But even as this thought formed, Connor’s fortitude slipped. The memories could not be held back – not the thoughts of his capture, with all the death and atrocity – but the images of the past long before. Titus, Dania, and all the others cascaded before his mind’s eye. He remembered running through the fields and laughing around the hearth. He remembered the feeling of being wanted, of being loved. But the distance was manifest – an ocean of anguish separated him from all that he desired, an ocean that could never be crossed. Connor’s spirit sputtered and shook like a bonfire in the driving wind, and he felt as if a new and terrible scream would burst from his chest. He could endure silence no longer.
The slaves froze, staring at Connor as he began to sing.
It was not the primal scream that had been forming in his throat, nor was it the rhythmic chanting of slaves at their work. Connor sang in Gaelic, the words springing to his mind just as he uttered them, running like a river out of his soul. His voice was clear and strong as he poured out his music over the shadow-clad valley. One by one the slaves remembered their work, but listened on silently, reverently to the voice they had not expected.
Connor wove the notes and rhythms in increasingly complex patterns, following the inspiration that guided him, like the master bard he was born to be. The highs and the lows of his voice danced together. The slaves did not know his tongue, but the emotion in his voice called to even the hardest of them, until it seemed that even the stars that began to shine one by one had been conjured by his wizardry. Tears formed in Philip’s eyes as – like the others – he was carried away to an ideal past, the unification of all the good things that had almost been.
The rows passed, and Connor sang on. His song was ever-changing and growing in intensity. His mouth was dry, and his throat was burning from his effort, but he did not care. He could not contain it. Reluctantly the sun was slipping by the hill as the slaves neared the path and the end of their work, enchanted to silence by the music.
Then – rising his head as he reached the end of the row – Connor’s song ceased mid-note.
The girl was staring at him, as she sat high in the saddle of her dark horse, fascination in her green eyes. Black rivulets of hair cascaded down over her shoulders, framing a face of such subtle perfection that Connor would not have thought it possible. Her skin was smooth and olive toned, like others he had seen in this land. Her lips were full and her mouth just slightly opened, as if she were seeing something amazing that she had never imagined. Her frame was slight and the lines of her body – from her fine fingers to her bare arms, to her round breasts, long torso, and legs hidden beneath her blue stolla – had a sweeping grace that did not seem to Connor to even be of mortal kind. The half-moon had just begun to gleam in the fading light and shone directly above her, and it seemed to Connor’s affected mind that this being could be none other than the moon goddess’ daughter.
For a moment the girl stared silently at him, and Connor stared silently back. He had taken no notice of the female chaperone on horseback beside the girl, nor her two bodyguards who eyed him with a mix of suspicion and impatience.
“Continue,” the girl finally said.
Connor still said nothing.
“Yes, Connor,” Philip said quietly. “Continue.”
Connor kept his eyes on the girl.
“The song is over,” he said in Latin.
Without another word the girl turned her horse and began to move once more down the path, her retinue in tow. She did not look back. The spectacle had ended.
When she was out of earshot, Sergius began to laugh.
“That would be the Dominus’ daughter,” Philip said. “Lucia is her name. Seventeen or eighteen years old. Betrothed to the son of Effacus – the wealthiest family in the valley – but she still lives here until that boy is old enough to marry. A fine match it will be for the house of Montevarius.”
“She looks nothing like him,” Connor said.
“She is the image of her mother. The very image, rest the good woman’s soul.”
“And she is a Pagan witch, just like her mother,” Sergius said.
“Sergius, please, some respect,” Philip corrected.
“I am telling the truth,” Sergius said, moving down to the next row. “She is a worshipper of Isis, or some dark goddess. You will see her accompany her father and brother on the Sabbath, but what she does in secret is another matter entirely.”
“Very good, Sergius,” Brontius said. “We have all heard your story.”
Sergius ignored him. He went to take another drink from his wine skin but found it empty. Undaunted he continued.
“I was heading home from one of the west side houses. I had a rendezvous there with one of the kitchen girls, who was damn near insatiable. But when I finally put that whore to bed and was heading home – now mind you, I had a few drinks, but I know what I saw – well, I was down by the stream. It was a full moon. I was sticking to the tree line, in the shadows. I did not want to be seen. But there she was – Lucia, our little Domina. She was naked in the moonlight. And I swear to God – you think she looks good now? Jupiter’s cock! She had drawn symbols on the ground with white sand. And she was working herself with a twisted piece of ivory, moaning some incantation over and over in a whore’s voice.”
“Sergius, please!” Philip said. “Your disrespect is bad enough. But she is Lorentius’s sister – the apple of his eye. If he hears you talking like this he will kill you. Remember what he did to Marcus, just for looking at her.”
“Well Lorentius isn’t here.”
“We are close to the path. Just be quiet. We have all heard your story.”
“And you didn’t do anything about it anyway,” Brontius chided. “You are all talk.”
“I would have!” Sergius answered angrily. “But my whore wore me out. I was going to walk right into the light and give that little bitch exactly what she wanted. And she would not have told anyone. She would have come back begging me for more.”
“You’re full of goat shit,” Brontius said.
“Enough of this talk!” Philip said. “Enough. I am not going to quibble over your story, Sergius. But I am going to say that our good Dominus’ daughter is a virtuous Christian, like he is, and deserving of our respect and allegiance.”
“God, where do you get this shit?” Sergius retorted. “It’s like you practice a creed every morning.”
But Connor had stopped in his tracks.
“The Dominus is a Christian?”
Philip looked surprised.
“Well of course,” he answered. “Of course he is. Tithes to the Holy Church and everything. Has the Bishop over often enough. What good family wouldn’t be Christian these days?”
Connor’s mouth was still open in amazement. Then, suddenly, he turned towards the path and began to run.
“Shit!” Brontius exclaimed.
“We must stop him!” Philip called as he recovered and gave chase.
But the slaves’ efforts to catch him were useless. Connor sprinted, kicking the stones and leaving dust in the path behind him. He tore the ground in long strides, pumping his arms as he pulled at the air. In moments he was down the hill. He reached the road, but he did not turn towards the gates. He headed straight up the tall hill, cutting across the grass and weaving amongst the trees. He cleared the low walls in single leaps. He was making straight for the villa.
Lucia’s bodyguard stopped and stood ready when they noticed him; but he was far off and so little more than a curiosity. Connor barely slowed as the hill grew steep, as if the toil of the day had no effect on him. Philip and the others were far behind.
Ahead the wide double doors of the villa were open and unguarded. The defensive positions on the walls were vacant. Within Connor could see the lamps of the courtyard gleaming in the fading late. All at once he was through, inside the perimeter. He could hear the sounds of the people within. He barely registered the fragrance of flowers and the aroma of meat stewing in the kitche
n. His shod feet pounded on the flagstones as he crossed into the courtyard, where the fruiting trees made long shadows in the lamplight. His wide eyes made out the shapes in his periphery. He saw the men before they saw him – in the split second before they perceived his threat. Behind him a woman screamed and dropped a clay platter. But his hungry eyes were drawn straight ahead, to the far side of the courtyard, where Lucius Montevarius sat beneath the shade of a cherry tree.
Connor could sense the men close around him. Lucius rose to his feet and faced him. Connor perceived a slight unsteadiness in his movement, a subtle lack of balance – but the master stood before him with square shoulders and a steady gaze.
Connor fell to his knees before him, and bowed his head to the ground.
“Lucius Montevarius Corvinus! Brother in Christ! Have mercy upon me!” Connor cried.
One of the bucellarii had his cudgel raised, but a sound from the master stayed his hand. But the men did not move away. One was at Connor’s right and another at his left, practically touching him.
“Lucius Montevarius Corvinus, Brother in Christ, have mercy upon me!” Connor called again.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lucius replied, his voice even and calm.
Connor raised his head from the ground and sat back on his heels. His purchaser – his enslaver – stood before him, his face impassive, his body relaxed. He had changed his work clothes for a tunic and toga of white linen and held a wide rimmed bowl in his left hand.
“The Dominus orders you to speak, slave!” the bodyguard at his right shouted.
“Lucius Montevarius Corvinus,” Connor said, “may God’s blessings be upon you. You bought me from the slave market days ago. You delivered me from those murderers and thieves and workers of evil, though only to bring me here to do your bidding. But God, our Father, had a greater purpose in mind. I, too, am a Christian. I was raised by priests to do the bidding of God. You hear that though I am from a far distant country that I speak your tongue. I was taught this by Titus Vestius Laterensis, a priest of the Holy Church, so that I might do the will of God. You see, like you I am a follower of Christ and his Father, the one true God. We are brothers, you and I.”
The bucellarii brought his club down on Connor’s back.
“Insolence!” the man hissed as Connor tried to regain the breath that had been knocked from him.
Montevarius raised his hand, taking a step forward. Connor lifted his eyes again, ignoring his persecutor at his side.
“You are telling me that you are a priest of the Church?” Lucius asked, looking concerned for the first time.
“No,” Connor said. “No. I am not. Though that was my intention.”
The guards beside him chuckled mockingly.
“Explain yourself then,” Lucius said. “You speak of God, and call us brothers. What do you mean? I am listening.”
The master took a deep draught from his bowl and then reached down to a small amphora on the bench and refilled it.
“Do you not see?” Connor asked. “All are equal in the love of Christ, in the love of God. Our great teacher, Declan taught us that. And it is substantiated in the teachings of the Church’s cannon. The saint Paul writes in his epistles that now there is no Jew nor Greek, no Slave nor Free, but all are one in Christ.”
“He says that?” Lucius asked.
“Yes, and more ….”
“Does he not also say ‘Slaves, obey your masters’? If the Apostle wanted to abolish subservience and dominion – the very fabric of the natural world – would he have said that?”
“There Paul was writing to ‘a wicked and perverse generation’ – to quote the Christ. That was many hundreds of years ago. The Church has triumphed now, and there is no further need for such distinctions,” Connor said.
“And so it has,” Lucius consented. “The Church has changed many things that once were. But it has not disrupted the very system on which our prosperity – in which all order and decency – is sustained. There has been no edict from the Church Fathers to release all the slaves – even if the emperors would allow such an outrage. Rather, the Church has a great many slaves of its own, and uses them for the construction of their magnificent buildings, in the working of their extensive lands, and in the households of their bishops. Why should I be different? Why should I forsake the way of the world over the metaphors of a long-dead saint? This would be not faith or virtue, but fanaticism and folly. I am no hermit living in the deserts of Egypt, but a man of business, the descendant of a noble house and bearer of a great name.”
Lucius again brought his cup to his lips and turned it until some of the purple wine escaped into his beard.
“My servant, I am not without feeling with you,” he said. “I know that it has been given to you to suffer. I can see that you were once perhaps a mighty warrior, and certainly a young man of at least rudimentary education. In truth, I am touched by your words. But I must say unto you, if you had been an actual priest of the Church who had fallen upon trouble, then I would go to the Church on your behalf, and the Church would buy you from me. But you are not. You say you are a Christian and therefore deserving freedom. If that were all that was required then all slaves would profess Christianity and civilization itself would collapse! Would that please you? You speak of God and his will. Well, as the Wheel has turned, it is God’s manifest will that you have come to be a slave. And whatever plan or purpose he may have in mind are his. And whatever sin you are being punished for is his knowledge alone. But the material point is that you are now legally my property. My word is your law. You should thank God that in all things I have ever sought after virtue and what is right. I do not mean for your harm, but for our mutual prosperity. And even for that reason – and not in spite of it – I will hold to my right. You are my slave, and I am your master. Go now, in peace. Get some rest. We all have more work to do in the morning.”
Connor stared at him. Lucius drained his cup again. He went to refill it from the amphora, but the jug was empty. A slave woman moved swiftly towards him with another.
“This cannot be your answer!” Connor exclaimed. “Lucius Montevarius, I was imprisoned by evil men, with many others. I must return them home. Lucius Montevarius, Christ bled to end evil on earth – not to sanctify it!”
“See him out,” Lucius said, turning his back to Connor and facing the long shadows.
VII
Wood chips flew as Connor’s axe bit deep into the tree trunk. He worked his blade free, reared back, and swung again. On the other side of the oak Sextus, a gray-haired Ligurian Gaul with the build of a crooked ox, swung with a warrior’s vehemence. Almost imperceptibly the wood creaked and the high limbs shifted. This was the dangerous part, when there were still many axe blows needed to complete the task but the tree becomes increasingly unstable. Connor had seen it go very wrong before. Though the day had been long and his tunic was soaked in sweat over his screaming muscles, Connor stepped up his vigilance. Letting his mind wonder even a little may be all it would take to miss a falling limb or a sudden failure of the tree itself, and that would be enough to crush a man.
But so far there had been no accidents. The July day was slowly shifting towards night, the cruel sun beginning to relent its attack on the slaves. Now two months on the estate, Connor’s fair skin was freckled and darkened and he no longer needed to cover himself with mud or over-dress as he had in the early days.
Movement caught Connor’s eye and he turned. It was only one of Lucius Montevarius’s bucellarii dismounting his horse. The man stretched his legs and his back, as if he had been among those doing the work today. His fellow passed him a water skin. Lucius sat high in the saddle of the same bay stallion he had ridden when he had bought Connor. His face was impassive, his bearing almost regal. His demeanor – whether the result of true confidence or just withdrawal from the objective state of things, the mental insistence that everything must be as he ordered because he ordered it – again sparked anger in Connor’s heart. He had not see
n the Dominus this close since he had prostrated himself in the courtyard, pleading for what was his by right. He remembered the action now with a tremor of shame, regretting that he had ever given the hard man any acknowledgement that he was Connor’s superior. Connor’s anger burned and he channeled it into his axe. Here the man was, less than fifteen yards away, in a forest with all of his heavy lifters. Twelve of his strongest slaves all equipped with axes, and he stood by with only two bodyguards for protection. Connor’s thoughts darkened further. Lucius Montevarius had never lifted a hand against him, but he kept him a slave. As the buyer, as the market, he was the reason that all those atrocities had been done. He and his kind were the ultimate reason so many people had suffered and died. Lives were ruined to ease the lives of this man’s kind. Somewhere now – not too far away – Dania was probably in a brothel being raped by paying customers. But the Dominus just sat in his saddle, supervising the work and hand-picking each tree to be felled; making sure that his bidding was done to his seemingly pointless specifications. Connor’s anger banked and he again felt the glow of murder upon him. He could turn and kill all three men with the axe they had given him. If Montevarius turned to escape, Connor could ride him down with one of the other horses.
He freed his blade and turned, ready to attack, ready to be free.
But reality set in. The law would avenge the Dominus’ death – not on him but on anyone and everyone it saw fit. Lucius’ evil son would be the new Dominus. Connor would not be free, he would be lying dead in a mass grave beside Philip, Brontius, and others who had been kind to him and become his friends. And because of this fear, would not the other heavy lifters stop him before he made his attack? Though many were from the wild lands of Germania, Syria, and Africa some of these men had been in the Montevarius’ service for decades. Could he expect the long habit of their loyalty to fail?
The Songs of Slaves Page 11
