The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,76
would all crumble into a meaningless heap.”
Tertulla handed the cup back to Crassus with a look upon her face so sublime that it hurt my eyes to behold it. Once, a girl had blessed me with that same expression, but no more. Crassus leaned in to gently clean the thin line of purple from Tertulla’s upper lip with a kiss. Then he emptied what remained of the wine in one exuberant swallow and tossed the cup to Tranio. Husband and wife kissed, and for a moment, the only sounds were the sputter of the torch flames and the song of the year’s last, brave nightingale. Their embrace ended; their impassioned gaze lingered. Suddenly, Crassus began to laugh.
“It was an inspiration, wasn’t it? Pompeius may have pranced into the city with a triumph for supposedly subduing Hispania, but never in ten lifetimes could he ever match such a display as our sacrifice to Hercules.”
“A triumph you deserved but never received. At least we have the satisfaction of knowing your offering soured his moment of glory.”
“Indeed. A feast for the people laid out on ten thousand tables: it did leach attention from that strutting charlatan, at least for the time it took the plebs to chew and swallow the meal.”
“When will you ever see yourself as others do?” she asked, hugging him. “As I do? You know, it’s three months now, and the slaves tell me it is still the talk of the city.”
“The feast? Merely my thanks for all that Rome has given us.”
“The feast, yes, but also the three months’ supply of corn you lavished on every citizen.”
“The people are our children, and children must be fed. Besides, the cost was a mere trifle.”
She shook her dark curls and smirked, intertwining her fingers in his. “Your sense of proportion is sadly skewed.”
“All right, call it an investment.” He gestured with his chin to take in the villa, its fountains and gardens, and by inference, the literally hundreds of homes, businesses, quarries and mines throughout Italy and beyond which he either owned outright, or controlled through his clients. “I am no fool, dove. Who here is the true master, and who the slave? Our happiness is tied to Rome’s by a Gordian knot not even Alexander the Macedonian could sever. One will endure only as long as the other prospers, and not a heartbeat longer. The Republic has become a frail old man, ruled by the fickle whims of its needy grandchildren. If you doubt me, just ask Alexander.”
“Give your servants more credit than that, dominus.”
“Why should I? Look what happened with Spartacus. If the urban slaves ever rose up with one voice, Rome would cease to exist.”
“Which is why you keep them well fed and well entertained,” Tertulla said.
“I wonder, dove, is it enough? Tell me, are you happy, Alexander?”
“I am lucky to be alive. I am grateful.”
“Answer the question.”
“I am as happy as my condition allows, dominus.”
“There, you see, dove, what a scoundrel he is? I can always count on you, can’t I, Alexander, to deliver a sentence well-honed on both sides.”
“Brrr, let us go in, love,” Tertulla said. “Don’t let Alexander toy with you. He is the luckiest slave in Rome, and he knows it. See how the light and warmth have fled the sky - now they await within. I’m ready for the tepidarium. Bring your intellectual sparring partner with you, if you must, but let us go in.”
Crassus kissed the top of Tertulla’s head, readjusted her towel about her and together they padded back into the house holding hands.
“Oh, Livia. Good,” Tertulla said as they passed through the smaller calidarium and into the large, circular space of the tepidarium. I followed discretely behind, nodding slightly to Livia as I passed, whose straightforward gaze never wavered.
It almost didn’t hurt anymore. In Livia’s eyes, I had become a child of Dis, a spirit of the underworld, a barely visible shade to be shunned. If not shunned, ignored. If not ignored, deterred. It had been thus for the past six years.
The poets sing of love as if it were forged of iron, incorruptible, shining, eternal. Perhaps it is so, perhaps the love of which the ancients sing is a love so strong it endures beyond life itself. Or perhaps the ancients were so focused on their poetry that they had never really experienced loved themselves and had no idea what they were singing about. For us poor mortals, ordinary love is a fragile, delicate wisp of a thing with