Connor dropped his head again, seeking solace in the patterns of cobblestones. It was three hours after dawn, a new day –the second day since they had landed in Massilia, the largest and most important port in Gaul. Like the first day, his keepers had kicked him awake and stripped away the simple cloth that was his only covering. They marched him along with the others to the area of the market reserved for the selling of slaves. He was again unchained from the group and fastened to the filthy wooden post the city had provided for its rich source of revenue. Many were chained nearby – tall Germani, Africans with obsidian skin, browned Persians who had been taken in the wars. But amongst these were chained others – men and women who had fallen upon unforgiving times, now stripped of their possessions and separated from their families to be sold to their fellow citizens. Connor could always tell these, for their heads held lower, and there was no light of defiance – no light of anything – in their faces. They were first amongst the dispossessed, and their numbers were staggering. The day before, Connor had seen these abandoned souls as he had in the other markets, sold quickly and cheaply, led away with little more than a whimper to some unknown end.
“Raise your head!”
Connor looked up to see Sejius, the big framed man who provided some of the muscle for his Greek captors. Blonde and in his middle years, Sejius’ hard face was further disfigured by a long scar that ran from below his left eye down to his chin, a testament to his violent temper. Like many others Connor had noticed, Sejius was a Germani, but he had been within the Imperium so long that he only spoke Latin.
“No one is going to buy you if you look sickly and sullen,” Sejius growled. “Now, look up, and look alive. Because if we don’t sell you today, here in this fine port, tonight I will thrash the living shit out of you, until you are so broken that the Kyrios will have no further use of you then to sell you to the poor for soup meat.”
He marched away, looking for someone else to taunt. Connor dropped his head again.
It was the gray of the cobblestones, or perhaps the smell of the Germani lingering in his nose, that brought his mind back to those days, now weeks past. Tied to the mast until the numbness in his limbs became a burning pain, rolling and toiling with the angry sea, he had fought despair. Deprived of food and water until his tongue swelled and was as dry as leather, left in his own filth, until another of the drunken marauders would stagger up to strike him. But for all this, his was the lighter load. It was the women, the girls and the young boys who suffered the deeper atrocities. Raped over and over again, beaten without cause and without mercy, until they stopped resisting at all, stopped weeping or crying out to God or to each other. One woman died the first night. Another broke away and leapt overboard, drinking in the seawater and swimming for the bottomless depths. But in anguish and brutality the living continued interminably, as the Jutes manning the ship drank and sang songs.
Now, hundreds of miles away, Connor clamped his eyes shut, trying to shake the images. He could not. They were seared in his mind, branded with a burning iron. But with distance came some piece of understanding. The Jutes, their captors, were not only acting out of the cruelty of their black hearts. They had departed from Eire with ships full of kidnapped people. They arrived in their outpost on the far side of Britannia with ships full of slaves. The savagery of the murder, the physical and sexual violence, the mental torture and control exerted over every captive’s need for food and water disarmed the resistance and stripped away even their victim’s sense of self. Though once free people, one by one terror gave way to isolation and helplessness. The strong ones, or the lucky ones, buried themselves deep within a passive and submissive exterior. The others lost their identities altogether. Their families were broken, murdered, lost hundreds of miles away; and as they were unloaded from the ships on that cold, misty morning, and again divided, sold, or traded, and taken into the round huts of the Germani settlers they were given new names and new roles. The old was lost forever, and home became something intangible, best left to the escape of dreams.
As they had come into port, the Jutes had unbound Connor. He fell to the deck, too weak and numb to fight. Like the others he was dragged to shore, where he saw the marauders greeted by their families and friends, as if they were heroes. He saw the men, who had just murdered the helpless and gang raped their captives, take their wives and children lovingly into their arms. They decked their women with gold stolen from those they had slain. And Connor looked on, silenced, crushed and astounded at what an evil thing was man.
The next days passed in a haze. He was taken to Woderic’s house and bound once more, as if the chieftain still feared him. But the next day he was moved, passed on to men who were traveling south. Dania was moved, too, and several of the others, all in wooden cages on the backs of carts. Connor could remember the lonely hills of the dark countryside better than what actually happened on that journey. They were traded to other men – Angles. Again, the women were violated, and the few comforts they had all been given were stripped away from them. The next day they were all loaded on another ship, along with many other male and female slaves who spoke a recognizable but strange-sounding dialect. They were Britons, whose lands were falling under the advance of the Germani invaders. Their famed Roman garrisons had not been there to help them.
The ship left the harbor and set sail for the mainland, but instead of being bound as before, Connor was chained to one of the oars, along with some of the Britons. The other slaves were confined, and abuses continued, but not as relentlessly as before. There was bread and water at dawn and dusk.
When they landed on the rocky coast of Amorica, the westernmost fringe of Gaul, they were traded again, to the Greek merchants who held them now. These men had sailed them from port to port, selling some and taking on others, in their business of trafficking souls.
Many days and many miles lay behind them, and as Connor stood chained once more to the post, he wondered if he could even find his way home, even if he was to break free.
Connor winced as he felt a hand on his back. A wealthy woman was inspecting him closely. The two slaves that accompanied her were expressionless, but dressed in clean, well-made tunics. The older woman stared at Connor as she brushed the dyed locks out of her eyes. Almost instantly Andopaxtes, Connor’s trader, swooped in. The diminutive Greek flashed his toothy smile between his bursts of well-practiced pleasantries, assertions, and offers. His animated gesticulations were punctuated by the nervous ringing of his long-fingered hands. His gray-streaked curls were oiled; and he wore a robe and toga well above his station, clean, pressed and smelling of myrrh, though he spent most of his nights aboard a ship. He was a master of his craft. And yet the rich woman folded her arms, her arrogant brow impervious to the Greek’s assault of words. Connor had seen it before, in almost every port they had stopped at throughout Gaul. He pieced it together from what he saw, and inferred from both the grumbling of his captors and their prospective buyers. The market was not as welcoming to the traders of foreign slaves as it may have once been. It was not only the swelling numbers of the debtors and dispossessed providing a cheap source of slaves, but it seemed to Connor that despite the arrogance of the people that came to the markets and the appearance of fabulous wealth that was everywhere, there was care and tightened purse strings. Like all the others, this wealthy woman talked to Andopaxtes as if she were by far his social superior and when money was mentioned she spoke as if she had the wealth of Egypt; but Connor could see her holding back, see the familiar self-concern behind her proud gaze. Back in his homeland a bad crop could cause such worry and caution. But what could cause it in these people, who purchased even their grain from markets that gave access to the entire world, trading the coins of the Imperium for whatever they might need or want?
Connor looked away and scanned the growing crowd. He had no further interest in the bargaining over his life that was taking place. Andopaxtes would not have his sale because he was asking too much. Woderic had sold him
at a high price, and the Angles had passed that on to these traders, who had paid it because when they had gone to sea the market must have been better. Now, Andopaxtes was too stubborn to take a loss, and so Connor and Dania, along with some of the Britons, toured the slave markets of Gaul.
Connor glanced over to Dania. She was chained only a few yards away, her red hair hanging down, obscuring her face. Connor had grown accustomed to the sight of her naked form, but always found himself gazing on her. She was his last link to home, to the past. The rest were gone. But sharing this misery with her made it more painful, to see her humiliation was more agonizing than bearing his own. Whenever Connor could he had tried to speak to her, to comfort her with a familiar voice and a familiar language, but it had been weeks since Connor had heard her say a word. Now as he looked at her she did not stir. The iron chains hung limply in the stifling air.
It was then that Connor noticed three youths amidst the crowd. They were too old to be boys, but too young to be counted as men. Their plain clothes showed them to be of families of modest means – perhaps merchants’ sons. Almost as one they approached Dania, coming close enough almost to touch her. They stopped and leered. Dania took no notice. She stood still as an artist’s sculpture, as if able to send her mind far away. Then one of the boys moved forward, his hand outstretched to touch her.
“Stop!” Connor shouted, his voice full of powerless anger.
It was as if the boys did not even hear him. They did not stop, or even look his way. But the wealthy woman immediately turned and marched away from Andopaxtes, indignant that he would try to sell her a slave given to demonstrations of will and temper. Andopaxtes called after her.
Sejius grabbed the hand of the groping boy and pushed him down. A hail of insults and obscenities from the big Germani followed the youths as they made their retreat back into the crowd. He was not protecting Dania; he was protecting their property against those who would not pay.
Andopaxtes turned on his heels and rushed at Connor, his fist raised.
“How dare you frighten off my customer? You will be beaten tonight!”
A month or two before and Connor would have spat in his face. But instead he just glared and said nothing. A beating would mean nothing to him, and it was an empty threat because no trader wanted to bring a slave to market with bruises that would prove its recalcitrance.
“I will sell you to the mines, for all the trouble you cause me!” Andopaxtes raved on. But he turned his back and looked into the throng of people, searching for his next prospect.
Two priests walked past, engaged in conversation. Connor followed them with his eyes, but his memory was transported to the first Christian priests he had seen in the slave markets of Amorica. He had recognized their bright robes and gold crosses, and a rush of hope had filled him. But when he called out to them in Latin they ignored him and passed on by. He called out to other priests as they drew near, but even as he was moved on to other cities it was always the same. The ears of most were deaf to him, but one had even looked at him and smiled in apparent amusement. Another had stopped to extol him to accept the place that God had given him, and not to be such a disobedient and rebellious servant. Soon this hope of rescue died in him, and he wondered how Titus could have come from such a group as these.
A woman screamed. Connor turned towards the commotion. A dealer was placing silver in his purse as a buyer collected two Gallic children. The children’s mother wailed inconsolably. The young children’s hands were tethered as they wept at their mother’s feet. The woman could not reach them to take them in her arms. The dealer handed the leashes to the bald slave who accompanied the rich man.
“Do not worry,” the slave said to the bound woman. “My master is a good man. They will have bread. They will not be treated badly.”
His words were lost on the woman. Her grief became louder as the slave pulled the children to their feet and turned to follow his master through the crowd.
Connor turned his gaze away.
A young man, about twenty, was standing very close to Dania. He was tall, with soft brown curls of hair and a tightly groomed goatee. His face was handsome, with a strong brow above sharp hazel eyes, but his countenance was aloof – even cold. Connor could see that he was wealthy even before he noted the bulge of the leather money purse or the jewels in the hilt of the sword the man carried at his side. His blue toga and well-made brown tunic boasted his status as much as the gold ring on his finger and the intricate medallion at his neck. He stood still, his arms folded, gazing at Dania; and though his look and bearing were so much more refined, the cold lust in his eyes was no less debase than the three boys had been.
Andopaxtes shot Connor a preemptive threatening glance and then strode towards the visitor, his hands folded in feigned readiness to serve and an eager smile in his eyes. But before the trader could say a word, the young man spoke.
“What do you think of her, Father?”
Connor then noticed a man – perhaps in his late thirties or early forties – standing near the younger man. At first glance he seemed almost an older copy. His hair and beard were nearly the same. His clothes and shoes were as well-made. His posture and bearing were as proud. But as Connor scrutinized him, he could see that instead of the conceit the young man bore in his countenance this older man’s face seemed worn from care and his eyes seemed filled with a hungry intelligence. He wore no rings, as the young man did, but only a cunningly designed amulet around his neck.
“I think that we do not need another domestic,” the older man said. “And with all the children growing we have plenty of field hands as well.”
“May I be of service?” Andopaxtes toned in a practiced voice.
“Buy her for me, Father,” the young man said, ignoring the Greek.
The older man sighed.
“When I am dead and you are heir to my estate, you can waste your family’s money and reputation however you choose, Lorentius.”
“But I like her,” Lorentius said.
“There is much about her to like. But for now I have not come here to buy you presents. And again I will caution you; your indiscretions with slaves may be smiled at by some and tolerated by others, but what family of breeding will want their daughter to marry a man who is reputed as a drunkard and a whoremonger?”
Andopaxtes cleared his throat.
“May I be of assistance?” he said again.
“We are only looking,” the older man said.
“You worry too much,” Lorentius protested in a smooth voice. “You have already secured Lucia a high-born match. Your designs are safe and the estate is secure. I am very highly thought of by anyone whose opinion I value, for all are not as stoical as you. You always tell me of the family’s reputation – but our ancestors are happy in Elysium; why may I not be happy here?”
“My designs are safe and the estate is secure?” the older man echoed. “Is that what you think, watching me and working beside me all these years? Lorentius, for centuries this family has climbed and prospered, but we have ever been at odds with forces as inconstant as the sun and the rain. A family fortune is called ‘fortune’ because that is what it depends on – like your constant games of dice or lots. And like those gambles, the difference between want and plenty rests both on chance, and on the skill and wisdom of the master.”
“How much for this one?” Lorentius said, acknowledging Andopaxtes for the first time.
“Sixteen, young Dominus.”
“Sixteen! For a domestic?”
“I am not selling her as a domestic, my good men. I am selling her as an exotic.”
“Even for an exotic, you will have trouble finding that price here,” the older man said.
“Ah, but for men such as you, having such a woman as this is worth the price,” Andopaxtes said. “Such ruby hair and sapphire eyes, such tone of body and softness of skin. I can tell you, she is a nymph in bed, tireless and eager, well-trained in her foreign land in skills that your Gallic women hav
e never dreamed of. She will do things with you that none of them will dare, because it is her savage barbarian nature. What is a mere sixteen coin to wealthy men like you in exchange for such pleasures? I can tell you when you have her at your command and can feel the warmth of her skin and the sweet honey of her attentions you would happily part with twice the amount, and will count me among the most generous of your friends for selling her to you.”
“That is quite enough,” the older man said, raising his hand. “We are not interested.”
But Lorentius was again staring at Dania. Andopaxtes grinned as the young man reached for his money purse.
“Father, loan me eleven.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Have you no love for your own son?” Lorentius said. “You have been unhappy for so long in life, and now you want me to be unhappy as well, is that it?”
“Be still, my son. Stop your raving. Of course I want you happy, but not by throwing your money away. Do not let the greased words of this foreigner bewitch you. But even if I wanted to give you the money I could not, for I have only brought what we needed, and if I give you some of it then I will not have enough to buy the heavy lifter that I need; and I will have to make this tedious journey again. Now, I beg you, enough of this loitering. Let us keep looking.”
“Heavy lifter, did you say?” Andopaxtes blurted as the older man turned to go. “Have you seen this one that I have?”
The older man turned back to him, his face once again open. Andopaxtes seized his opportunity, and in his excitement took his potential customer by the arm. The older man seemed to resent this contact, but allowed himself to be guided towards Connor.
“Here! Look! Foreign born, in the same land as the beautiful woman whom you are too miserly to buy. Her brother I think. But look at his frame, so sturdy. And look at these muscles. He’s been meat-fed all his years, in those distant dark forests that teem with more venison and boar than the Augustulus’ table itself. You won’t find any of those cheap pauper slaves with bodies like this. They’ve all been fed on the cheapest grain and grown up so close to each other that they are puny and sickly. This young barbarian is an oak tree to them.”
The Songs of Slaves Page 6
