The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,66

should not have met here,” Livia said, wiping her nose with the kerchief in her free hand.

“Why not?” I asked stupidly.

“I will humor you because you are a man,” she said, sniffling loudly. “If you were a woman you would not have to ask. How can this be my favorite refuge when it has become the place of our parting?”

“It need not be so.”

“Mother says you are my first love, and the first is always the hardest.”

“Only if it ends,” I said, squeezing her hand. To my surprise, she withdrew hers.

“If we agree to end it now,” Livia said, “it will hurt less when we part.”

“Your mother is wrong.”

“She said you would say that.” The first fat drop landed with as soft plop on Livia’s knee.

“And how did she tell you to respond?” My tone escaped sharper than I intended.

“She said she would do nothing to keep us apart, that this was a lesson we would have to learn for ourselves.”

“And?”

“And,” she said, rising to straddle my legs and sit in my lap, “I told her I needed no more schooling.” The kiss that followed was sweet as fruit, sweet as honey, sweet as freedom. I took her face in my hands and looked into the depths of her green eyes. “I do love you so.”

We embraced; she kissed the lobe of my ear and said, “I love you more.” A bolt crackled, the storm suddenly upon us. Thunder fell down heavenly stairs to crash above our heads, Zeus’ invitation for the rain to fall in earnest.

“I used to believe I could reason my way out of any predicament,” I said as we ran for the cover of the colonnades. “I was young and naïve. Nevertheless will I think on this day and night. Pray that when freedom calls your name, we will still be together.”

***

It was near the end of Sextilis, a few days before the Vulcanalia. For all of us who depend upon the uninterrupted supply of grain to this city of insatiable appetites, and for all of that somewhat smaller group who believe that the intervention or at least the apathy of the gods makes a crumb’s bit of difference on the volume and safety of the harvest, this is a very important holiday indeed. The priests would invoke Vulcan Quietus, pleading with him to ward off wildfires, protect the city’s grain, even lull the mighty vents of his slumbering volcanoes to utter stillness.

Here’s a bit of irony for you. The Vulcanalia is celebrated on the 23rd of the hottest month of the year. Every true Roman must honor Vulcan by beginning the day, not in darkness as is usual, but by candlelight. It pleases the god, apparently, to witness the ignition of more unintended fires on his holiday than on any other. He invariably gets his wish. His altar, the Vulcanal, was in the heart of the forum, just above the Comitium where the senate convened. Wise priests, generations long past, moved the services, which included bonfires as well as sacrifice, to the less flammable Campus Martius, the Field of Mars. There, races are held in the Circus Flaminius, and a hot and sweaty time is had by all.

Last but not least, the god of fire, to exacerbate some ancient Olympian rivalry between Neptune and himself, has developed a monumental craving for fish, and it is on this day that it is sated. Once the bonfires are lit and blazing, the priests ceremoniously hurl countless fish into the flames, imploring Vulcan’s fire to spare the fields, the grain, the city, the people. These holy men rely on cheap perch to appease the god. Crassus had recently acquired two vineyards in Campania and a large millet, corn and wheat farm in Venetia near Cremona. Even a cynic such as he dared not tempt the gods where his investments were concerned, so he had had me order a thousand expensive mackerel for his sacrifice. “Why take chances?” he asked when I questioned the size and quality of the purchase. All I could think about was the stink, and hope that the wind would carry the city’s piety somewhere else.

Walking from the master’s quarters back to my office, I passed Sabina coming in from the entrance that led to the servants’ house. She held her favorite bucket and cleaning rags in one hand (yes, she had a favorite bucket), and something clenched in her other fist. She ignored my greeting; in truth I don’t think she noticed me; sweeping