A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,3
finger toward the stacked tins stuffed with completed parchments. Melyaket smiles, lays his bow against the railing and wipes his hands on a rag. He pads behind me, grips me with strong fingers and kneads the stiffness from my shoulders.
“You're a good boy,” I say, mollified. I reach up to pat his hand.
“And you are an alarmingly old man,” he says. After awhile he circles round and drops to his knees before my chair, his necklace of polished blue stones clinking. Sitting on his heels, he says, “Try not to die while I'm gone.” His eyes speak in silence what words would cheapen.
“Try not to get killed before you return,” I reply.
Melyaket smiles the smile of faith. “By the grace of Melek Ta'us, we will see each other again.”
“Hmmph. You and your Peacock Angel.”
“Do you think we have come all this way by accident?”
“What I think about it is as irrelevant as your faith. Then, we were there; now, we are here. Go, live your life, what's left of it.”
“Wait and see. With Her blessing, I shall bring company when I return.”
I glance up at him, my eyes two stones. “He is dead.”
“You do not know that for certain.”
“Then I am dead, to him. Don’t waste your time.”
As he so often does, Melyaket ignores my words. “How about one more foot massage before the midday meal?” He reaches into one of the bottomless pockets of his trousers and wags a small vial of oil before my eyes.
“If your hands are dry, just say so,” I answer, bending to remove my sandals.
“You are a gnarled old walnut tree, aren’t you.” He warms a few drops of oil in his hands. Then he looks at me with that way he has. I hate that look. “Camel,” he says.
I stare him down, but it’s no use. Before his hands touch my grateful heels, I start to smile. And then we laugh.
•••
The scrolls of the first part of my tale are on their way to Alexandria, and Melyaket has left to find whatever destiny awaits him. Both are dear to me and I pray that each may find their way. Neither is a certainty. Was it chance, prowess, or the goddess Melek Ta'us who had protected him through all his years? If this Peacock Angel be everything Melyaket claims, may she watch over him and return him safely. And while I am asking for miracles, may she and any other gods who are eavesdropping on an old man’s thoughts watch over me as well, so that if and when Melyaket returns at last, he does not find me feeding the vegetables in the garden, and I do not mean from a bag of manure.
My writings are as safe as I could make them: a friend at the Serapeum will see to their copying and distribution. To publish the work in Rome would be to invite the ire and censorship of mighty Augustus, who not only styles himself Caesar, but divi filius, son of the divine one, Julius Caesar himself.
Octavian's great-uncle was no god, no matter what accolades the senate may have heaped upon him. Julius Caesar invaded our home to filch advantage from a counterfeit friendship, looked down upon his benefactor as if my master's generosity were an amusing imperfection in character, and most heinous of all, Caesar sought to cement his own political advantage through my mistress by assaulting her and using the rape as political blackmail. I would wipe the horror of that night from my mind, but it will not go. It remains as fresh and vile as the stink of Melyaket's goat fat.
•••
Years ago, letters from Rome described the political ascendancy of Gaius Julius Caesar. I still have them. At the time, I told myself an ailing empire had finally fitted to its neck a cunning, ruthless head to match its foul and corrupt body. I cannot deny that my gratification was palpable when word reached us here on our tiny island refuge, almost a decade after Crassus had sailed from Brundisium to meet his own fate, that with a frenzy of daggers, the gods had granted Caesar's wish for an “unexpected death. ”
Calmly, Alexandros, calmly; you are too brittle to allow yourself to be cracked by immoderate indignation. At whom would you direct it, and to what effect? You must husband your strength if you are to have any hope of achieving your own modest purpose. Righteous choler is such a taxing emotion. Indeed, at my age, it takes