A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,120

I saw of him were three fingertips, white with the strain of clinging to the soggy deck. They looked like little pieces of biscuit dough waiting for the oven. A final tug from below and they vanished. Nebta, too, disappeared. I was alone for several moments, but in that time, as the storm grew bored with us and the sky lightened, as below me the women drowned the soldier who would have murdered me, I wrapped my arms about that railing and knew you and I would find each other again. Somehow I knew it.”

I pressed my forehead against Livia’s and sighed. “Little fox, you are a storyteller of singular merit. It would do my heart good if you never recounted another such as this again.”

“I won’t, but don’t you want to hear—”

“No.”

“I must tell you about the—”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Hmph. I thought you’d take at least a little interest in my rape story.”

“Oh gods, I’d forgotten. But you weren’t raped.”

“No.”

“Then, please, love, I beg you, just the summary points.”

“As you wish. If you remember, Nebta and Khety grew up in a city on a canal just west of the Nile.” I nodded. “And you know they’re whores.”

“And strong swimmers. And large-breasted. Yes, these things have been established. And for them all I am truly and eternally grateful.”

“So, my breasts do not please you?” Livia pushed herself together to emphasize her cleavage.

“I love your breasts for many reasons. I love their breasts for the part they played in saving your life. And given the opportunity, I would immerse my hands in scented unguents and offer up unto that entire harvest of pendulous fruit the careful, methodical, caresses of infinite gratitude. Do continue.”

“And you haven’t even seen them. Once ashore, the three of us became inseparable. I couldn’t sleep with you…”

“I begged dominus. He could have made an exception, made you his personal physician, placed your quarters adjacent to his. He said it would destroy morale.”

“And he was right, Andros. Inside the camp is no place for a woman.”

“And outside is better?”

“It’s not so bad. Our tent is large, the girls are popular; they’ve even hired on servants and a mule.”

“I suppose it could be worse. At least dominus was thoughtful enough to post guards for your protection.”

“Oh, that wasn’t dominus. That was Octavius. He posted legionaries at all the brothel tents to maintain order. A good thing, too, or my rest would go from little to none. Which brings me, once again, to my clever friends.” Livia unsealed the wine skin and drank.

Octavius? Once again, I had failed my lessons in the Academy of Crassus. What presumption to think that my thirty years of service, my contubernium with his own house healer, my advice and loyalty would raise the two of us above thirty-odd thousand others in his thoughts. At the sight of those guards, I had believed he was looking out for us, protecting my wife, displaying some concern for us beyond our use as pieces in this vindictive game he played. Why am I not inured? Why with each passing year does it become more urgent that Crassus show me some genuine sign of understanding, appreciation, friendship?

“Pelargós, why aren’t you looking disgusted?” She poked me. “You weren’t even listening, were you?”

“I am sorry, love. Am I completely mad, or did I hear something to do with frogs?”

Livia sighed and repeated another tale of the resourcefulness of Nebta and Khety, and this time I did my best to pay attention. The two prostitutes had insisted their new friend share their tent (easily purchased after a night’s work in the crate-clotted alleys off the Dyrrachium docks). It was the evening of their first day’s march up out of the city, before Octavius had organized guards for the camp followers. One very inebriated, very determined young legionary could not be convinced that Livia’s red-hemmed tunic was anything but a costume and was willing to pay double to play “healer and patient.” Khety stayed the attentions of her own client, pulled her hanging veil aside and told the man he did not want this woman, that she was sick with the river slime. Livia was on her knees, her back against the tent wall. Khety set a lamp on the hemp rug. “Look for yourself.” Livia jumped as Khety lifted her tunic. The man leaned in to leer at the target of his lust, swallowed heavily and lurched backwards from the tent. “You touch this woman,” she told the soldier as