Free Other Alexander, The by Andrew Levkoff Page A

silence.
    Dumbstruck, I stood staring at the closed door. “What just happened?” I turned toward Sabina, but she had fled. Betto, the young door guard was standing at his post, fussing with a strap on his leather breastplate. “Who was that?” I asked.
    “Boaz. A Jew,” he said, his head bent in concentration over the lacings. As if that explained anything.
    “And?”
    Betto looked up at me, irritated. “He has a contract with the house.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “Boaz is our slave merchant,” he said as if talking to one of those pitiful god-touched souls wandering aimlessly through the stalls of the Subura market. He spoke in sharp-edged barbs of rising inflection. “He owns the girl. She was only here on a rental.”
    •••
    Earlier in the day Sabina had shown me where I would be sleeping from now on. It was near the end of the servants’ hallway; a small room right next to Pío’s much larger quarters. I limped there now, stung, numb and so very tired. It was very dark and I had to feel my way. Pulling the curtain aside I saw absolutely nothing. I had to stand there for a few moments until my eyes regained some of their sight. There was a shape on one of the two sleeping couches. Nestor faced the wall; I could not tell if he was asleep or feigning; either way I doubt he wanted to engage in conversation. Fine by me. A narrow table stood between the beds; trunks sat at the foot of each. That was all. There was barely a foot between the two couches. No window. No ornamentation. Home.
    I undressed and slipped beneath the heavy blanket. Sleep would not come. I tossed like a beached fish, stared at the ceiling and replayed all that had transpired that day. Finally, I decided my foul mood needed company. “Nestor,” I whispered. No response. I tried again, louder this time. And a third, louder still.
    He whipped around to face me. “What do you want?” he hissed. “Are you crazy? Do you know the time?”
    “To talk. No. Yes.”
    “Leave me alone.” His tone sounded more frantic than was called for by the occasion.
    “Yes. No.”
    “You are insane. The master should lock you away and make you eat hellebore leaves till you come to your senses.”
    “Why did you not acknowledge me earlier today? I thought you would be happy to see me.”
    “This is my home. My position. I asked for it first. I don’t need you.”
    “Well, we won’t go into the manner of your ‘asking,’ beyond acknowledging that shoving me out of the way was a rude and inelegant gesture from one Greek compatriot to another. Be resigned, Nestor, I am here. I am not your enemy. We can help each other.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes! We are fellow countrymen. Does that not count for something?”
    “Did it count for anything when we were in chains? Did we ever pass so much as a word between us in all those many months? No, it doesn’t count for anything, not then, not now.”
    I was not expecting such chastisement. All the more scathing for its accuracy. “Forgive me, Nestor. You are right. Those were difficult times.”
    “The only difference now is a bit more food and a bit less mud. Now let me be.”
    I awoke some time later lying on my side facing Nestor’s bed. It was empty. From the room next door came again the sound that had roused me – a couch scraping on the floor. There it was again, then two men talking. No, not talking. I rolled over and tried to wrap the long, narrow sleeping pillow over both my ears.

Chapter VIII
    82 - 81 BCE   -   Winter, Rome
    Year of the consulship of
    Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
     
     
    It was late the next morning. None of the family had come out yet; the house was oddly quiet. No one was wearing their pileus except Betto, the guard, but he was doing it as a joke. I had just finished translating cook’s instructions for the evening’s meal when Sabina came into the culina . She beckoned me to follow her outside into the garden. Cook flapped his