The next morning I had been released to prepare the schoolroom. Secured in my tunic was a purse containing a thousand sesterces! I went to the forum shops and purchased supplies, including writing tablets, paraffin, stili, paint and brushes. My plan was to whitewash one entire wall then use it to write my lessons so all could see them. The student would practice with his wax tablet and stilus, then I would paint the wall and start again. Letters, syllables and some phrases would remain constant at the top of the wall; more ephemeral lessons would be painted over.
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 Pio 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 Pio 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 Pio leapt to their feet to find Crassus standing behind them. “ Dominus,” said Pio, “forgive me.”
“Why? Have you done something that needs forgiving? Nestor, lend a hand, or lose it.”
“Yes, dominus!” Nestor took the list and Pio 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.
Pio 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. Pio used his bulk to block us from view.