Connor turned back to his work. He saw once more that in truth the Dominus had not brought out two bodyguards to control twelve slaves. He had brought out eleven slaves to control any one slave who remembered freedom with enough longing to risk everything. It was this way on the estate – the family did not keep two hundred slaves in check; the two hundred slaves kept the slaves in check. It was probably this way throughout the entire Imperium. The image – even though only reported – of crosses lining the roads was enough to remind people of their place. The genius of it – and the cravenness of it – mocked Connor. He swung his axe. He spent his murdering strokes on the tree. Wood flew instead of blood as the axe bit deep again and again.
The tree shifted and began to fall. Sextus sprang away like a young calf, grabbing Connor’s shoulder to guide him to safety. Connor’s chest was heaving with a mix of effort and rage. But he knew that the fire would soon spend itself. His heart had burned too many times before. The fire in his soul could find less and less fuel to sustain it. Sooner or later acceptance takes what it will.
“That one next?” Connor suggested to the older man.
“We dropped an oak,” Sextus said. “We get a break.”
“It’s getting late. Let’s just get it done so we don’t have to do it tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Sextus said with a broken smile. “Young horse works the old horse into the grave. But have it your way.”
They made their way towards the new tree. In his channeled anger Connor had picked a gnarled, thick-trunked monster. Sextus shook his head.
“Bad luck cutting down oak trees,” Sextus said. “We do it every year, but I don’t ever get used to it.”
“We believe the same in my country,” Connor said. “My people worship in oak groves. The spirits are heavy there. The trees serve as doorways to them.”
“Hm. We believe the same here. But few worship in the groves. It has always been illegal. Guess the Imperium likes temples and churches where they can see what you are up to.”
“Stop.”
It was the Dominus who spoke. Connor and Sextus turned around to see him, still on horseback, just out of reach.
“This tree is too old. Cut that one down there. Be swift. It is getting late. We cannot leave the job half done.”
Connor followed Sextus, new resentment – trivial as the affront had been – added to his furnaces.
“What does it matter?” he asked, not caring if Montevarius overheard.
“Just does,” Sextus answered.
“What are we doing with this? We are not clearing land, obviously. And only a fool would choose to build with this hard wood.”
“It’s for the wine,” Sextus said. “But you must not tell anyone. Like I said, a lot of people around here still consider the oak sacred. But beyond that, it is one of the Dominus’ many secrets – part of what sets his wine apart. We are bound to that. Let it slip to an outsider and you will be aggressively punished.”
Connor shrugged. What did he care? Though he puzzled for a moment on what oak could have to do with wine. Everything he had ever seen of wine involved clay amphorae or sometimes goat skins. Even when he had loaded the traders’ carts from the cellars everything had come up in ceramic. He turned his attention back to his work.
The tree seemed to give way easily under his assault. He could tell his axe head had dulled, but he did not want to stop and sharpen it. He made up for it with strength, working the wide notch at different angles, relishing the sound of every blow.
Half-way through he paused, setting his axe down to shake the muscles of his upper back loose and to stretch his blistered fingers. He turned his head to see that Lucius Montevarius and one of the guards were gazing at him. A gust of wind cut through the grove, moving the high boughs and sounding in the canopy of leaves.
But Connor perceived more in the sound. To his far left, where two slaves were chopping, he isolated the groaning of wood twisting in its weight.
“Aulus! Gnaeus!” he shouted.
The heavy, sandy-haired Goth and the long-limbed African instantly dropped their axes and moved swiftly away. Their tree creaked and – slowly at first, then picking up rushing speed – fell forward, hitting the ground with the snapping of a dozen thick boughs. As it fell, the base kicked back violently to where the two men had stood only a second before.
“See,” Sextus said. “Bad luck. That wind came out of nowhere. Well done, Hibernian. I think they are right when they say you have some magic in you.”
Connor said nothing, and went back to work. His pace finally calmed and steadied. As the sun reached the mountains the tree fell where Sextus had aimed it.
“That’s enough for today,” the Dominus said. “Tomorrow and the next day we have to cut these into loadable segments and move them. Get plenty of rest tonight. Good work today, men.”
“Axes over here,” one of the bucellarii called.
The slaves came up one by one to turn the tools in. They then stayed in a line approaching Lucius Montevarius.
“What are we doing?” Connor whispered. “We get to kiss his ass before going home, or something?”
Sextus chuckled.
“We get an extra meat and wine ration on hard days like this. That’s one of the good things about being a lifter. Usually just a little pork, but I’ll take yours if you don’t want it.”
Montevarius handed out the small bags of food himself. Because he was still in his saddle he towered over even the tallest of his slaves. Connor noted the message once more – the Dominus awarding gifts and favor from on-high to his lowly subjects.
But Connor was not going to turn down extra meat. He approached the Dominus in his turn.
“And for this man, whom I watched working the hardest of anyone today,” Lucius said so that everyone could hear “the biggest portion, and a little wine from my own table.”
He handed the two parcels to Connor, who was too surprised to do anything but accept them silently. Sextus slapped him on the shoulder.
Lucius Montevarius finished handing out his gifts.
“Good night, men,” he offered before turning his horse towards home. A chorus of practiced salutations followed him.
“Good work, again, Connor,” Sextus said. “You made an impression. Be careful though. Now he’s going to expect you to hustle your arse off all the time.”
“I do not care what he expects,” Connor muttered.
“Well. Dominus has a new favorite,” a gruff voice joined in from behind him.
It was Publius, a wide-faced, thickly bearded man of about thirty. All of the heavy lifters were strong, but Publius was one of the biggest of any of them. Connor already did not like his low manners, coarse tongue, and arrogance; to say nothing of his smell and sloppiness. But Publius looked like he was about to make himself unavoidable.
“I cut down as many trees as you did,” Publius said. The tone and volume of his voice drew the other slaves around him, as they sensed a spectacle coming on.
“I do not care how many trees you cut down,” Connor said evenly. “I’m going home now. I will see you tomorrow.”
“So, you sucking his cock now or something?” Publius spat. “You must be if he likes you so much. You want to suck mine?”
“Watch your ugly mouth,” Connor said, wheeling back towards the bigger man.
“Leave him alone,” Gnaeus interjected. “The Dominus rewards who the Dominus rewards. This boy is alright.”
Connor sized things up. Publius was very close to him, close enough that all Connor could smell was the reek of the man’s breath. Sextus, Aulus, and Gnaeus were standing close beside him, but Connor was not sure that the three men would be ready to take his side if things came to blows.
Publius interrupted Connor’s strategizing. He reached forward and jerked the food and wine out of Connor’s hands.
“Thank you,” Publius said. “I will make good use of these. Go beg the Dominus for more.”
Most of the slaves laughed.
/> Until Connor dove into Publius, dropping to grab his forward leg and driving him down.
Connor passed to a side pin, and then swung his leg over the giant’s chest. Publius tried to push him off, but Connor only took advantage of this to turn him face down and seize his enemy’s neck in the crook of his arm.
The slaves were in commotion – cheering, coaching, or trying to restore order. Connor ignored them. He sunk the choke in on Publius’ neck, the violence spilling from him nearly impossible to control. He reached for the small jar of wine that Publius had taken from him.
“You want this?” he growled. “You want this wine?”
He shattered the jar on the stony ground near Publius’ head.
“Drink it!” Connor growled, driving his foe’s face into the new mud. “Drink it!”
“Connor, stop,” Sextus said. “You are going too far.”
“Stop, son,” Aulus echoed.
Connor eased his grip. He rose to his feet, his fists at the ready as he stood defiantly over Publius. The giant laid where he was, trying to catch his breath and spit out the mud. His mane of dirty hair shook as he tried to clear the dizziness.
Connor quickly reached down and grabbed what was left of his reward, leaving Publius’ portion where it lay.
Publius slowly climbed to his feet, the fight gone out of his eyes. Connor was surprised that he had no defiant last words for him. The slaves quieted, realizing how close the fight had come to turning deadly.
Publius turned and walked away, his head down and his shoulders sunk. One of the others picked up his portion, perhaps to return it to him later. The heavy lifters from the south side moved silently towards home, leaving Connor with Sextus and three others.
“God’s teeth, son,” the tall North African renamed Marcus said, patting Connor on the back. “You fight like a demon.”
Connor said nothing. He looked towards Sextus, but the older man had already begun walking slowly down the trail. Connor looked down at the cloth-wrapped parcel he held in his hands. It was about half a pound and would be welcome tonight. He found himself sorrier than he expected that he had spilled out the wine for that thug.
And then Connor realized that at the end of a long day of toil and danger for another man’s gain that he had nearly killed his neighbor over a portion of food. He was becoming a slave.
VIII
Connor smacked his neck as the sharp bite of a tiny insect announced the work day was drawing to a close. He heaved the barrel once more, spinning the cleansing water violently within it, before turning the round opening down to the floor. Water mixed with wine dregs –cloudy purple and hazy white –spilled out across the slippery tiles towards the wide open doors. Beside him, old Sextus did the same.
“One more draft of water out to do it,” the gnarled lifter said. “Pass me the pitcher, son.”
Connor obliged, and then filled the other pitcher from the pool that ran the course of the near wall. He poured a gallon of the water in to the empty barrel and then braced himself to spin it again. He placed the leather mitts on the rough edges of the oak and heaved again. His shoulders, neck, back, forearms and fingers felt as if they would rip, for the lifters had been at work with the barrels all day. As high as his chest and weighing more than three times the weight of a man when they were full of wine, the slaves had moved, then transferred, and now cleaned dozens of them. It had been back-breaking work; but also at times work of precision, as he and the others had tried to drain the contents of each barrel into a fresh one. All the while the Dominus had hovered by, fretting over every spill, and lamenting every drop of cloudy sediment that passed from the old barrels to the new ones. This was the art of wine-making, Sextus had told Connor, as the Dominus had stood over them as if every little action was critical. Montevarius had tasted and tasted again – even the cloudy, dank-smelling mess that filled the younger barrels. He moved from slave to slave imploring and directing as Connor had never seen him do before. He barely needed to, Connor thought, for his lifters knew their jobs and they soon showed Connor how to make the difficult easy and the sloppy precise. And yet the Dominus wore himself out over the details and wearied his slaves with his hand-wringing. Even when the slaves were too tired from the exertion of managing the barrels Montevarius was there calling to them.
“Clean this wine off the floor! If the wine sits then it will turn to vinegar; and if vinegar forms here than woe to us all, for its spread would ruin everything!” he called time and again.
But when Connor complained about all this to Sextus as they stopped long enough to take a hurried lunch Sextus simply shrugged.
“He is Lucius Montevarius Corvinus, and this wine is duly famous.”
Now finally, as the setting sun was visible through the open double doors, Connor could look forward to putting this day behind them. It looked like they would finish the barrel transfers today – which meant that tomorrow would be just another day in the fields. Right now that sounded good to him.
Connor pulled his eyes away from the vista of hills that was visible through the open doors and rolled his head around to try to relieve some of the pain in his neck and shoulders. The wine cellar was huge, with high ceilings and several sub-chambers. It all had been cut out of earth and stone by some hapless slaves years ago. Connor could not imagine such a work detail. Less daunting, but almost as impressive, was the massive timber scaffolding at the north side of the cellar. It reached the ceiling, where a trap door accessed the tremendous vat that crowned the interlocking network of tree-thick beams. Sextus had told him that it had been built in his father’s time – though it had been repaired just two or three years ago. He had explained to Connor how during harvest the grapes were piled into the vat where they were crushed. The juice and pulp would drain down the channels. The higher the vat the better the drain. But he would see soon enough, Sextus promised, as harvest – the focus of master and slave alike on this estate – was only about six to eight weeks away.
Connor noticed that the Dominus was finally still, sitting back at his work table making notes in one of his many notebooks. But even his quill had paused as he held a bowl to his lips. Whether he was critically testing the new wine or perhaps enjoying some of his past successes Connor was not sure, but he did notice that the Dominus’ eyes were resting on him.
“Damn him,” Connor breathed, ceasing his stretch break and taking hold of the barrel once more.
“That’s it,” Sextus said. “That’s the last one. Just in time too.”
Connor followed Sextus and the others, rolling the barrels on their edges in semi-circles –the easiest way to move them without turning them sideways.
He stacked the barrels with the others, bung hole down to dry.
Montevarius rose to his feet.
“Good work, men,” he said, his baritone voice reverberating on the stone walls. “Now, help me clean this wine off the floor. None must remain. None at all.”
“Or there will be vinegar,” Connor mocked quietly.
The Dominus took several full pitchers and slung the water across the wine-stained floor towards the doors. Then he grabbed a wide broom, and joined the slaves as they pushed the dregs towards the opening.
“Dominus, you will stain your clothes,” Publius said.
“Kiss-arse,” Sextus murmured.
Publius shot him a withering glance.
“Come, men. Night is falling,” Montevarius said. He brushed past Connor as he swept vigorously, driving the liquid out the opening, where it could drain down the hillside. Soon they had finished, and the gray tiles were freckled with tiny purple stains, but as clean as they were going to get.
The Dominus set his broom aside and moved back to his work table. He opened a bin beside it, where some of the household slaves had deposited the bundles that were to be today’s lifter’s gift.
“Good pork ribs and some young rosé wine,” Montevarius said, dispensing the first of the packages. “All for a good day’s work. Last year’s wine is
coming along very well. I am quite pleased. And I am pleased with the effort that all of you put in today. You conducted yourselves as well as any man could hope for.”
“He seems especially magnanimous tonight,” Connor whispered as he brought up the back of the line.
“He’s been drinking steadily for at least the last hour,” Sextus whispered back. “Hadn’t you noticed? That always makes him this way.”
As the slaves accepted their rations, they filed past the great pyramids of wine barrels and made for the staircase that led to the villa above. Someone would show them out once they emerged; lest they wander around where they did not belong.
“Make sure these jugs make their way back to the house, men,” Montevarius called. “They are a cost; and we need to reuse them. They’ve been going missing of late.”
Connor was silent as he accepted his small jug and cloth-wrapped cold meat. He carefully avoided the slight bow or any other indication of subservience; but thought it best to avoid open defiance as well. Though he had already lost track of how many weeks he had been at the estate, this was only his second interaction with Montevarius since the Dominus had rejected his plea for release. He thought it best to say nothing.
“You – Connor – stay behind a moment,” Montevarius said. “There is something I would talk to you about.”
Publius rolled his eyes, but Sextus pushed the big man forward. They climbed the stairs ahead, and soon the last clunking footfalls of the weary slaves echoed their last on the cellar walls.
Montevarius sat down at his work table. Taking the clay amphora he refilled his bowl with dark red wine.
“Sit with me a moment.”
The Songs of Slaves Page 12
