The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Alexander

by Andrew Levkoff

  Children.

  Crassus was even more intent on reaching Tertulla than his son. As the door opened, he scooped the boy up, hung him upside down by his own ankles (an apt punishment until I saw how hard it made little Marcus laugh) and dropped him, gently, back into Pío’s arms. Marcus began to struggle; Pío whispered something to him and the boy lay still. The senator grasped the big man’s shoulder in gratitude, then with a whoop, turned and leaned inside the open door. There sat Tertulla, young and elegant, a wide-eyed baby boy in her lap. Crassus reached underneath his wife with both hands, and accompanied by her shouts of delighted protestations, gathered both mother and son up in his arms. He spun twice round in the gravel, the two parents laughing so hard we who watched could not help but smile.

  “Welcome Tertulla,” Crassus cried, “queen of this house, of our assembled familia, and most assuredly of me!” He set his wife down as we cheered, then reached for the baby. She whirled away from him, her ice blue eyes on fire. Realization dawned on the master and he apologized deeply, with only his enthusiasm to blame. She turned once again to face him, standing an arms-length apart, formally erect. All became terribly still as Tertulla bent and placed the baby at his feet. It squirmed uncomfortably, its swaddling picking up bits of gravel, but did not cry out.

  If the paterfamilias walked away, the child would be taken to the outskirts of the city and abandoned. A father could legally do this if the babe were female, deformed, or if the idea of another screaming mouth in his house were just too tiresome to bear. The practice was the same in Athens.

  No such thing would happen to this child. Crassus swept him up in his arms, lifting him high over his head. “I give you Publius Licinius Crassus!” he cried. “Io Saturnalia!”

  “Io Saturnalia!” we all shouted in response, I less enthusiastically than most of the others. I mean, honestly, it was freezing. Truth to tell, Pío returned little Marcus to his mother’s arms with remarkable tenderness. I would be moved, if I cared a whit for these strangers. What were they to me?

  I looked over at Sabina. She had removed her cap. We began to follow the family back into the house. I waited for Sabina to pass but when I tried to speak to her, with eyes averted she mumbled that she was needed by the master and hurried past.

  ***

  One son of Marcus Crassus would marry and grow old with little to remark his passing. There was, however, one disturbing exception: he became, for a time, quaestor to Julius Caesar. It was one of life’s small, ironic blessings that Crassus did not live to see his progeny in the service of his enemy.

  The other child was doomed to die a hero’s pointless death.

  ***

  Before I could reenter the domus, I was waylaid by Ludovicus. He was five years younger than Sabina, a hard man with a soft center. I always liked him. Except on that day, when he threw an extra cloak over my shoulders and led me into town. Somehow he had come by the knowledge that when it came to women, I had none. He had taken it upon himself, in a festive, holiday mood, to rectify what was, in his opinion, a dreadful oversight. I don’t care how smart you are, he told me cryptically, you’ll never understand how little you really know till you’ve had a woman.

  I do not wish to speak of the incident, only to tell you that it was a failure of less than spectacular proportions. By which I do not mean to employ a double negative, nor to imply that it was in any way a success. We arrived at a house with which Ludovicus was well-acquainted and his custom well-received and appreciated. My guide through these dark waters even supplied the coin to tip the ferryman. Which only made matters worse: is a man who does not pay for his whore less of a man? If he is twenty-three, terrified, and the cerebral sort who cannot help but take this simple, single string of reasoning and obsess about it till he has built a smoking Vesuvius, then yes, he is less of a man. And being thus diminished, by definition, therefore, he is less capable of performing this manliest of acts. Why couldn’t we just go home? I looked in vain for Ludovicus, but he had already paired and departed for the bounteous paradise of his favorite Ligurian, leaving me to my personal Hades.

  The longer you keep your virginity, the harder it is to get rid of it. If you are male and past a certain age, the more concerned you become that nobody wants to relieve you of it. Which makes it more difficult to perform when given the opportunity. Which confirms your original supposition. Which makes you still more afraid that nobody wants it. And so on.

  For a young boy who has not spilled his first seed, sex is a frightful and abhorrent thing to contemplate. As a young teen, it is the only thing worthy of prolonged consideration. A visit to the brothel or an early marriage quickly dissolves both tension and ignorance. But what if chance, lack of opportunity or becoming a spoil of war interrupt the natural progression into adulthood? Then, the difficulty of the mathematics of prolonged virginity rises exponentially with age. Until you solve this equation, it will remain a barrier between you and the rest of the world of men.

  The girl was sweet enough, the room relatively clean and quiet. She took my hands, guided me to her pallet and bade me sit. Standing before me, she slipped from her tunic, her oiled breasts and thighs bronzed by the lamplight. She began touching herself, hardening her nipples between thumb and forefinger and making little animal sounds, either of pain or appreciation. Her facial expressions indicated the former, but I could not be certain. Her hips moved in ways that no man could mimic. Was it arduous practice or some differential physiognomy that enabled such gyrations? Her movements and her hands began to converge about the darkness between her legs. What did she expect of me? Was I supposed to sit and watch or wait for an invitation to become an active participant? And what was I to do exactly? I had no idea and was too embarrassed to ask. I did not know where to look; my eyes darted about, dragonflies flitting over an exotic pond where no resting place promised a safe landing free of humiliation. My confusion was compounded when of a sudden her ankle bracelet began to jingle; she pivoted, dancing in a slow semi-circle till her glistening buttocks gyrated just inches from my face. The oiled dimples of her taut lower back were shining eyes, pleading with me to do I knew not what. Finally, since it was easier to find courage when direct eye contact was not a further dissuasion, I gathered what little I could salvage from my trembling core and in a small voice spoke to her undulating backside, admitting my lack of experience and need for guidance.

  For answer, she turned round and smiled with a knowing coyness that gave me credit in an account that was pitifully empty. I was less than bankrupt, for bankruptcy connotes there is something of value to lose. Lying down on her back, she raised her arms behind her neck and interlaced her fingers amongst the tousled thickness of her hair. She raised her knees, planted her feet flat on the orange bedsheet and let her legs fall open. Her hips began a slow rise and return to the bed, over and over, requiring quite a good deal of abdominal strength. Now what? There was no doubt as to my objective: there it beckoned, a miniature cavern whose secret entrance the girl was even now unveiling with painted fingernails. What is it with these women? Do they think that such a log jam of disuse such as I, presented with a scented, lithe and willing female is enough to unleash a lusty and adept Priapus. Was I to touch it, massage it like a sore muscle, plumb its depths with the pitiful limp thing between my quaking legs? Gods awaken! Was I supposed to kiss that moistened, bearded mouth?!

  She did not love me. Most likely she did not even like me. Why should she when we had met only moments before? This was all an act; there was no genuine feeling here. Even when she took me in her oiled hands to bring life to the dead, I could not stop thinking that the only reason my prick was in her hands was the coin Ludovicus had placed in it earlier. Then I began thinking about Ludovicus touching her hand, and her hand touching me, and the oaky lengths she was beginning to coax from my staff quickly began to shrivel. Yes, I understand there was far too much thinking going on in that tiny room, but that is my curse. I thanked her with another small coin and retreated to the lobby. The
re I sat waiting for the lusty Ludovicus to reappear, as comfortable as a failing student sent before his favorite teacher. I supposed I would just have to wait until I came across some understanding woman who found my obsessions a blessing. And that is all I wish to say about the matter.

  ***

  It was late by the time we returned, Ludovicus conciliatory, myself dejected and consigned to a still deeper pit of virginity out of which it seemed I would never climb. The feast was over and the last guest had departed, content and full by the look of the domestic disarray. Crassus and his wife had long ago retired. My wouldbe benefactor and I pitched in to help clean the house and restore its pristine opulence. An hour later we were about to retire to our respective quarters when there came a knock at the front entrance. The soldier Betto admitted a dark, bearded man wearing one gold earring and long robes striped blue and purple. He was followed by two of his own protectors. Rome was not a safe place to be out and about at night.

  Livia, a small bag slung over her shoulder, came running up to her mother. Sabina hugged her daughter fiercely and would have remained till dawn in that embrace had not Livia gently broken free. “Good night, mother. Will I see you soon?”

  Sabina’s chin trembled and her eyes widened in that trick we use to keep the tears from falling. “Soon,” she managed. Livia turned toward the strangers, but Sabina reached to trace her hand down the full length of her daughter’s outstretched arm. As Livia moved away Sabina let the fabric of her daughter’s tunic pass through her hand, then the softness of her child’s arm till at last only their hands touched, fingers intertwining. Finally, fingertips shared the last brief spark of connection. Livia giggled at this little game, then ran to the stranger.

  “Can we not keep her,” Sabina asked, “at least till the end of the Saturnalia?”

  “She is promised elsewhere,” the dark man said with a compassionate tilt of his head. His accent was strange. He smiled down at the girl and held out his hand. She took it. They stepped back out into the night. As the front door was being barred shut Livia began to whistle. In a few moments the sound receded into silence.

  Dumbstruck, I stood staring at the closed door. “What just happened?” I turned toward Sabina, but she had fled. Betto, the young door guard was standing at his post, fussing with a strap on his leather breastplate. “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Boaz. A Jew,” he said, his head bent in concentration over the lacings. As if that explained anything.

  “And?”

  Betto looked up at me, irritated. “He has a contract with the house.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “Boaz is our slave merchant,” he said as if talking to one of those pitiful god-touched souls wandering aimlessly through the stalls of the Subura market. He spoke in sharp-edged barbs of rising inflection. “He owns the girl. She was only here on a rental.”

  ***

  Earlier in the day Sabina had shown me where I would be sleeping from now on. It was near the end of the servants’ hallway; a small room right next to Pío’s much larger quarters. I limped there now, stung, numb and so very tired. It was very dark and I had to feel my way. Pulling the curtain aside I saw absolutely nothing. I had to stand there for a few moments until my eyes regained some of their sight. There was a shape on one of the two sleeping couches. Nestor faced the wall; I could not tell if he was asleep or feigning; either way I doubt he wanted to engage in conversation. Fine by me. A narrow table stood between the beds; trunks sat at the foot of each. That was all. There was barely a foot between the two couches. No window. No ornamentation. Home.

  I undressed and slipped beneath the heavy blanket. Sleep would not come. I tossed like a beached fish, stared at the ceiling and replayed all that had transpired that day. Finally, I decided my foul mood needed company. “Nestor,” I whispered. No response. I tried again, louder this time. And a third, louder still.

  He whipped around to face me. “What do you want?” he hissed. “Are you crazy? Do you know the time?”

  “To talk. No. Yes.”

  “Leave me alone.” His tone sounded more frantic than was called for by the occasion.

  “Yes. No.”

  “You are insane. The master should lock you away and make you eat hellebore leaves till you come to your senses.”

  “Why did you not acknowledge me earlier today? I thought you would be happy to see me.”

  “This is my home. My position. I asked for it first. I don’t need you.”

  “Well, we won’t go into the manner of your ‘asking,’ beyond acknowledging that shoving me out of the way was a rude and inelegant gesture from one Greek compatriot to another. Be resigned, Nestor, I am here. I am not your enemy. We can help each other.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! We are fellow countrymen. Does that not count for something?”

  “Did it count for anything when we were in chains? Did we ever pass so much as a word between us in all those many months? No, it doesn’t count for anything, not then, not now.”

  I was not expecting such chastisement. All the more scathing for its accuracy. “Forgive me, Nestor. You are right. Those were difficult times.”

  “The only difference now is a bit more food and a bit less mud. Now let me be.”

  I awoke some time later lying on my side facing Nestor’s bed. It was empty. From the room next door came again the sound that had roused me – a couch scraping on the floor. There it was again, then two men talking. No, not talking. I rolled over and tried to wrap the long, narrow sleeping pillow over both my ears.

  Chapter VIII

  82 - 81 BCE - Winter, Rome

  Year of the consulship of

  Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

  It was late the next morning. None of the family had come out yet; the house was oddly quiet. No one was wearing their pileus except Betto, the guard, but he was doing it as a joke. I had just finished translating cook’s instructions for the evening’s meal when Sabina came into the culina. She beckoned me to follow her outside into the garden. Cook flapped his permission with the cloth he used to battle the permanent film of perspiration on his forehead. Limping to my room as fast as I could, I grabbed my only cloak and met her outside. A bright sun was burning the dew away.

  Swiping a hand across the marble bench where she stood waiting, I sent a small wave of condensation onto the dead grass. I laid the cloak across the veined stone and we sat watching the steam rise off the artificial pond. “I’m sorry,” Sabina said after a short while.

  “This is a terrible place.” I kept still, letting her take her time.

  She was not quite ready, but skirted close. “Livia is quite fond of you, you know. She told me she likes embarrassing you.”

  “An unremarkable feat, easily accomplished. Only yesterday we were practicing the finer points of how to butcher a boar. Cook was demonstrating, I was translating. The staff laughed at every word I spoke; puzzling, since I could not imagine a subject less humorous. The more they laughed, the angrier I became. How dare they humiliate an invalid with a cane? I chastised them sternly, wagging a finger at their disrespect; the laughter became uproarious. A noise from behind caught my attention; I turned to discover your daughter standing there barefoot, wearing an old brown wig, holding two long sticks with stuffed, white gloves attached to each end. She had snuck up behind me to pantomime everything I did."

  “I heard all about it."

  "I glared at her, but my heart wasn't in it. She grinned sheepishly and waved at me with one of her 'hands.' It really was quite funny. Even cook laughed.”

  "For one so young, you are very good with children. Marcus, too. I know you’ve been teaching Livia Latin.”

  “She’s a fast learner. If only we had more time.”

  Damn myself for a fool. I had inadvertently broken the spell. For a moment, we might have been mistaken for two companions enjoying the morning air. “I have not been honest with you,” she said.

  “You owe me no explanations.”
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  “I feel that I do.” She bent to pick up a pebble, then tossed it underhand into the pond. “We seem to have become friends, haven’t we? Not an easy accomplishment.” She sighed. “I was ashamed, Alexandros. To confess to you that my station was no better than yours. I thought I would be free, and Livia with me; that I would be gone from this place. Such an insult to you!” She turned to face me. “Can you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You have only shown me kindness. You and Livia have been the only brightness to shine upon me in years. The real tragedy is to learn that you and your daughter are not free.”

  “They will be looking for us soon. I must tell you quickly.”

  “You don’t have to say a thing. Come, let us go in.” I started to rise but she caught my arm.

  “No. I must do this.” She steeled herself. “I was pregnant when we married. He was Roman, a soldier for Marius. It wasn’t a formal ceremony, we weren’t citizens, but we were free and it was legal ��� he walked me to our apartment with a few of his legionary friends to bear witness. I wore the flame-colored veil and the amaracus wreath. I was such a romantic. My parents were dead, and he was estranged from his. A clue which I completely ignored.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I won’t speak it. Soon after we were married, it became clear his love for me paled beside his passion for gambling. He was obsessed by the chariot races; whenever the cheers from the Circus Maximus echoed through the city, he would disappear, probably with those same men who had followed us to our threshold. I didn’t notice the losses at first; he didn’t confide in me. And honestly, I was so wrapped up in my daughter, I wasn’t paying attention. I had never been so happy.” I nodded. “I suppose that’s why two years ago when I came back from the market and he gave me the news, I fainted. See this scar?” She leaned toward me; I saw a thin white ripple just below the hairline near her left temple. “I fell and cracked my head. When I got up a few moments later, blood was seeping between my fingers; he steadied me and put me in a chair. I brushed him away and made him speak again so I would know I had not misheard him. He spoke slowly, defeat and regret coating every word. To pay his debts, he said, he had been forced to sell our daughter. I looked around frantically, realizing we were alone. I screamed at him, ‘Where is she?!’ but she was already gone.”