by Eugène Sue
He set to work to unfasten my chain by a secret spring. I asked him why he always called me “Bull.” I would have preferred by far the keeper’s lash to the jovial loquacity of this trafficker in human flesh. Certain now that I was not dreaming, still I could hardly accept the reality of what I saw. Unable to resist, I followed the man. At least I would no longer be under the eyes of the keepers who beat me, and the sight of whom made my blood boil. I made an effort to raise myself, but my weakness was still excessive. The “horse-dealer” unhooked the chain, and held one end. As my hands were still shackled, the man with the long black robe and the one who carried the casket took me under the arms, and led me to the extremity of the shed. They made me mount several stairs and enter a small room that was lighted through an iron-barred opening. I looked through the opening and recognized the great square of the town of Vannes, and, in the distance, the house where I had often gone to see my brother Albinik and his wife. In the room were a stool, a table, and a long box of fresh straw, in place of the one in which the other slave had died. I was made to sit on the stool. The black-robed man, a Roman physician, examined my two wounds, constantly conversing in his own language with the “horse-dealer.” He took various salves from the casket which his companion was carrying, dressed my hurts, and went to render his services to the other slaves, not, however, before helping the “horse-dealer” to fasten my chain to the wooden box which served as my bed. The physician then took his departure, and left me alone with my master.
CHAPTER IX.
MASTER AND SLAVE.
“BY JUPITER,” BEGAN my master immediately after the departure of the physician. “By Jupiter,” he repeated in his satisfied and hilarious manner, so revolting to me: “Your injuries are healing so fast that you can see them heal, a proof of the purity of your blood; and with pure blood there are no such things as wounds, says the son of Aesculapius. But here you are back in your senses, my brave Bull. You are going to answer my questions, aren’t you? Yes? Then, listen to me.”
Drawing from his pocket a stylus and a tablet, covered with wax, the “horse-dealer” continued:
“I do not ask your name. You have no longer any name but that which I have given you, until your new owner shall name you differently. As for me, I have named you Bull — a proud name, isn’t it? You are worthy to bear it. It becomes you. So much the better.”
“Why have you named me Bull?”
“Why did I name that old fellow, your late neighbor, Pierce-Skin? Because his bones stick out through his skin. But you, apart from your two wounds, what a strong constitution you have! What broad shoulders! What a chest! What a back! What powerful limbs!” While pouring out these praises, the “horse-dealer” rubbed his hands and gazed at me with satisfaction and covetousness, already figuring in advance the price I would fetch. “And your height! It exceeds by a palm that of the next tallest captive in my lot. So, seeing you so robust, I have named you Bull. Under that name you are entered in my inventory, at your number; and under that name will you be cried at the auction!”
I knew that the Romans sold their slaves to the slave merchants. I knew that slavery was horrible, and I approved of a mother’s killing her children sooner than have them live a captive’s life. I knew that a slave became a beast of burden. While the “horse-dealer” was speaking, I drew my hand across my forehead to make sure that it was really I, Guilhern, the son of Joel the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, a son of that free and haughty race, whom they were treating like a beef for the mart. The shame of a life of slavery seemed to me insupportable, and I took heart at the resolve to flee at the first opportunity, or to kill myself and thus rejoin my relatives. That thought calmed me. I had neither the hope nor the desire to learn whether my wife and children had escaped death; but remembering that I had seen neither Henory, Sylvest nor Syomara come from the enclosure behind the war-chariot, I said to the “horse-dealer”:
“Where did you purchase me?”
“In the place where we make all our purchases, my fine Bull. On the field of battle, after the combat.”
“So it was on the battlefield of Vannes you bought me?”
“The same.”
“You doubtlessly picked me up at the place where I fell?”
“Yes, there was a great pile of you Gauls there, in which there were only you and three others worth taking, among them that great booby, your neighbor — you know, Pierce-Skin. The Cretan archers gave him to me for good measure after the sale. That is the way with you Gauls. You fight so desperately that after a battle live captives are exceedingly rare, and consequently priceless. I simply can’t put out much money, so I must come down to the wounded ones. My partner, the son of Aesculapius, goes with me to the battlefield to examine the wounded men and guard the ones I choose. Thus, in spite of your two wounds and your unconsciousness, the young doctor said to me, after examining you and sounding your hurts, ‘Buy, my pal, buy. Nothing but the flesh is cut, and that is in good condition; that will lower the value of your merchandise but little, and will prevent any breach of contract.’ Then you see, I, a real ‘horse-dealer’ who knows the trade, I said to the archers, poking you with my foot, ‘As to that great corpse there, who has no more than his breath, I don’t want him in my lot at all.’”
“When I used to buy cattle in the market,” I said to the “horse-dealer,” mockingly, “when I used to buy cattle in the market, I was less skilful than you.”
“Oh, that is because I am an old hand, and know my trade. So the Cretans answered me, seeing that I didn’t think much of you, ‘But this thrust of the lance and this saber-cut are mere scratches.’ ‘Scratches, my masters!’ said I in my turn, ‘but it’s no use poking or turning him,’ and I kicked you and turned you over, ‘See, he gives no sign of life. He is dying, my noble sons of Mars. He is already cold.’ In short, my fine Bull, I had you for two sous of gold.”
“I see I cost but little; but to whom will you sell me?”
“To the traffickers from Italy and the southern part of Gaul. They buy their slaves second-hand. Several of them have already arrived here, and have commenced making their purchases.”
“And they will take me far away?”
“Yes, unless you are bought by one of those old Roman officers, who, too much disabled to follow a life of war, wish to found military colonies here, in accordance with the orders of Caesar.”
“And thus rob us of our lands!”
“Of course. I hope to get out of you twenty-five or thirty gold sous, at least, and more if you are of an occupation easy to dispose of, such as a blacksmith, carpenter, mason, goldsmith, or some other good trade. It is in order to find that out that I am questioning you, so as to write it in my bill of sale. So, let us see:” (and the “horse-dealer” took up his tablet and began writing with his stylus) “Your name? Bull. Race, Breton Gaul. I can see that at a glance. I am a connoisseur. I would not take a Breton for a Bourgignon, nor a Poitevin for an Auvergnat. I sold lots of Auvergnats last year, after the battle of Puy. Your age?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Age, twenty-nine,” he wrote on his tablet. “Your occupation?”
“Laborer.”
“Laborer,” repeated the “horse-dealer” in a surprised and injured tone, scratching his ear with his stylus. “You are nothing but a laborer? You have no other profession?”
“I am a soldier also.”
“Oh, a soldier. He who wears the iron collar has no more to do with lance or sword. So then,” added the “horse-dealer,” reading from his tablet with a sigh:
“No. 7. Bull; race, Breton Gaul; of great strength and very great height; aged twenty-nine years; excellent laborer.” Then he said:
“Your character?”
“My character?”
“Yes, what is it? rebellious or docile? open or sly? violent or peaceable? gay or moody? The buyers always inquire as to the character of the slave they are buying, and although one may not be compelled to answer them, it is a bad business to deceive t
hem. Let us see, friend Bull, what is your character? In your own interest, be truthful. The master who buys you will sooner or later know the truth, and will make you pay more dearly for your lie than I would.”
“Then write upon your tablet: ‘The draft-bull loves servitude, cherishes slavery, and licks the hand that strikes him.’”
“You are joking. The Gallic race love service? As well say that the eagle or the falcon loves his cage.”
“Then write that when his strength has come back, the Bull at the first chance will break his yoke, gore his master, and fly to the woods to live in freedom.”
“There is more truth in that. Those brutes of keepers who beat you told me that at the first touch of the lash you gave a terrible jump the length of your chain. But, you see, friend Bull, if I offer you to the purchasers with the dangerous account which you give, I shall find few customers. An honest merchant should not boast his merchandise too much, no more should he underestimate it. So I shall announce your character as follows.” And he wrote:
“Of a violent character, sulky, because of his not being accustomed to slavery, for he is still green; but he can be broken in by using at different times gentleness, severity and chastisement.”
“Go over it again.”
“Over what?”
“The description I am to be sold under.”
“You are right, my son. We must make sure that the description sounds well to the ear. Imagine that I am the auctioneer, thus:
“No. 7. Bull; race, Breton Gaul; of great strength and very great height; aged twenty-nine years; excellent laborer; of a violent character, sulky, because of his not being accustomed to slavery, for he is still green; but he can be broken in by application of gentleness, severity, and chastisement.”
“That is what is left of a free and proud man whose only crime is having defended his country against Caesar!” I cried bitterly. “And yet I did not kill that same Caesar, who has reduced our people to slavery and is now about to divide among his soldiers the lands of our fathers, I did not kill him when I was making off with him on my horse!”
“You, my fine Bull, you took great Caesar prisoner?” asked the “horse-dealer” mockingly. “It’s too bad I can’t proclaim that at the auction. It would make a rare slave of you.”
I reproached myself for having uttered before that trafficker in human flesh words which resembled a regret or a complaint. Coming back to my first thought, which made me endure patiently the loquacity of the man, I said to him:
“When you picked me up where I fell on the battlefield, did you see hard by a war chariot harnessed to four black bulls, with a woman and two children hanging from the pole?”
“Did I see them? Did I see them!” exclaimed the “horse-dealer” with a mournful sigh. “Ah, what excellent goods lost! We counted in that chariot eleven young women and girls, all beautiful — oh, beautiful! — worth at least forty or fifty gold sous apiece — but dead. They had all killed themselves. They were no good to anyone.”
“And in the chariot were there no women nor children still alive?”
“Women? No, — alas, no. Not one, to the great loss of the Roman soldiers and myself. But of children, there were, I believe, two or three who had survived the death which those fierce Gallic women, furious as lionesses, wished to inflict upon them.”
“And where are they?” I exclaimed, thinking of my son and daughter, who were, perhaps, among them, “where are those children? Answer! Answer!”
“I told you, my Bull, that I buy only wounded persons; one of my fellows bought the lot of children, and also some other little ones, for they picked up some alive from the other chariots. But what does it matter to you whether or not there are children to sell?”
“Because I had a son and a daughter in that chariot,” I answered, my heart bursting.
“And how old were they?”
“The girl was eight, the boy nine.”
“And your wife?”
“If none of those eleven women found in the chariot were living, my wife is dead.”
“Isn’t that too bad — too bad! Your wife had already borne you two children; you four would have made a fine deal. Ah, what a lost treasure!”
I repressed a gesture of impotent anger at the scoundrel, and answered:
“Yes, they would have billed us as the Bull and the Heifer!”
“Surely! And since Caesar is going to distribute much of your depopulated country among his veterans, those who have no reserve prisoners will be under the necessity of buying slaves to cultivate and re-people their parcels of land. You are of that strong rustic race, and consequently I have hopes of getting a good price for you from some new colonist.”
“Listen to me. I would rather know that my son and daughter were dead, like their mother, than have them saved to be slaves. Nevertheless, since there were found near the chariot some children who had survived — a thing that astonishes me, since the women of Gaul always strike with a firm and sure hand when it is a case of snatching their race from shame — it is possible that my children may be among those found. How can I find out?”
“What good will finding out do you?”
“I will at least have with me my two children.”
The “horse-dealer” began to laugh, shrugged his shoulders, and answered:
“Then you didn’t hear me? By Jupiter, I advise you not to be deaf — you would be returned to me. I told you that I neither bought nor sold children.”
“What does that matter to me?”
“Among a hundred purchasers of slaves for farm-hands, there would not be ten so foolish as to buy a man and his two children, without their mother. So that to offer you for sale with two brats, if they are still living, would make me lose half your value by burdening your purchaser with two useless mouths. Do you catch on; thick-head? No, for you look at me with a ferocious and stupefied air. I repeat that if I had been obliged to buy the two children in one lot with you, or even if they had been given to me to boot, in the market, like old Pierce-Skin, my first care would have been to have put you up for sale without them. Do you understand at last, double and triple block that you are?”
At last I did understand; heretofore I had not dreamed of such refinement of torture in slavery. To think that my two children, if alive, might be sold, I know not where, or to whom, and taken far from me! I had not thought it possible. My heart swelled with grief. So great was my suffering that I almost supplicated the “horse-dealer.” I said to him:
“You are deceiving me. What can my children do? Who would wish to buy such poor little things, so young? useless mouths — as you said yourself?”
“Oh, those who carry on the trade in children have a separate and assured patronage, especially if the children are favored with pretty features. Are your young ones good-looking?”
“Yes,” I answered in spite of myself. Before me was the vision of the charming fair faces of my little Sylvest and Syomara, who looked as much alike as twins and whom I had embraced a moment before the battle of Vannes. “Oh yes, they were good-looking. They were like their mother, who was so beautiful — !”
“If they had good looks, be easy, my fine Bull. They will be easy to dispose of. The dealers in children have for their especial patrons the decrepit and surfeited Roman Senators, who love fresh fruits. By the way, they have announced the near arrival of the patrician Trymalcion, a very rich and very noble man, an old and very capricious expert. He is traveling through the Roman colonies of southern Gaul, and is expected here, they say, on his galley which is as splendid as a palace. No doubt he would like to take back to Italy some graceful specimens of Gallic brats. If your children are pretty, their fate is assured, for the patrician Trymalcion is one of my partner’s patrician customers.”
At first I listened to the “horse-dealer,” without catching his meaning. But I was presently seized with a vertigo of horror at the idea that my children, who might unfortunately have escaped the death which their far-sighted mother had
intended for them, might be carried to Italy to fulfill such a monstrous destiny. I felt neither anger nor fury, but a grief so great, and a fear so terrible, that I kneeled on the straw, and in spite of my manacles, stretched my pleading hands toward the “horse-dealer.” Not finding words to utter my feelings, I wept, kneeling.
The “horse-dealer” looked at me in great surprise, and said:
“Well, well! What is it, my fine Bull? What ails you?”
“My children!” was all I could say, for sobs choked me. “My children! if they are living!”
“Your children?”
“What you said — the fate that awaits them — if they are sold to those men—”
“How? Their fate causes you alarm?”
“Hesus! Hesus!” I exclaimed, calling on the god in my lamentation. “It is horrible!”
“Are you going crazy?” demanded the “horse-dealer.” “And what is there so horrible in the fate which awaits your children? Ah, what barbarians you are in Gaul, indeed. But, know: there is no life easier nor more flowery than that of these little flute-players and dancers with which these rich old fellows amuse themselves. If you could see them, the little rogues, their foreheads crowned with roses, their flowery robes spangled with gold, their rich earrings adorning their heads. And the little girls, if you could see them with their tunics and—”
I could contain myself no longer. A bloody mist passed before my eyes. Furiously and desperately I leapt on the vile fellow. But my chain again tightening sharply, I stumbled and fell back on the straw. I looked around me — not a stick nor a stone. Then, crazed with rage, I doubled upon my chain, and gnawed at it like a wild animal.
