Other Alexander, The (12 page)
You, reader, live in a world where power and wealth are controlled by a tiny, fractional elite, men who claim to use their wealth and armies to serve and protect you. Your government is controlled by these same men who allow your senators to live unfettered by the rules they themselves legislate. You receive only so much grain for your bread and oil for your lamps. Your sweat and toil builds great homes and palaces; those who live within tell you how proud you should be of your glorious, gleaming accomplishment. But you are barred from setting foot inside. You may rise only so high as your rulers allow, for there is only so much wealth, and it has long ago been claimed by others. These few men let slip a coin here, an entertainment there, and this they know will feed the inertia that keeps you from making the effort to claim a larger share. This is what you call freedom, but are you certain of your claim upon it?
Crassus knew what I had at first failed to recognize; his error lay in not understanding that after four years in his service, I could at last see it as clearly as he. I was a slave. Yes, I could say the word at last. Do not tax your eyesight scanning back through these scrolls, I promise you it isn’t worth the effort – nowhere in this manuscript until this very moment have I myself used it.
My owner was right: whatever place I had hoped to earn in the world, this is where fate had delivered me. I was a slave, but even slaves are given a single, awful choice: rebel, or rise as high as nature may permit within this unnatural state. My frail nature, even in my prime, was hardly rebellious. I was no Spartacus.
And so, the further freedom slipped from my grasp, the stronger my determination to become a paragon of slaves, a slave with money and power, as fine as any Rome had ever seen.
It was of significant help, I admit, that I belonged to the richest man in the city.
76 BCE - Spring, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Octavius and Gaius Scribonius Curio
I should mention that in the spring of this very year, Melyaket, my brave-hearted companion and steadfast friend (I shall claim senility should he ever lay eyes upon these words), was born in a ravine at the base of the Sinjar mountains, a lonely range at the northwestern border of the Parthian Empire. To hear him tell it, on that day nothing less than the intervention of the gods saved him from a very short life span, not to mention a grisly and horrific death. Well, if the immortals did truly take such singular interest in him, then let them tell his tale. I do not have the time.
•••
In matters of the heart, I have observed that it is difficult to learn from our mistakes. On the contrary, we seem quite adept in making the same blunders over and over again. So when Sabina told me soon after we became friends, that she had had her fill of men and wanted nothing more to do with them, I had my doubts. Seeing my eyebrows elevate, she attempted to convince me by claiming the fault lay not with men, but in her own character. It was flawed, cracked, she said. How could she make such a monumental blunder in her choice of husband and trust herself to choose wisely ever again? Her logic made me falter in my skepticism, till I realized logic had very little to do with the mystical chemistry of the heart.
When it comes to love, we are the great architects of artifice. We construct elaborate stages, festooned with intricate sets, costumed brightly, aglow with candles incapable of illuminating any flaw, upon which we play our most convincing acts of self-deception. What convoluted excuses we spin to justify behavior we would find ludicrous in others. What pretty lies we tell ourselves.
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
subligaculum
. 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.
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?
I had the shell on the string and the string almost tied above her wrist before she woke. “Alexander,” she said, stretching luxuriantly. “I fell asleep.” The movement of her arm caused the uncompleted knot to come apart. The single scallop escaped again and lay separate from its brethren. I reached for the bracelet but found myself holding Livia’s wrist instead. I would have pulled away but she held me and said, “I dreamt of you.”
“Truly?” The softness of her skin made the hairs on my arms prickle as if a thunderstorm were nigh; her resolute grip was hardly necessary. “The best dreams are gifts,” I said. “In sleep we give ourselves the things we want but cannot have in our waking hours. Was yours one of these?”
Livia laughed, a light but ruffled sound. “It was.”
“Well?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“I see. Then you must ask your mother for a salve. You look as if you have tarried too long in the sun. Or perhaps those rosy blooms grow from a different stem?”
“You are impertinent.” She pulled her hand away; was there reluctance, or was I merely dreaming for something I could not have? “What were you doing watching me sleep anyway? Oh ho! What’s this? A garden growing in Alexander’s cheeks?”
“Not at all,” I said, lying poorly. “The day warms. I was passing and noticed your bracelet had come undone.” I felt Apollo’s eyes on me and resisted the urge to look up.
“Oh, this thing. It’s always coming apart. Were you trying to fix it?” I nodded. “So now you are become both jeweler
and
atriensis
to the house of Crassus. Congratulations.”
“Merely an apprentice. Perhaps for both positions. Fixing your bracelet was not the hard part. Repairing it without waking you was the test I could not pass.”
“I am glad of it.”
She sat up, flicked a leaf from her tousled hair, and straightened her tunic. The many greens of her eyes, a sunlit forest suddenly thrown into shade, transported me for a moment to the woods of Elateia and home.
“Here,” she said, holding out her arm once more. “Please?” I bent to add the last shell to the string but Livia said, “No, not that one. Keep it, you know, to think of me when you hold it.”
There it was, the miracle that would silence Little Nestor forever. I worked to conceal my elation. “It’s a good start,” I said, putting the shell in my belt bag.
“Good start? You assume much, Alexander of Elateia.”
“Do I?”
“What would you have of me then? Would my lord command me to forfeit even more shells? Oh, but we’re not talking about shells now, are we?”
“I am not your lord.” I retied the bracelet. When it was done, I bent and kissed the top of her hand. “And no, we’re not. The truth is, Livia, though I shall treasure your gift for all my days, I need no token to keep you in my thoughts. You are rarely out of them.”
“Alexander ...”
“No. Please do not speak if I have misjudged this moment. I could not bear to hear the sound of it.”
“I cannot speak,” she said, rising to her feet. I stood with her, but left my heart upon the ground. “I cannot speak,” she repeated, taking both my hands in hers, “and kiss at same time. Can you?”
Our eyes locked to speak of an ardor I had thought one-sided. To learn otherwise fueled a strength I did not know I possessed. I wrapped Livia in my arms, pressing her own behind her back. Her yielding body sent suns bursting in my head; my ancient timidity shattered. She arched as our lips met, tender at first, then insistent. She pulled against my grip to free her hands, but I held her fast. She moaned, part complaint, part animal need. I released her. The moment her hands were free she threw them about my neck. Our kiss continued, interrupted only by the need for breath. My hands drifted through the unending seas of her hair, my closed eyes saw every curve and line of the face that had beguiled countless sleepless hours. Our mouths tasted and explored, giving and taking in equal measure. But my mind had no part in any of this. That Alexander, the analyst, the worrier, he was nowhere to be found. For the first time in my life, I felt without thinking, became utterly and completely present yet without any sense of myself. In my life, it was a moment without equal.
“I have been waiting for you,” she said after we had paused to compose ourselves. We sat beneath Apollo, gently touching, kissing lightly, lost in this infinite instant.
“Why did you not make your feelings known to me?” A finger tracing an ear.
“I thought you would think me a child.” A palm caressing a cheek.
“You
are
a child.” A kiss more fervent than the last.
“And you are an old man. An old man who, with each passing day, grew in favor with our lord, and further away from the rest of us. I feared you would spurn me.”
“A fear I mirrored. After today, I may never fear again.” An embrace, an inhalation of intimately scented air.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” she whispered. “You had me bought from Boaz.”
We separated enough to see our flushed faces. “A mother reclaimed her daughter, a wrong was partially righted. What more matters?”
“And a certain tall, fair-haired servant saw a bit more of a young girl he fancied?”
“He is a great admirer of talented whistling.”
“And now you have become great, second only to our masters.”
“I am still Alexander. I would be your Alexander.”
“I have already claimed you.”
“Someday,” I said thoughtfully, “you will buy your freedom.”
“And yours!”
I laughed, and deep inside resisted the old Alexander who wondered just how that would happen. “Speaking of freedom, how is it you do not attend your lady? Why are you not at your loom?”
“
Domina
threw me out!”
“What on earth did you do?” The intertwining of fingers.
“Nothing more than my duty. It’s your fault, in any case. You have ‘saddled her’ with too many slaves. She said she feels like a bee in a hive. And she thought I needed air.”
“You are a little pale.”
“You love my complexion; confess it!”
“You fish when your basket is already full.”
“Of fish? There’s a fine compliment!”
“Indeed. Your skin is as white as a flounder’s underbelly, as soft as cheese, as smooth as cowhide.” Livia punched my shoulder. “Rubbed with the grain, naturally.”
“Hah! What of the day they carried you in like the prize in a boar hunt? Your face was as waxy as the masters’ death masks.”
“You remember? That was the first time I saw you,” I said, watching as she pinned her hair. “You were twelve.”
“You were a fool. Ruining one of general Sulla’s fine arrows.”
“Not as expertly honed as your sharp tongue.” She pursed her lips and let the object in question dart out and in. How she aroused me! “Had I known this day would come, I would have been much less carefree with my life. Do you know you were the vision my eyes beheld when I first regained my senses? You came to my sick bed, dancing and whistling, your red hair unclasped and swirling like Charybdis aflame.”
“I love the way you speak.”
“Then let me speak true now. Shall I tell you of your complexion? It is fresh cream from the pitcher, soft as moonlight on a rose. You made me dizzy that first day, and the sight of you has kept me reaching for support ever since. I’m afraid, Livia, I’ve been in love with you for rather a long time.”
“I am yours,” she said with her usual determination. “Forever.” She leaned into me and pressed her head against my chest. Then, almost to herself, “I wonder what mother will say?”
