The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,17

me she had only recently come into the service of Crassus. She evaded all my queries; I did not even know if she was bought or free. Yet there was some part of her story she could not conceal. An unknown hardship lived just beneath the surface of her smile, etching lines of care about her eyes. Sometimes I would catch her standing silently, staring off in some sad reverie from which I was loath to startle her. It saddened me to see this, and to know there was no way I could help.

But oh how she brightened when Livia alighted in the room, which the child did whenever her own chores were done. Then, the gremlins that tormented Sabina dropped their detestable tools and fled the moment she set eyes on her daughter. Livia was ready with a quick and fervent hug, but flitted off again, questioning this, examining that. The girl could not keep still; when she wasn’t talking she was whistling, and the whistling inevitably led to dancing.

Her mother tried to channel some of that energy by handing her a dust cloth, then a broom, then a mop. Sabina claimed the servants assigned to housekeeping were sufficient for cleaning barns and sties, but little else. Sabina was neat the way a Roman pine was coniferous. I have found her on her hands and knees scrubbing the grout between the flagstones with an old tooth rag and a bucket of diluted vinegar. And then again three days later.

Livia did not grumble when asked to help; her vitality needed an outlet and almost any activity would do. She sang and scrubbed, creating dance steps that used the mop as a partner. More than once Sabina had to remind her they were no longer in Salamis. Romans, she admonished, find dancing vulgar. So Sabina, too, had learned the benefits of remaining invisible. A lesson yet to be absorbed by the dazzling and willful Livia.

“Then Romans,” she replied, fixing me with an impish leer, “are the thing you see when you lift a horse’s tail.”

I stifled a guffaw as Sabina exclaimed, “Livia! You must never speak like that.” She glanced toward the hallway, a reflexive movement common in non-Roman conversations: were we being overheard, there would be consequences. Roman consequences. “Where ever did you learn such a thing?”

“At home, of course.” And she was gone, twirling off at speed. Sabina called her back unsuccessfully. The sadness came rushing back into her expression, a thief of joy intent on stealing a mother’s smile. “Home?” I tried. “But this is her home.” Sabina ignored me as she refilled my water cup from a terra cotta pitcher. “Keep drinking,” she said, her healer’s demeanor restored. She ruffled my hair with genuine affection. I ached to know more, but dared not pick further at a scab that was not my own.

***

By the time we reached the entrance to the tablinum, sweat dotted my forehead; Sabina steadied me, her arm an oak branch under my own. The study was small, crowded with the work assigned to one of Sulla’s new favorites. The day was surprisingly warm; curtains had been pulled so that the room was open to the adjacent peristyle. Iron rings discouraged a spray of scrolls from going outside to play with the occasional breeze. There was room for but one chair, and its occupant was unlikely to give it up to the bandaged young heron wobbling before him. Sunlight fell from the columned garden onto Crassus’ outstretched, sandaled foot, the leather lacings only a few shades darker than his tanned calf. His bare arms draped languidly over cedar armrests, hands hanging down in repose. The man I must now call lord wore a tunic hemmed with silver thread; the only other adornment was a band of iron on his left ring finger. His form begged to be sculpted; his face belonged on coins. Marcus Licinius Crassus, one of Rome’s new masters, had just turned thirty-four. As my eyes rose to meet his, I saw that he was studying me as intently as I had been taking account of him.

“You live,” he said.

“Apparently.”

“I am pleased.”

I did not respond.

“I’ve decided I am not going to have you whipped.”

“I am pleased,” I said with emphasis.

There followed a second of silence in which I tried to hold his gaze, but faltered. “Take him back, Sabina,” Crassus said with a flick of his wrist. “Give him another day’s rest, then have him report to Pío.” We turned to go,