The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,86

nothing, holding me with a malevolent gaze, for nothing more, I assume, than the satisfaction of seeing me finally wilt and avert my eyes. When I did, I saw Livia approaching.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, her voice subdued, her head bowed. Caesar ignored her and sipped his water. Protocol and common sense demanded that she ignore me and address the pontifex maximus. But in the past eight years, I must admit to you that I had grown more and more delusional. Time had hewn away the sharpest edges of Livia’s distaste for the very sight of me, and while I never let it show, inwardly I took this for a sign, letting my imagination grow apace with my affection. When she spoke, I imagined no one present but the two of us; in my head I even altered her tone to one of reverence and adoration.

What a sop.

There, pathetically, was the limit of my boldness. Much had changed in the past eight years, and much had remained the same.

Here is a list of what had changed:

1. Through my masters’ generosity, I had become one of the richest slaves in Rome, and I suppose, therefore, one of the richest slaves in the world.

2. Livia had fallen in love.

And here is what had remained the same:

1. Livia did not love me.

2. I was still a slave.

Six years ago, a young sculptor belonging to dominus had become enamored of Livia. She was twenty-four. I do not know if she returned his love, but as Apollo is my witness, I never saw her look at him the way she looked at me when we stole minutes and kisses under the statue of the god.

While slaves were not permitted to marry, with the permission of their owner, they might form a contubernium, a union of limited rights. Do not be confused, for while the word is the same, this is not the military term meaning an eight-man unit of tent-mates.

Crassus, on a tour of his holdings in Picenum was expected to return by the end of the month. As you know, I hold little stock in the efficacy of prayer, but in the days and weeks prior to his arrival, I spent every free moment in every temple I passed with knees bent and palms raised. I bribed augurs, donated to charity, even, to my shame, let slip to domina several unsavory remarks about the boy’s artistry. All to no avail: Crassus gave his blessing. Vows were exchanged in the atrium and it was done. Why should dominus deny them? Had they but time to make a family of their own, their children would have been added the rolls of people owned by Marcus Crassus, joining a multitude that now numbered into the thousands. The rewards were many and the risk almost non-existent. It was the perfect investment.

But less than a year after their joining the lad had died suddenly after sampling oysters he had purchased at the market for a party marking my lady’s thirty-third birthday. The circumstances were suspicious enough that Crassus immediately set to work on his own private oyster beds at Baiae, placing them under twenty-four hour guard. Livia’s devastation was acute and complete. Though I burned to comfort her, it was not my place; any condolences on my part would have been misunderstood, their sincerity suspect. Thank Athena my lady Tertulla would not rest until Livia’s grieving and healing had run their course, except for those scars of loss which fade but never disappear. I left a collection of Sappho’s poems on Livia’s pillow, but the note of sympathy I wrote sounded shallow and trite: I tore it up. I don’t know if she ever read the poems.

My feelings for Tertulla’s seamstress had all but drowned beneath the crashing wave of Sabina’s treachery. But in that deluge a tiny seed survived, ironically nurtured by the torture of seeing Livia work, fall in love, grieve, grow. I was twenty-three when I first set eyes upon her; a dancing child of twelve. Now she was a woman of twenty-nine: a long time to be tossed about together on the crests and troughs of the strange sea of our existence.

One cannot love unless one is loved in return. Of this I am certain, for I have lived it. There is no such thing as unrequited love; the phrase ought to be stricken from the lexicon. Love is a thing shared, an intertwining of essential separateness into something not quite alone. There is