and sniffed at it uncertainly; she had educated views on material items, yet sometimes Caenis managed to shake her confidence.
    â€˜It’s a pretty bottle,’ Caenis consoled kindly. It was pink Syrian glass,