You would think that Sabina was not the kind of woman to make the same mistake twice. That is unkind, for indeed, while the cause was redundant, the man was new. In three of the four years I had known her, she swore she would have nothing more to do with men. Her work, she claimed, captivated and satisfied her as no man’s attention ever could. The gods know I am no expert, but surely there are certain thirsts which no occupation can slake. Sure enough, the siren call of these more physical requisites grew louder this past year, but unlike Odysseus, Sabina was not securely bound to any mast. The man waiting for her upon that dangerous shore? Steadfast, sturdy Ludovicus.
Who could blame her, honestly? Allow me to illustrate. I trust that by now you have a clear idea of my own physical shortcomings: too tall, too clumsy, too thin, too evocative of the aloof professor. Now imagine the opposite and there stands Ludovicus. Brawn to his fingertips, shaven pate, prominent brow over pale eyes, large, tan hands made for strangling, thrusting a sword or other such manly pursuits. Mind you, he was not unkind or malicious or indecent. In the end, however, he was just a man.
Maybe she only thought of him as a dalliance. I blush to say it, but once the needs of the body have been sated, does not the heart often command a strategic withdrawal. Not so with Sabina: she was an emotional lover; her attraction to any man needed to be more than physical right from the start. Otherwise her Lysistratan resolve would have prevailed and she would have had nothing to do with Ludovicus. She had had her eye on him for some time, but had been content to let the pressure build without action. Which is to say the moment he entered her clinic with a wrenched back she allowed her temple of abstinence to be ransacked.
Being in the room next door with nothing to do but work on lesson preparation or eavesdrop, I chose the latter. Sabina asked Ludovicus to lie on the examination table on his stomach, sounding completely professional and curt, her voice devoid of any of her usual compassion; by which I mean to say, she was a little flustered. He said he’d have to strip down to his subligatum. She told him to get on with it; I could almost hear the rolling of her eyes. There was a pause without sound, but the smell of pungent Egyptian eucalyptus informed me that liniment was being applied.
Ludovicus made some insouciant remark about how good her hands felt on his back, then added, “What would you say if I told you there was nothing wrong with me.”
“I’d say you are quite mistaken.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re arrogant, presumptive and like the rest of your sex only look at yourself when you can get your hands on a glass that magnifies. You’re also wasting my time. Get out.”
“Perhaps you are the one who presumes. I never said there wasn’t anything wrong with my back. I said ‘what if.’”
“Either way, get out.”
“Sabina, don’t think I haven’t felt your eyes boring through my back these past few weeks.”
“That must be what caused the damage. Here’s a ‘what if’ for you. ‘What if’ I call for Betto who’s just outside at the front gates?”
“Be my guest. But I think we’d both like it better if you didn’t.”
“For the last time…”
Now there was silence, then a loud slap. Then silence again. Then rustling and the table scraping on the floor.
All of a sudden, Sabina called out breathlessly, “Alexander, are you in there?”
“No,” I replied. I collected my things and headed up to the house as quickly as possible.
Chapter XVI
76 BCE — Spring, Rome Year of the consulship of Gnaeus Octavius and Gaius Scribonius Curio
I had just spent a long day with Boaz negotiating over the purchase of dozens upon dozens of new slaves required for a senator of Marcus Licinius Crassus’ growing stature. Reputation, not necessity, propelled the calculus of their number. The size of one’s household was the most important badge a senator with my master’s burgeoning eminence could and must display. Tertulla, being the mistress of the house, was the first to receive her new staff. She had a slave to help her dress, plus one to organize her jewelry; one to prepare her various ointments and another to apply them, one to put her makeup on, another to take it off; one to adorn her hair and one to curl it; one to organize her wardrobe, another to fold her clothes and yet another to inspect them for wear. One would accompany her to parties to change her footwear from outdoor shoes to indoor slippers, another to whisper in her ear the names of guests she might have forgotten. She had three bath attendants, including one whose sole purpose was to pluck away unwanted body hair. A bedchamber slave would keep her private quarters tidy, another would remain awake throughout the night should she or her husband wake and require a snack or a cup of water.
In the kitchen, beside the head cook and two subordinates, the staff would eventually include specialists for soup, pickling, meat pastries, desserts, dairy, fruits, and baking. Assisted, of course, by servers, fire boys, stewards for the pantry, wine and stores, a procurer, a menu preparer, an overseer of the dining room, a couch spreader, a table wiper, an ornament arranger, an announcer, a taster, a carver, and a cup-bearer.
As for Livia, she was apprenticed to the head seamstress; I heard she was as nimble and adroit with a needle and thread as she was with her tongue.
I myself required a personal secretary, two scribes, two purchasing agents, and three men to supervise the various subgroups of household workers: the baths, the kitchen, the gardens, the stables and all the rest of it. Over the coming months, by the time Boaz fulfilled all the positions required by the domus, our familia would swell past 100. It was a good beginning.
I was hot, tired and needed a bath. On my way to my quarters I passed through the northern gardens. Near the center, encircled by the graceful, tapered columns of six cypress trees was a magnificent marble statue of Apollo holding his lyre. His wise and gentle gaze was fixed on the horizon, proof that no god inhabited that cold stone. If the Olympian had lived within, he would surely have bowed his head to behold Beauty lying asleep at his feet. Livia was curled up against the granite plinth, a damp sponge drying in her outstretched hand, her unpinned hair, the color of Armenian apricots, lay fine and abundant across her face, guarding the pale cream of her complexion against the intrusion of the fascinated sun.
Next month we would celebrate her seventeenth birthday.
The god gleamed from head but not quite to toe, for kneeling to complete her task, she must have succumbed to the persistent invitation of the warming day. Drowsy and safe within the alcove of trees, she slept peacefully at the foot of the god.
Apollo was naked, save for sandals and a cloak circling his neck and draped from behind over his left forearm. His hair curled in tight ringlets about his comely face, his body was smooth, muscled, proportioned, perfect. I pictured marble come to life and knew that here would be a human worthy of Livia’s attention, of her devotion, of her affection. They would have made a beautiful couple, this flawless immortal and impertinent slave girl. For one arrogant instant, I tried to envision myself in the god’s stead and was so repelled by the absurd image that I turned to flee. Something caught my eye, the glass-smooth inside of a scallop glinting in sunlight. Livia’s shell bracelet lay untied beneath her outstretched wrist. It must have come undone as she fell asleep; the single shell lay in the grass just beyond the string’s end.
Beyond her sat a bucket of water and a small stepstool. I pulled the latter close and sat so that no part of my shadow fell on her. I moved quietly, but knew I could not succeed without disturbing her. I know as do you, part of me wanted her to wake, wanted her to speak to me, to see me. All the while I could hear the churlish voice of Little Nestor inside my head: you’re too old, you’re too skinny, you’re unworthy; she’ll want a warrior, not an accountant, she’ll crush you with a glance, she’ll scoff at your clumsy fumbling and the sound of her laughter will shatter your heart. And I knew he was right. But the humiliation of her rejection would be much easier to bear than remaining silent forever. I had watched our friendship grow for years; the closer she matured into womanhood, the more dissatisfied I had become. Did she too yearn for more? How would I know if I did not ask? Every chance meeting with her left me feeling like a stone struck by flint. What better place and time than here and now to discover if heat would ever produce flame?