He tried to think of something else, to discipline his mind as Titus had taught him to do years before. But any attempt to apply his long-studied philosophy seemed to sputter and go out in the darkness.
He took another drink of water and thought of revenge. Woderic, the narrow-eyed man, and all the Jutes, the Angles who had bought him, Andopaxtes and his henchmen, the crowds, even the priests in the market – they all got their due in his mind’s eye. And then justice came to these men – his new captors – especially this vain and lusting Lorentius. Anger fueled him, warming and loosening his muscles. But in time the fire spent itself in the darkness, and the cold moved in. And he remembered his friends, dead and alive – Titus, Grania, Cumragh, Dania, Dervel, and all the others. His sorrow flared and his heart pounded in his chest until the tears broke. And when the tears reached crescendo the screams came, tearing the darkness one after the other until even the dead must hear him.
But still no one came.
***
Connor awoke to the scrape of a key in the latch. He stood still, holding his breath, waiting for what might come. What new torture had they devised for him now? What new means of driving the desire for freedom from his soul? He could see the lesser dark of night past where the door must have been, and then there was a warm orange glow. The sight of the small flame drew Connor’s eyes, and for a second he forgot his fear. He smiled weakly at the first light he had seen in what seemed like an eternity.
A man moved carefully into the room, holding the lamp in one hand. In his other hand was a sturdy branch – a makeshift cudgel. So it was to be another beating, then, Connor thought as he sized up the visitor. He had expected more than that from the minds that had devised the run and the darkness. But the man did not move, once he had come in through the door. He only stared, with his small eyes blinking beneath his thick brows, his round face thoughtful as his broad mouth frowned behind his black beard. He was no older than thirty, Connor thought, but even in the lamplight Connor could see that the man’s hair-covered body was wrinkled and deeply browned by long hours in this southern sun, the knuckles of his hands large and knotted from laboring with the earth.
The man finally took his eyes off Connor and spoke to someone outside.
“It is well. He seems calm.”
Only then did the man take a few steps inside the door, raising his cudgel to shoulder level and looking meaningfully from it to Connor. Behind him another man entered. He was older and of a much smaller build than the first. For a moment Connor thought he may be priest, for he was bald on the crown of his head; but he was clad in a simple white tunic, as the other man was. His hands were empty and folded in front of him, making him look as if they were bound together. His eyes were dark, his face almost grave as he stared at Connor, considering. The two men stopped and stood still, closer to the door than they were to Connor; as if he were a dog that might at any moment attack them.
The older man raised his right hand, suddenly assuming an absurd formality.
“Greetings,” he said, very loudly. “Welcome.”
Connor was silent, his back still to the wall.
“I am Philip. I am a friend,” the older man continued, enunciating each word as if talking to a deafened man.
“He doesn’t understand you,” the round-faced man said.
“I have to start somewhere.”
“I speak Latin,” Connor muttered.
“That is good news,” the older man said when his surprise faded. “Yes. That is very helpful. It will make everything so much easier. You are calm? We are friends, you see. We mean you no harm if you mean us no harm, you see.”
Connor nodded.
“But if you are trying to lure us into a trap you will find us ready for you,” the round-faced man said, tapping his club on the ground.
“I can hardly stand, much less fight,” Connor said. “Now please, if you have come to release me, please step away from the door so that I can crawl out. If you have come for any other purpose, I can be of little sport to you. I have nothing for you to steal except this dirty shirt and these bloody shoes. If you want them, have them. I don’t care.”
“You do not understand us,” the older man said. “Melinda, I think it is alright for you to come in.”
A woman peaked tentatively around the door. She then straightened and entered. She was perhaps in her late twenties, with long brown curls hanging loosely past her sturdy shoulders. She was not beautiful, but a smile lifted her full cheeks, and her brown eyes were lit with the first hint of kindness Connor had seen since his capture. She walked past the men, right up to him, and knelt down to place a bundle at his side. She gave him another empathetic smile as she unfolded the corners, revealing half a loaf of bread, and a covered earthenware bowl.
“We saved this for you,” she said. “Eat it.”
Connor looked at her as he fought a lump in his throat, and for a moment she seemed more like an angel than a farmer in a dirty dress.
Connor tore into the bread.
“His water is empty,” Melinda said. “I will run and get more.”
With his mouth still full Connor removed the top off the bowl. It seemed to be a soup or stew of white beans and mushrooms. The woody smell of strange herbs met his nose as he lifted the bowl and gulped the contents down, barely stopping to chew. The two men watched him silently, until finally Connor slowed. His stomach just beginning to be filled again for the first time in days, Connor leaned back against the wall and slowly worked the crust of the dry bread.
“You will excuse our caution earlier,” Philip said. “We are here to welcome you, you see. Soon the Dominus will let you out of here. You are a heavy lifter, I understand, but until the Dominus needs you in that capacity you will be working with us. As I said, I am Philip. This here is Brontius. We work here.”
“You are slaves here,” Connor grunted.
“Yes,” Philip said, his shoulders stiffening slightly. “We are slaves here, like you.”
“So it would seem,” Connor breathed, letting his head drop back to the wall.
“Listen, my young friend, I understand that you have had a rough time of it. It is always hardest in the beginning. Now, my friend Brontius was born here, on this very estate. I myself did not come here until about ten years ago, due to my circumstances. But you had it very hard, because I surmise you were taken in the wars. Am I right?”
“You could say that.”
“Where do you come from?” Brontius asked.
“Eire. Hibernia.”
“Where is Hibernia?” Philip asked.
“An island in the sea. Far to the west, past Britannia.”
Brontius chuckled.
“There isn’t any land past Britannia.”
Philip dragged an empty wooden crate out of the corner, turned it over, and sat down.
“My point is that no matter where you come from or how you get here, it is always hard in the beginning. And do not misunderstand me – the life of a slave is seldom an easy one. But we are fortunate here, in that our Dominus is a fair man.”
“A fair man?” Connor nearly shouted.
“Yes. He’s fair. He works us hard, but he works hard as well. There is not much he would ask you to do that he wouldn’t do – that he hasn’t done – himself, except that which his status would prevent him from doing, you see.”
“How long have I been imprisoned in this cave? No food. No light. How long did I run?”
“Two or three days,” Philip said, cutting in. “Yes, as I’ve said. I know you have suffered. I do. But you need to look forward now.”
Melinda entered with the amphora, now full, and set it down beside Connor. Connor nodded his thanks as she moved to stand beside Brontius.
“The Dominus is a fair man,” Philip resumed. “Work hard for him and he will provide what you need. His success is our success. Do you understand this? Stay out of trouble and do what you are told. You are a slave. There is no law here that restrains what punishment they m
ight serve on you. It is any master’s right to run his household as he sees fit.”
“Avoid his son, Lorentius,” Brontius interjected. “For he is not a fair man; and it will be a sad day for all of us when our Dominus dies and he inherits this place.”
“We are your family now,” Philip continued. “Take care of us and we will take care of you. If you bring trouble on us we will all be punished. If you run away they punish all of us. Every slave, you see. And do not pollute your mind with thoughts of revenge, for if a slave kills his owner then the law states that all the slaves of the estate will be executed, even crucified or burned. Every slave. It has happened before.”
Philip stood up.
“We will leave you to your thoughts now. Remember what we said. I expect that they will let you out of here in the morning. Get some rest, and be ready to work.”
Melinda moved to the door, turning to smile once more at Connor before she left. Philip followed.
“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, my friend.” Philip called from just beyond the door. “We will have to think up a name for you by then. Sleep well.”
Brontius was left alone in the room with Connor. In the lamplight Connor could see now that he was in some sort of storehouse hollowed out of the rock and closed in with stone, not the dungeon he had imagined in the dark.
“It is nice to meet you,” Brontius said. “I am sure that we will all be good friends. One more thing I must tell you. Stay away from the woman, Melinda. She is mine.”
“She is your wife?” Connor said, not understanding why Brontius felt the warning was necessary.
“Slaves are not permitted to marry,” Brontius said, glaring at Connor as if he had made a deliberate insult. “She is just mine. That is all.”
“Of course I will respect that,” Connor said.
Brontius left, taking the light with him. But with the food and knowledge of his surroundings the darkness was not as terrifying and endless as it had been. Connor lay down again, his mind swirling over his strange visitors and their words. He had to get out of here soon, he thought as sleep took him.
***
Connor was already awake when the key turned the lock. But this time when the door opened, gray morning light flooded the room. Four men entered, almost at once, and rushed towards Connor. They were big men, dressed in gray or brown tunics, and armed with real weapons – cudgels, a flagella, a mace, and short swords. Even as Connor stood to his feet they grabbed him and threw him down.
“On your knees, slave!” one growled. Connor looked up, bracing himself to deal with what may be in store.
Then another man entered. Lucius Montevarius stood; backlit by morning’s light, calm and serene as his green eyes fixed steadily on Connor.
He raised his hand, and the men took one step back.
“What is your name?” Lucius said in a low, steady voice.
“Connor.”
“You have some speech?”
Connor nodded.
“I am Lucius Montevarius Corvinus. I am the owner of these lands, the master of this estate. I am the descendant of the same Montevarius the Centurion, who followed Julius Caesar into Gaul, when this nation was little more civilized than your own. My family has remained here ever since. It is an honor for you to serve us, and as our slave, this is what you will do. And if you have any honor in you, you will do it well. Your past is over. Whatever you used to be is dead. When you pass through this door you are reborn into the world as my slave. Or you can be slain in truth, right here in this very place.”
To punctuate Lucius’ words one of the guards touched his sword.
“What say you?”
Connor looked up at him. The light at his back and these long hours in the dark seemed to make Lucius taller, almost like an apparition.
“I am a free man,” Connor said.
“You were a free man,” Lucius said. “But you were taken, and I have bought you, delivering you from your captors. Now you are no longer free, but constrained by law and nature to serve me faithfully. But do not abandon your hope. Your freedom may be restored to you yet in time, if you are diligent and luck is with you. I do not begrudge my slaves what industry they might find to one day buy their freedom from me at the price I set; nor do I say that I will never leave some truly faithful slave to his freedom at my death. This has long been the way. If you work hard, you may one day again be a free man; free to live as you may, though your status as a freed man will follow your family for four generations to come. Understand this: I am not offering you the choice between death and suffering. I am offering you the choice between death, and a new life. Do you understand everything that I have said?”
Slowly Connor nodded.
“Then what say you?”
Again Connor was silent.
“I will have your oath,” Lucius said, pacing the words evenly as the volume of his voice rose.
Connor shuddered. To a Celt any oath was a sacred bond. Lives and fortunes had perished upon their oaths. He would not stay here. He would not find some new life, some new freedom decades from now. No. He must be free. But even as he waited the men took a step closer. Their weapons were ready.
This oath would be made in a foreign tongue. It would not be made in the speech of his Motherland. It would not have power over him. It could not.
“I will have your oath.”
Even far away, in a foreign tongue, even under duress, an oath could not be voided of its power; and Connor knew even as his lips parted that he brought down judgment on himself.
“I give it to you.”
“You give me what?”
“I am in your service.”
Lucius nodded solemnly.
“Your gods will hold you to your word. Now rise and go. Your new friends wait for you outside. They will give you food, and then you will go with them into my fields. Do as they instruct. Serve me well and serve me quietly; and my blessing will be upon you.”
Lucius turned his back and walked out the door. His men followed him.
Connor hesitated. He rose slowly to his feet, his muscles still aching from his ordeal, but his strength returning. He looked ahead, and with a terrible weight in his soul he walked out the open door into the light.
V
Early morning breeze greeted Connor as he emerged from the door, enveloping him with a soothing caress. After so long in the dark, the gray light and the air around him whispered to his soul a sense of freedom. But Connor’s smile was bitter, for even as this feeling registered he knew that the sense was an illusion. He was no more free than before – his prison was only larger.
Ahead Philip and Brontius were waiting, along with three other men and a boy of perhaps nine or ten years. Philip smiled a greeting to him, and Connor nodded. But he would have no words for them. Lucius Montevarius had known that Connor could speak Latin when he addressed him that morning. Was this not because Philip had told him? Perhaps last evening’s kindness of the three slaves had been a design of their Dominus. Even if this were not the case, they had all made it clear that they were to be complicit in his servitude here.
As Connor walked towards them he looked around. He was near the top of a hill – one of six or seven that made up the estate. Rolling land stretched to the north and the west, but to the south and east he could see the blue shades of distant mountains. He was deep in the country – with only a small town to the east, though he could catch glimpses of other smaller villas and farms nearby. But drawing his attention back in to the grounds of his servitude was the remarkable order of the estate. In Eire there was open ground for the grain, and pens for the animals that would graze on the hills, but here there were entire slopes devoted to rows and rows of vines. The delicate, silver leafed olive trees that Connor had already noticed dominating this foreign land stood in martial ranks in their groves. Fruit trees stood segregated in their appointed orchards. There were a few comparably small fields for grain, some pasture for cattle and horses, and some well-tended lines o
f vegetables. All this was divided and fenced by arcades of tall, sturdy trees, footpaths and roads, and low stone walls. No one in Eire owned such a place, not even (Connor imagined) the High Kings of legend. It was as if the estate had been designed by a single mastermind, with the power to craft the decade-long processes of nature into a single picture.
Connor cast a glance behind him. The dungeon that had held him for the last few days was only a small storehouse, half-dug into the hillside. There were other similar structures around – sheds for storing farming implements and provisions, not imprisoning men – with some much larger storehouses standing on the lower grounds.
Then, through the trees he saw the master’s villa, crowning the top of the tallest hill. Its stone walls were plastered in fading ochre that glowed like burnished gold in the rising sun. Instead of the round shape used by the builders in Connor’s land, the sturdy walls formed a square, with another square tower in the northwest corner rising one story above. The windows were numerous and high, the doorways wide, and arched. Though it was no larger than many of the villas he had seen in the city or along the road, here looking over this estate it seemed like a palace.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Philip chimed as Connor reached them.
Connor nodded, but said nothing.
“Here, take this bread and this water skin – though pace yourself on the water. It will be noon before we can get anymore, and I can already tell that today will be hot.”
Connor fell in behind Philip as he began to walk down the hill. The others followed behind.
“You come to work on a good day,” Philip continued. “Easy work today. Though there is much to be done, and we need to get to the hillside quickly. We’re falling a little behind, you see. But if we work quickly – and with your good help – we should be able to catch up. But we have to get to it. I always say that you need to have two-thirds of the day’s work done by noon, or the whole day gets away from you.”
The Songs of Slaves Page 8
