The humming stopped immediately. The legionary on the left winked broadly, then his face returned to stone.
“Sorry, soldier, I’m off duty,” she called. “Try the clinic-it’s on the Via Principalis halfway between the Praetorium and the left gate.” The sound of the laughter in her voice was honey poured on sweet pine nut custard-almost too much to bear.
“Ow,” I cried. “It really hurts. I can’t walk.”
“You’re such a baby,” Livia said, throwing the tent flap aside as she ducked and stood upright. “Nebta, Khety, this is my heroic Alexandros.”
The two women looked up from their sewing and giggled.
“Oh,” I said stupidly, because I was looking at Livia, and saw that she had changed. There was a newness about her, a veneer of transcendence that lay about her like a shield. Her red hair was pinned up, and like me, she wore a plain, mid-thigh tunic, belt and sandals. A red cloak was thrown casually over her right arm. Otherwise, we were dressed the same, save for my throwing knives and badge of office (I remembered it this time), the red trim on the tunic Crassus had given her declaring her a healer, and a smudge on her left cheek. We stood three feet apart, toes curling to fling ourselves into each other’s arms, savoring the agony of postponement. A smiling legionary I did not know passed behind me and patted me on the shoulder.
“Nebta and Khety are your friends,” I said, more statement than question.
“And now they are your friends.” There was a story there, which I immediately accepted.
“They are indeed.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, master,” the woman on the left said. Her voice was thick and sweet with an accent that rose and fell like song. “I am Nebta.” Nebta wore a small gold hoop through her left nostril.
“Nebta.” I nodded. “Call me Alexandros. I am no one’s master.”
I do not know why, but this set the African women giggling again. They spoke to each other in a new language, one I had never heard before, full of sounds as exotic as their dress. Their voices were huskier than their laughter.
“Where did you learn to speak Greek?” I asked.
The one called Khety answered, the large gold hoops in her ears bouncing off her graceful neck as she spoke. “The whole world learned to speak Greek after the other Alexandros came.”
“They’re from Oxyrhynchou Polis,” Livia said. “South of Memphis. I met them…just outside Dyrrachium. They were looking for work.”
Something caught my eye. I went to lift the cloak from Livia’s arm but she pulled away from me. “What are you hiding?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Then show me this nothing.” Livia reluctantly draped the long cloak over her other arm, revealing bright bruises on her legs and what appeared to be a long, deep red rope burn on her forearm. I shuddered. “How did this happen? Are you all right?” This last question is one of the most useless one can ask once an emergency has past, yet it is also one of the most ubiquitous. One simply cannot help oneself from asking it.
“I’m fine. I’ll tell you later. When we’re alone.” She made it sound like an amorous thing, which it clearly was not. Nebta and Khety found it funny enough, but I was beginning to suspect a fine mesh in the netting of things they did not find humorous.
“Well, it has been extremely nice to meet both of you, Nebta and Khety, but I have not seen my lady in a very long a time and I am hoping she will join me for a stroll. There is a copse…”
“I am very fond of copses,” Livia said, shifting the cloak back again to cover her injuries.
Soft hands flew to mouths, repressing mirth. I am generally opposed to romantic displays in front of an audience, mine or anyone else’s, but these two simple innocents, so pure of heart, made me want to drop to my knees and embrace them. This I resisted, but they did pry a smile from the old stork. They were irrepressibly, infectiously happy.
“Gentlemen,” I said to the legionaries. “What are your orders?”
“To guard the medicus,” said the non-winking soldier.
“Do either of you have any problem taking amended orders from me?”
“We know who you are,” said the winker.
“Good. You will also protect all the occupants of this tent, whether inside or out, to the best of your ability. You will follow the medicus’ orders as if they were my own. You will also remain with Nebta and Khety while the medicus is under my protection. You will pass these instructions on to your relief. Understood? Thank you.”
“You are a kind man, Alexandros of Elateia,” said Khety, handing the mended tunic up to the legionary on my right. He touched his hand to his helmet and handed her a coin. She reached behind her into the tent and pulled out two beautiful woven cloaks of black, yellow and green. “Take these. It will be cold on the plain.”
Nebta handed the patched piece of underwear up to the winker. “With respect, sir,” he said, snatching the subligaculum from her and stuffing it away while gesturing at my knives (which, since we were outside the pomerium, I wore belted and visible), “are you really expecting those teeth cleaners to get you out of trouble better than this here.” He patted his gladius. The underwear peeking out from his belt stole more than a little of his masculine swagger.
“No, legionary, I am expecting these teeth cleaners to have the good manners, when the time comes, to look the other way.” Finally, a grunt of laughter from the silent soldier. “Now then, doctor,” I continued, “shall we walk? It’s not too far. Still, we might raise a thirst.” I hoisted the wine skin like a trophy, then felt relief pour through me as Livia slipped her hand in mine. Could there be a man more proud in all of Macedonia?
“Why the extra cloak?” I asked as we turned to go. “Your friend was kind enough to loan us these. You don’t need to conceal anything now.”
“It rained yesterday,” Livia answered. “The ground may be damp.” Nebta and Khety’s African/Greek chorus of titters continued till we were beyond hearing.
•••
The army’s camp was surrounded by farmland; it was not easy to find seclusion. When we arrived at a wooded depression split by a small stream, we were not surprised to discover we would not have the place to ourselves. I wanted to leave, but Livia spread her cloak beside a legionary-free cypress and pulled me down beside her. Truth to tell, no one seemed interested in us at all. And when Livia kissed me, my disinterest in anything not Livia became flawless.
There is lovemaking that is gentle, leisurely, laced with amorous whispers and the romance of long, slow kisses. But there is another kind, serving another purpose. Ours, on the day I discovered that Livia had survived the Adriatic crossing, when we held each other in a foreign land on our way to a foreign war, was to rail against our plight with our bodies, and for a few precious moments to reclaim our destiny with our passion. Our need for each other was ardent, urgent and swift.
I am ancient now far beyond my fair share of years. I need only look at the blue rivers pushing ever higher against the weather-beaten surface of my crooked hands to see the proof. But this skinny old stork is not me. Alexandros is not this old man; he is hiding inside this wreck of a body. Can you understand this? Let me explain. There comes a time, somewhere between adulthood and the deathbed, when we become the people we are intended to be. Given time, we continue to learn, we continue to grow, but we are shaped, and that shape is fixed, for good or for bad. When does this happen? Only the gods know, for no man lives so completely in the present to be able to recognize the moment it occurs. But from that instant ever onwards, if he is lucky, while his bones grow brittle, his heart will remain supple; as his eyes grow dim, the world will still lay clearly before him. For me, I am fairly certain that the day I lay with Livia beneath the spear of a Macedonian cypress was the day that I stopped aging.