The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Alexander

by Andrew Levkoff

  When I returned I went right to work. Since the outside door to our new taberna (I had a key!) was on the far side from the main house, at first I saw no one upon my return. I was pouring white paint from the heavy pigskin into more manageable bowls when I heard a noise from the inside entrance. Expecting Sabina or Livia, I was surprised to see Boaz smiling broadly in the doorway.

  “Salve, paedagogus,” he said. “May I be among the first to wish you mazal tov. Congratulations!”

  “Boaz. It may be a little premature to call me teacher. When I have students in this classroom and when they have actually learned something, then I may be worthy of the title. But thank you, and salve, just the same. What brings you up the Palatine?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” I said, replacing the stopper in the pigskin. We have no business together.” If he was here, he knew.

  “That is true.” He reached inside his robes and pulled out a lambskin cloth. “For you,” he said, holding it out in his open palm. “Todah rabah. Many thanks, my friend, many thanks.”

  I stayed where I was. An irrational fear gripped me: if I got too close, he would snatch me up and carry me off; another addition for his collection of human souls. I did not want to like this man. Yet the things I had heard about him, and witnessed, belied his occupation. No compunction marred his laughing eyes; his warmth and good cheer were not only genuine but infectious. How could such a man do what he did and live without shame? Instead of asking him, I said, “If you are here because of Livia, it is the lady of the house you should attend.”

  “No, it is you.”

  “It was she who doubled your asking price.”

  “It was you who braved the lash by going before your master.”

  “There was nothing brave about it,” I lied.

  “I suppose, to be fair, we must admit that it was only a matter of time before Sabina herself begged for Livia. If she had not done so I would have proposed an accommodation myself.”

  “You?”

  “Why not? We Jews know all there is to know about slavery. From both sides of that coin. Half the people in this city are owned by the other half. If looking down upon us helps a Roman get a good night’s sleep, eh. But I ask you, who better than a Jew to see that these unfortunates are treated as humanely as possible? As long as they are in my care, that is what I do.”

  “Will you not be judged by your god?”

  “Hah! My God loves owners and slaves alike. As long as there is balance, there is no problem. Everything works unless someone puts an entire people under the lash; then comes the fire and flood, retribution and death. Remember Egypt? Anyway, why worry about such things? I don’t hear anybody complaining. And business has never been better.

  “But you, teacher of language; you, a new slave with no standing and nothing to gain - of all of us, you were the first to act. You know, in the East, there are people who believe that everything we do in life, both good and bad, return to us three-fold in like kind. Perhaps that paint you are stirring is an emblem of your act of kindness. I have another. Please, take it.”

  He stepped closer, his arm again outstretched. Curiosity got the better of me and I reached for the small bundle. When I did, he grasped my hand and pulled me close. My irrational terror flashed again. He put his other hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Take heart, teacher. You are a good man, in a place where goodness is rarely rewarded. But sometimes, with luck, good men rise.”

  He released me and I unfolded the lambskin to discover a signet ring. It’s metal glowed dully in the room’s soft light. “I still don’t know how it was you knew to come to me.”

  “Do not blame Malchus. He, too, has a good heart, but sometimes it beats so loudly he doesn’t notice that his mouth is moving.”

  “This ring is gold,” I said. I had never held anything of such value, even when I was free.

  “The inset is carnelian, but the ring is unfinished. The stone is blank, its surface smooth. A patrician would have his seal engraved there. Perhaps someday, you will carve your own mark.”

  “You are generous, and I bid you gracious thanks. But you must know that gold, gemstone or iron, it is all the same. I have no right to property. This cannot be mine.”

  “And you must know that Boaz is nothing if not a negotiator for the ages.” He laughed. “I have already spoken to your master. The ring is yours. Keep it, sell it, do with it what you wish. Think of it as your own first peculium.”

  The ring was large, but it slid perfectly onto the middle finger of my right hand. It made me feel uncomfortably important.

  “Still the troubled look! Be at peace, friend. I am not here to take thanks but to give it.”

  “It’s not that. It is only ... I am thinking of the girl.”

  “Livia? A delight, no?”

  “I must ask, is she pure?”

  Boaz’s smile shrunk. “This is her master’s business now.”

  “I see.” I removed the ring and held it out to him.

  “Attend me,” he said. “I have the luxury of choosing my clients, and I sent her only to those I trust. All I can tell you is each time she returned to my house, she was almost always whistling. The child is happy. If for nothing else, keep the ring to remind you of the part you played to reunite mother and child.”

  Years later, any time the subject arose, Livia has always been quick to tell me I would have been a fool to give it back.

  Chapter XI

  81 BCE - Spring, Rome

  Year of the consulship of

  Marcus Tulius Decula and Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella

  I was lending a hand in the kitchen, dredging chickens with flour. Everyone was busy except Pío and Nestor who were playing a game of dice on a corner table, their backs to the activity and bustle behind them. Cook had asked twice for another pair of hands but Pío waved him away. A moment later, Crassus came wandering in, still wearing his purple-striped toga from the senate; he was looking for a snack. Cook had just handed one of his Greek assistants a last-minute shopping list. The young woman looked at it, made a face and brought it straight to me. I started to translate but she protested, "Too much, too much! Write it down, for pity’s sake." I held up my flour-coated hands and called to Nestor to please, if he wouldn’t mind, jot it down in Greek for Eirene.

  “I’m busy,” Nestor snapped. “Wipe your damn hands and do your job.”

  There came the sound of a patrician ‘ahem;’ both Nestor and Pío leapt to their feet to find Crassus standing behind them. “Dominus,” said Pío, “forgive me.”

  “Why? Have you done something that needs forgiving? Nestor, lend a hand, or lose it.”

  “Yes, dominus!” Nestor took the list and Pío shoved a calamus and a pot of ink toward him, looking as nervous as if he himself had spoken harshly to me. Nestor took the pen in hand and studied the list intently. Crassus chewed on a date and asked cook to review the evening’s menu. As they talked, Eirene waited patiently at Nestor’s side, but as yet he had done nothing but look at the list, turn it over and stare at it. He was becoming increasingly agitated.

  Pío and I came to the same conclusion simultaneously. He moved to distract Crassus and I went to Nestor, wiping my hands on my tunic as best I could. I took the list and the pen from his shaking hands and translated it into Greek as fast as I could. Pío used his bulk to block us from view.

  When I handed the list to Eirene, the poor, polite thing said, “Thank you, Alexander,” and our impromptu scheme was undone. Crassus turned round, gently pushed the big Spaniard to the side and saw Eirene holding a list dusted with flour.

  “Who wrote that?” he demanded.

  “Nestor’s writing is next to illegible,” I began. I was about to say more, but Crassus stopped me.

  “Remember that lashing I spoke of when you first arrived?” I assumed correctly this was a rhetorical question. “Please do not lie to me. Nestor, bring me the list.”

  Nestor obeyed. Crassus looked it over and handed it back to him. “Read i
t.” Nestor began reading the list, but Crassus interrupted him. “Wonderful. Now try the side written in Latin.”

  Nestor turned the scrap to the side written in Latin and pretended to read, stopping when his memory failed him. “I cannot,” he said, looking down at the floor.

  “Look at me,” Crassus said. The moment Nestor raised his head Crassus slapped him hard. The surprise and force of the blow almost knocked Nestor off his feet. “Unlike you, I have an excellent memory. When general Sulla asked how he might be of assistance, I asked for slaves who could both read and write in Greek and Latin. Did you tell the general’s man that you could do this?” Nestor nodded. The left side of his face was turning pink.

  “Disappointing,” Crassus said. “Very disappointing. You are to be congratulated for deceiving this house as long as you have.” He adjusted his toga on his shoulder and turned to go. “Pío,” he said as he walked away, “there are limits to my good nature. Were it not for you, Nestor’s deception would not be tolerated.”

  ***

  Livia had been spirited into the house while Sabina was in the garden helping Tessa cut bouquets. Publius was at their feet, chortling with delight at every worm he could wrest from the dirt. Crassus and Tertulla summoned her to their private quarters; the shriek of joy could be heard throughout the house. At supper that evening, an unusual night in that Crassus and his wife were neither entertaining nor being entertained, they called the entire staff into the atrium to make the announcement. This was superfluous, of course, as every ear had the gist of the tale poured into it practically before mother and daughter had left the masters’ bedroom. Dominus, however, thought it important to make a formal declaration. As he spoke, cook passed around a tray of spiced wine; not the cheap lora, mind you, but one of the sweet vintages served to company. I emptied a cup and reached for another. “Your domina and I have decided ...,” he said, making eye contact with everyone in his or her turn, “... well, is there anyone present who does not know what it is we have decided?” Everyone laughed, although it looked as if Nestor would speak up till Pío put a hand on his shoulder. “Let us say only that our family has been most joyfully increased by one."

  On cue, Sabina and Livia came into the atrium, hand in hand.

  "Welcome home, sweet Livia!” Tertulla cried.

  Crassus waited for the applause to subside, then described the healer’s new clinic, which he encouraged everyone to visit. He spoke fleetingly of the school, but this was Sabina’s moment. She stood next to Tertulla, dabbing her eyes with the white linen orarium given her by domina. The square of cloth was wet from one end to the other by the time her happy ordeal was over. Livia clung to her mother but reached across to take Tertulla’s hand when Crassus announced that the girl would be taken into domina’s personal service to be taught spinning and weaving.

  I felt a foolish tear play about my eyelid and quickly banished it. Watching Sabina's own eyes water as she fussed with Livia's hair, a spark of clarity illuminated the parody before me. Why should I allow this pretty scene to make me cry? Twigs of frustration fueled an anger I could not vent. Here was one poor child being sold from one place to another, nothing more. A business transaction, profit for the master. Had the comfort of this new life clouded my vision so quickly and thoroughly that I could no longer recognize the chains that bound us to this place or feel the invisible walls that confined us here? What cause was there for celebration? Could there ever be justification for separating a loving mother from her daughter? Instead of applauding her return, we should be outraged that they had ever been parted. But no, we must show gratitude to our masters for their generosity. The taberna, Sabina's peculium, all of it - we were no more than pigeons, scrambling to peck at the crumbs flung into our midst. The wine in my belly soured and I turned to flee.

  "Alexander," Ludovicus called, "where are you going?"

  Was I the only one to lament that the price of this reunion was the freedom of both Sabina and her child? "I am no witless, feathered scavenger!" I said, knocking over an incense burner in my haste to depart.

  "He's overcome with emotion," I heard someone say.

  "He's drunk!" said Tessa, the gardener, with surprise.

  They were correct, the both of them.

  ***

  Crassus and Tertulla kept their promise, taking credit for making Livia a permanent member of the household, but the girl had come back into our lives so quickly after my conversation with Sabina that she was naturally suspicious. Suspicious enough so that every week until her departure a fresh bunch of flowers appeared on my schoolroom table. She spoke to me about it but once. It was the day of my first class, a week after Livia's return. The benches and tables had not yet arrived, but no matter. We sat in a circle on the floor: three students from our house and three staff members from the homes of some of Tertulla’s friends. Each of those placed coins in my hand when they left. I looked at them and thought to myself with pride, now you are a professional. Little Nestor tapped me on the shoulder and snickered, yesterday you were a slave; today you are a slave with a few coins.

  Livia and I were playing a game of tali after everyone else had left. Sabina came through the door adjoining our two rooms. She watched us quietly for several moments. I glanced up from the floor where we sat cross-legged and bid her join us.

  “I cannot say what part you have played in this,” she said, gesturing to her daughter, “or why you would choose to hide it.” Livia was about to roll but held the knucklebones to listen. “I have decided that I do not need to know. However, you need to know this: you will always be in our hearts; no matter where the fates may take us, you will always be remembered.” She left without further comment.

  Livia asked, “What’s she talking about?”

  “You heard her. I’m in your heart.”

  “Well I might not remember you.”

  “Just roll.”

  “All right, be like that.” She gave the bones a good shake and threw a Venus. “Hah!” she cried. “Victory! Just for that, I’m not giving you a rematch.”

  It was hard to be a curmudgeon, hard as I tried. One day I came upon Pío teaching Livia and Nestor a melody from the Laletani village of his childhood. Astounding to both eyes and ears. The sound of laughter and children playing seeded every hour: contentment took hold, grew and flourished. Even the food improved: Tertulla gave cook stacks of recipes from her mother’s kitchen. He grumbled, behind her back of course, having no choice but to try them. When the quality of mealtime rose by several degrees, all he would say was that execution was everything. The weight he himself was gaining, however, was a belt-loosening contradiction.

  From the first day Sabina opened her practice, her waiting area was never empty. Crassus was as good as his word. As that word spread, she became so busy Tertulla was forced to relinquish her as a wet nurse and hire another. By the end of the first month, even after she had paid the master for furnishings and rent, Sabina had put aside three hundred sesterces in the family books. In two years, maybe less, her debt would be paid and she could begin to apply her fees toward the purchase of their freedom.

  At last the carpenters brought long tables and benches to my schoolroom, plus one for me as the master, and a most comfortable chair. With a cushion! The schedule was set: two hours, three times a week the house came under my tutelage, even Livia. Tertulla soon saw that my hours were doubled, easily convincing her friends to send their own servants. Crassus began dropping by late in the day; he found in me his own apt pupil; discussing an invigorating regimen of politics, philosophy and oratory. He never spoke down to me and always gave ear to my remarks with interest and thoughtfulness. He asked questions and invited debate when he could have commanded unilateral acceptance. The omnipresent imbalance of our status never left my consciousness, but it faded to a background noise, like the sound of distant surf. He made me feel valued, and by doing so, let me rediscover my manhood, which had been stripped away like bark from a tree.

  Atop Rome’s richest hi
ll, we lived at the cold heart of the world, where distance made everything sparkle, and close inspection was almost never required. Our masters were kind and our bellies full; who among all the bustling, struggling throng below could say as much? We could forget who we were and how we had gotten there. Yes, we were actors playing a part, but every day was dress rehearsal, and with enough practice, we could become the characters we played. The days passed and without even realizing it, the small estate on the Palatine began to feel like a place where I belonged.

  All might be well again.

  Except that it could never be. Boaz’s Eastern philosophers must have been mistaken. Perhaps there, at the edge of the world, life was more just, but here in Rome, one could never be certain that goodness would be rewarded in kind.

  Chapter XII

  80 BCE - Summer, Rome

  Year of the consulship of

  Marcus Tulius Decula and Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella

  Sulla had given up his dictatorship after only a year, having needed only those few months to turn centuries of Roman law inside out. His enemies, allies of Cinna and Marius, were either dead or exiled. He had had himself elected consul along with his friend Metellus, but even that was a sham: he had been dictator in all but name. No one dared dispute his “reforms,” most of which shored up the aristocracy and eviscerated the plebian council, whose power to thwart the senate was neatly castrated. Ironically, it would be under the consulship of Crassus and Pompeius ten years hence that most of Sulla’s legislative upheavals would be overturned.