“He does look good. But actually, he looks a bit skinny for a heavy lifter,” the man said. “I was looking for more of a Germani build. My other lifters are Germani or from the wilds of Africa, and they have worked well for me.”
“Ah,” Andopaxtes grunted, waving his hand dismissively. “Germani are fine and good. But this youth is better. He’s thinned down from his capture. Feed him decently and work him, and he shall out-lift all your Germani, I assure you.”
“So you say. But he looks willful. And his skin is too fair. It will burn up in our sun.”
“He will tan in time. But what you see as willfulness is spirit – something you need in a heavy lifter. Everyone knows that. He rowed my ship here all the way from dark Britannia. He is a proper worker, naturally, if you know slaves and how to utilize them. Yes, perhaps – like a fine horse – if you are an amateur and do not know how to properly direct him, then he may be too much for you. But you look like a man who knows how to manage his estate, and get work out of your people. Am I wrong?”
The older man narrowed his green eyes, scrutinizing Connor from head to foot. He stood very close, but did not touch him. Connor watched and listened, but averted his stare from Andopaxtes’ customer. He had been almost sold a few times before, and so was used to being sized up in this way; but for him being sold only meant one thing – another possible chance to escape. What might happen then was more than he could devise. He had turned his mind to ways in which he could survive in this alien place and eventually make his way back home, though it seemed impossible. Nonetheless, he had sworn that the moment he was out of the hands of those who were cautious and experienced enough to keep him captive that he would escape somehow. Now his opportunity may be near.
“What do you think, Lorentius?”
“I think he is a too skinny.”
“Skinny?” Andopaxtes protested, slapping Connor’s shoulders and thighs. “Lean, like the marble statues of the gods! All the strength you need is right here. And look at his gear here, eh? He could double as a breeder, eh? Freshen up your stock and give your slave women some big-framed children. Or do you like to freshen up your own stock, eh?”
Lorentius chuckled, but his father did not look amused.
“We are of the Equestrian class. Men of quality do not father slaves to put out in the field.”
“Oh? Well, as you say then,” Andopaxtes replied.
“How much do you want for him?” the older man asked.
“Well, I’ve taken him a long way and put a lot into him. He even speaks a little, you know. But I like you, young man, and your father here.”
“You may call me Lucius Montevarius Corvinus. And enough words and games. How much do you want for the slave?”
“Ten.”
Lucius smiled.
“Are you a slave trader or a street jester? Seven.”
Andopaxtes scratched his beard.
“I said I like you two, but I could easily get twelve for him. If not here, then in Nikaia or Italia.”
“You will not get that for him here, nor in Italia, and if you want to try you should know that the further east you go the more pirate ships you will encounter. The Navy is spread too thin. Or perhaps these days the Navy itself will just take him off your hands as a contribution. They will take the girl and the others, too.”
A look of anxiety made its escape on Andopaxtes’ polished expression.
“I can see that I read you wrong. You are a cruel man,” the Greek said.
“I am an honest man.”
“Nine then, for an honest man.”
“Eight and no more.”
“Then we cannot agree!”
“Then, Greek, you have wasted my time. I believe I saw traders selling Germani and Scythians over towards the church. Let us go Lorentius.”
Andopaxtes watched resentfully as his customer walked away.
But Lorentius had little interest in the bargaining and had wondered over to Dania once more. He approached her, and Sejius made way for him. Lorentius lifted the girl’s chin and looked into her blue eyes. He bent his head down and smelled her red hair. Dania lowered her head once more as the Gaul removed his hand. Lorentius cupped both of her breasts in his hands. Dania lifted her eyes to him once more, but the distance was gone and for a moment Connor could see her naked fear once more.
“Let her go, Pig Shit!” Connor blasted. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized that in his rage he had spoken in the Gaelic tongue of his homeland. But Lorentius heard his meaning well enough, and he glared at him as malevolence curled the corners of his lips.
Sejius picked up his rod and moved towards Connor, not waiting for his boss’ command. Twice in one day was too much to endure. But with long strides, Lorentius got to the bound Celt first. The Gaul’s face was like a smoldering fire and his hand found the hilt of his spatha. He moved in towards Connor until they stood brow-to-brow. Connor stood like stone, raw rebellion burning in his gaze. But he was bound and as helpless as he had been these long months.
“Do you have something to say to me, Slave?”
“I got no problem with you killing him, young Dominus,” Sejius said in a low voice. “But if you do you bought’em.”
Lorentius turned away, his face calm once more.
“Father?” he called. “I think this one does show promise.”
“I just heard him cry out when he wasn’t bought,” Lucius said, walking back towards them. “It is hard enough to take in a free-born slave without such will.”
“Or it may be an omen,” Lorentius offered. “And the trader is right. Spirit is essential in a heavy lifter.”
Lucius said nothing, considering. Andopaxtes drew near, sensing that his luck was returning to him.
“Eight and a half,” Lucius said.
“Nine.”
“Eight and a half.”
Slowly, Andopaxtes nodded.
“Get the cart and the horses,” Lucius said to Lorentius.
“I am glad that we could come to an agreement,” Andopaxtes said. “Though you are a shrewd and miserly man.”
“Would you like your payment in silver, or would you like it in wine?” Lucius asked. “My estate is east of here, in the hills. I produce the best wine in the region. It is savored by the finest families in Gaul and even as far away as Ravenna and Rome. I happen to have a quantity with me. You could keep what I gave you for your pleasure, or sell it again at a high price.”
“Ah. Wine? I could have wine anywhere, every day. And what might you do? Offer me a taste of some rich vintage and then actually give me sealed amphorae of some common stuff? No, my good sir. You have already taken enough bread out of my children’s mouths with your cold dealings.”
“You have sold your children by now, I am sure,” Lucius said. “So no more words. Take your money.”
As he counted out the coins and Andopaxtes weighed them for accuracy, Lorentius returned, weaving his horse through the ever-thickening crowd. Behind him walked two big men, Germani slaves in white tunics, leading a horse drawn cart.
Sejius unfastened the manacles around Connor’s wrists and ankles, but kept a tight grip on the chain of his collar. The simple wool tunic that Connor had been given as a meager covering when he was not on display was tossed to him and wrestled over his head. Lucius’ two slaves helped Sejius goad Connor to the back of the cart. Lorentius was waiting there with a coil of strong rope.
“Do not allow him a chance to work the knots, son, but do not bind him too tightly,” Lucius said.
“Of course not, father,” Lorentius answered, pulling the bindings until Connor winced. Deftly he bound Connor, working the rope through an iron ring at the back of the cart. The ropes were wrapped around his wrist and his now bare neck, the knots tied far from where his fingers might reach them. Soon Lorentius was finished.
“You’ll run behind us,” Lorentius hissed in Connor’s face. It did not matter to him if his new acquisition could understand his words. “If you fall
you will be dragged by your neck and arms. If you do not get to your feet you will probably die. So let’s hope we do not have an accident out there.”
Lucius came to the back and checked the coils around Connor’s wrists. He slipped his fingers in between and worked them looser.
“He will not be much of a heavy lifter if he does not have his hands, Son,” Lucius said. “After we deliver the wine to the Prefect’s house we will have to go and get him some shoes.”
“I think this savage is accustomed to running barefoot, Father. Our stones should not hurt him.”
“He will need shoes,” Lucius said, as he swung up into his saddle. The two slaves moved up to the driving board. They cracked their reigns and the wheels in front of Connor started to turn.
Lorentius reigned in his horse in front of Andopaxtes.
“If you do not sell this girl for your sixteen pieces, take her to the House of Ruthia on the north side of town. Tell them I sent you. It is a good establishment. They will pay you a decent price for her, I expect. The House of Ruthia.”
He rode on behind his father. The wheels of the cart squeaked as it lurched forward. Andopaxtes looked on Connor, smiling as he held the leather bag of coins in his hand.
“Cursed are you, condemned to burn forever in the Lake of Fire, where there is eternal weeping and gnashing of teeth,” Connor quoted in Greek through clenched teeth as he stared into the trader’s eyes. Hundreds of years had passed since those words had first been penned, and Connor’s command of that language was shallow and uncertain, but Andopaxtes heard their full meaning from the mouth of the barbarian he had sold. His face grew pale, and for a moment he faltered.
The cart picked up speed as the crowd began to make way for it.
“Dania!” Connor called in Gaelic. “Dania! I will come for you. I will find you. I will take you back home. Back to your father and your sisters and your friends who wait for you. This I swear to you. This I swear to God.”
But Dania did not look up, though her chest shuddered as if she wept quietly. Connor called to her again, but the crowd closed behind him, and soon she was lost from his sight.
IV
The horses pushed forward tirelessly, the rhythm of their movements brisk and steady as the turning wheels kicked up loose pebbles on the white road. Connor jogged behind them, trying to keep some slack in his bonds. The sprawling city of Massilia was behind them and they had come to open countryside. The land was rugged and dry in the hot June sun. The mountains were tall and austere; the grasses and trees a more subdued green than the home that Connor longed for. The forests – the cover that Connor had counted on to shield his imagined escape – had been pushed back to the corners of the landscape, leaving only the groves of olive trees and the patchwork of vineyards to clothe the hillsides. But though it may not have been as lush as his homeland, the open ground exceeded it in colors, as wildflowers – brilliant in scarlet, royal purple, white, and gold – covered any neglected patch of field; and though Connor’s mind was darkened he could not reject the beauty of the place.
Yet his thoughts were bent on one purpose, as his newly shod feet pounded the miles –how he might escape. Right now it was impossible; his bonds were tight, and his captors were keeping close watch over him. The arrogant son rode back often to goad Connor with his riding crop or the scabbard of his sword. But their vigilance could not last forever. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but he would take advantage of their first lapse. He would make his way back to the city. With the many foreigners that crowded the streets, all he would need would be some stolen clothes to fit in. With his slave garb discarded, his hair combed and his face shaved, his mastery of Latin would allow him to disappear. And then he would find Dania, and passage home. Had the fools not taught him to sail as they exploited him for labor? It would not be easy, but Connor was ready, and he burned for the chance to enact his plan. And so his eyes were hungry, marking the landscape and the way as he ran northeast behind the wagon.
But he had not counted on his destination being so far away from the city. As hours passed behind the unrelenting horses his weariness grew. The rhythm of his stride faltered, the tightening of his muscles shortened his gait. The leather shoes they had put on him protected his soles, but rubbed against the crease of his heals until they began to ooze blood, and stones found their way into the small openings near the toes. Sweat stung his eyes and his wet hair hung limply in his face. Soon the thoughts of his escape slowed, dwindling under the numbness and pain of the road, until all he could do was concentrate on throwing one leg in front of the other, struggling to keep up with the beasts that dragged him. The slack in the tethers was gone. They bit into his flesh as the cart moved ever forward. Now Connor dared not take his eyes off the road, for as they got further from civilization the stonework decayed, leaving deep clefts that could turn his ankle or bring him crashing to the ground. His breath rasped in his seared lungs; his neck, shoulders, and back were fire, but his legs were ice as numbness and cramping consumed them. And in the height of the afternoon sun Connor began to stumble.
Connor recovered his stride as Lorentius appeared beside him. The young man steered his bay stallion dangerously close. Connor waited for the sting of leather, but there was nothing he could do to shield himself from it.
“Faster, wretch!” Lorentius hissed. “The sun sets before long and we still have miles to go.”
Connor did not reply. He was already moving as fast as he could after so many hours on the road.
Lorentius looked ahead to where his father rode, making sure that the older man’s back was turned. He drew his sword. The blade of the spatha – the long arm of the Roman cavalryman – rang as it moved across the iron mouth of the scabbard. The afternoon sun made the weapon appear as if it were blazing fire as Lorentius lowered it next to Connor’s face.
“Move, slave. I do not choose to kill you, yet. But for my purpose you need only one ear to hear me. You need no tongue to speak back to me. Of no use to me is your nose, or your lips, or your balls. I will cut you into whatever suits me. Where are your sneers now? Where is your arrogance?”
Handling his horse with precision, Lorentius dropped back until he could press the point of the double-edged blade between Connor’s shoulders.
“Move, wretch. Move.”
Long seconds passed before the Gaul tired of this game, but even as he withdrew the point of his sword, Connor knew that he had abandoned it in favor of better sport. Lorentius rose in the saddle as his horse high-stepped towards the head of the cart. He turned back and smiled at Connor before he swatted one of the draft horses with the flat of his blade.
The horse rushed forward, but the other beside him had not felt the goad. The imbalance jerked the wagon violently. Connor fell hard, the tethers around his neck and wrists tight. The second horse also spooked as the harness bit into him. The driver cursed as he pulled back on the reigns, but both beasts broke into a run dragging Connor behind them. He struggled to get his grip on his collar rope, to take the pressure before it broke his neck. His head struck the stones once, then again, then a third time. The open sky was above him, the sun shining in his eyes. Then the cart stopped.
Connor lay on the ground, barely able to breath. He could hear Lucius’ voice behind him. The driver was cursing. Lorentius was no longer laughing.
“How can you be so careless with my money?” Lucius Montevarius demanded. There was hot anger in his voice, and Lorentius was silenced.
“He’s had enough, Dominus,” someone said. “He won’t be running now.”
Connor felt the pressure released from his neck. The tethers at his wrists were cut, but even as the air hit his raw skin his arms were pinned behind him and rebound. Still he looked at the sky, tasting the dust of the road in his mouth and pulling in the air through his clenched teeth. He was lifted and dropped into the back of the cart. Again he felt the movement under him, and it seemed almost as if he was running once more. Then he remembered nothing else.
***
Everything was dark. Connor moved his hands to his eyes to be sure they were really open. He waited to adjust to the lowlight, but it never happened. Connor tried to sit up. His head throbbed and his muscles ached as if torn to shreds, but he moved. He had not broken any bones. Hunger in the pit of his belly screamed louder than the pain in his body, and his tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth. Tentatively he felt his way around. There was a wall behind him, and then another near where his head had lain. As he rolled to his knees and spread out his fingers to grope the darkness his hands met a small amphora. With a sweep he knocked off the lid and put his face to the mouth. The water within smelled of earth, but it was fresh. A stifled cry escaped his throat as he turned the jar up, spilling water down his face and neck in his eagerness. He gulped it down until he could stomach no more, though still his body craved it. He sat back down, leaning against the wall. He did not have the strength to explore the darkness, to find the confines of this cave, or room, or cell. He sat there holding his water jar, now more than half empty. The hunger would return soon, the water had only delayed it; but for now he had at least this.
His mind started to race. Where was he? How long had he been here? How long would he stay? He had been unconscious for the latter part of the journey. Would he be able to find his escape now? His mind urged him to look for the door, to test it, to try to flee even now that they thought him asleep. But even as these thoughts came he knew they were useless. The door would be locked, and he was too weak to stand, too weak to walk much less run.
He worked to calm his mind. He started to pray, but even as he did he thought of his surroundings and how he had come to be here. The words trailed off, and God seemed to hear them no more than he had heard the cries of the suffering that morning so many months ago, or the screams of the mother in the slave market. If God cared – if God cared at all – then how could he have let this happen? And if he had let even this happen, then how could Connor ask him for anything with any confidence of being heard or heeded? Connor’s upbringing, his training, told him that the question was wrong. He tried to suppress it. But even as he did it came screaming angrily back.
The Songs of Slaves Page 7
