The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,53

of the house, was the first to receive her new staff. She had a slave to help her dress, plus one to organize her jewelry; one to prepare her various ointments and another to apply them, one to put her makeup on, another to take it off; one to adorn her hair and one to curl it; one to organize her wardrobe, another to fold her clothes and yet another to inspect them for wear. One would accompany her to parties to change her footwear from outdoor shoes to indoor slippers, another to whisper in her ear the names of guests she might have forgotten. She had three bath attendants, including one whose sole purpose was to pluck away unwanted body hair. A bedchamber slave would keep her private quarters tidy, another would remain awake throughout the night should she or her husband wake and require a snack or a cup of water.

In the kitchen, beside the head cook and two subordinates, the staff would eventually include specialists for soup, pickling, meat pastries, desserts, dairy, fruits, and baking. Assisted, of course, by servers, fire boys, stewards for the pantry, wine and stores, a procurer, a menu preparer, an overseer of the dining room, a couch spreader, a table wiper, an ornament arranger, an announcer, a taster, a carver, and a cup-bearer.

As for Livia, she was apprenticed to the head seamstress; I heard she was as nimble and adroit with a needle and thread as she was with her tongue.

I myself required a personal secretary, two scribes, two purchasing agents, and three men to supervise the various subgroups of household workers: the baths, the kitchen, the gardens, the stables and all the rest of it. Over the coming months, by the time Boaz fulfilled all the positions required by the domus, our familia would swell past 100. It was a good beginning.

***

I was hot, tired and needed a bath. On my way to my quarters I passed through the northern gardens. Near the center, encircled by the graceful, tapered columns of six cypress trees was a magnificent marble statue of Apollo holding his lyre. His wise and gentle gaze was fixed on the horizon, proof that no god inhabited that cold stone. If the Olympian had lived within, he would surely have bowed his head to behold Beauty lying asleep at his feet. Livia was curled up against the granite plinth, a damp sponge drying in her outstretched hand, her unpinned hair, the color of Armenian apricots, lay fine and abundant across her face, guarding the pale cream of her complexion against the intrusion of the fascinated sun.

Next month we would celebrate her seventeenth birthday.

The god gleamed from head but not quite to toe, for kneeling to complete her task, she must have succumbed to the persistent invitation of the warming day. Drowsy and safe within the alcove of trees, she slept peacefully at the foot of the god.

Apollo was naked, save for sandals and a cloak circling his neck and draped from behind over his left forearm. His hair curled in tight ringlets about his comely face, his body was smooth, muscled, proportioned, perfect. I pictured marble come to life and knew that here would be a human worthy of Livia’s attention, of her devotion, of her affection. They would have made a beautiful couple, this flawless immortal and impertinent slave girl. For one arrogant instant, I tried to envision myself in the god’s stead and was so repelled by the absurd image that I turned to flee. Something caught my eye, the glass-smooth inside of a scallop glinting in sunlight. Livia’s shell bracelet lay untied beneath her outstretched wrist. It must have come undone as she fell asleep; the single shell lay in the grass just beyond the string’s end.

Beyond her sat a bucket of water and a small stepstool. I pulled the latter close and sat so that no part of my shadow fell on her. I moved quietly, but knew I could not succeed without disturbing her. I know as do you, part of me wanted her to wake, wanted her to speak to me, to see me. All the while I could hear the churlish voice of Little Nestor inside my head: you’re too old, you’re too skinny, you’re unworthy; she’ll want a warrior, not an accountant, she’ll crush you with a glance, she’ll scoff at your clumsy fumbling and the sound of her laughter will shatter your heart. And I knew he was right. But