The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  The sight of Lorentius walking on the path straight towards him arrested his reverie. The young master was still a few hundred meters off, coming from the direction of the stream and the slave quarters Connor himself used. Connor could not imagine what Lorentius might be doing there – far from the house or stables or anything else that the lazy, pleasure-seeking man might be interested in. Connor could already see the smug expression on his enemy’s face. He looked so much like his father, but where his father had wisdom he had cunning, and where his father had decorum he had arrogance. A well-made cloak of scarlet shielded the young master from the autumn chill, but Connor noticed as he drew closer that his fine tunic, belt, and breeches seemed disheveled – out of keeping with his usual self-absorbed fastidiousness. Lorentius’ fiendish smile seemed to deepen as the two drew nearer.

  “How he struts like a cockerel,” Connor thought.

  Connor would have loved to escape, to find any excuse to leave the path and avoid the encounter with the young master. But no – he realized that even if he could, he should not. Lorentius would be Dominus here someday. Even if Connor could never truly make peace with him, there would have to be some sort of truce. For the sake of going on with his life he could not live in a state of fear, shunning his master’s every approach. Connor took a deep breath. He resolved that he would simply lower his head in deference as the Dominus approached, in respect to his position and his family if not to the man himself. Perhaps this simple supplication would dampen Lorentius’ malice towards him, and make their future dealings more bearable.

  Lorentius was almost upon him. Connor could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the heir’s velvet boots.

  “Dominus,” Connor offered, bowing his head as he gave up the right-of-way.

  He sensed Lorentius smirk as he walked by, on towards the villa. If Connor had been free this show of rudeness might be enough in and of itself to cause ample offense. But there had been no blows, no verbal derision. The relative indifference had been a pleasant alteration from their previous exchanges. It was a start. Connor lifted his head and moved on to his cottage, not seeing Lorentius gaze back at him as he walked.

  As Connor rounded the corner he saw Melinda, standing up to her waist in the stream, her back turned towards him. She was dressed in her work gown, though like her auburn hair it was disarrayed. She was vigorously washing something, though no one would do laundry by standing so deep in the cold water. As Connor came closer he suddenly understood that she was washing herself, scrubbing under her dress and splashing water on her face. There was a frenetic urgency in her movements, a desperation that unnerved Connor; and as he drew nearer he heard a stifled cry of misery escape her throat.

  “Melinda?”

  Water splashed as Melinda turned quickly. She gazed up at Connor, her eyes bloodshot, her face red. Then suddenly she darted out of the stream, dashing for the door of her cottage.

  “Melinda!” Connor called as the door slammed.

  Connor was paralyzed for a moment. Pushing his confusion aside, he slowly walked to the door and knocked.

  “Melinda, are you alright? Is something wrong? Do you need help?”

  There was no answer. Connor knocked more insistently.

  The door jerked open, but instead of Melinda a hefty, older Frankish slave named Irsul stood at the threshold.

  “Go away, young man,” Irsul ordered.

  “Is she alright?” Connor asked, a feeling of foolishness competing with his confusion.

  Irsul nodded. “She will be. Go home.”

  Without another word she shut the door. Connor regarded the house once more, hearing the faint sounds of sobbing coming from within. He turned back towards the path and ran for his cottage.

  Maximus looked up from tracing dirt as Connor burst in. It was dim and quiet inside. Brontius sat at the table, his head downcast, his big fingers wrapped around a jug of wine. Claudius, Quintus, and Philip sat across from him, regarding him wordlessly as if observing a sick calf. Corl and Sergius were not there. Connor realized then just how quiet not only the cottage was, but the whole collection of cottages. At this time the meridiatio would be over. People should be stirring around, gathering wood for their fires if nothing else. Philip eventually transferred his gaze from Brontius to Connor, the expression on his thin face grave but belaying little else.

  “Brontius, come with me,” Connor said. “Something is wrong with Melinda. She seemed in health, but highly upset. She would not talk to me. Maybe she would want to talk to you.”

  Connor perceived too late the look that Philip was shooting him, the signal to hold his tongue. Brontius said nothing, but just took another drag of wine from the jar.

  “What is wrong?”

  Abruptly, Brontius pushed the bench back and rose from the table. Taking the wine with him, he shouldered past Connor. The door slammed behind him.

  At their feet Maximus was drawing vigorously. Connor looked down, noticing the complex, amazingly even spiral pattern. It reminded him of something he had seen before, something long ago.

  “Brontius went to visit Melinda, as usual,” Philip said in his most even voice. “He found Lorentius there.”

  Connor felt himself flush. His mouth went dry.

  “Surely he cannot think for a moment that she was wiling!” Connor protested, passing over the horror of the revelation to seize upon the one thing he thought they might find control for.

  “There was no question that she was not,” Philip said. “Even so, the injury remains.”

  Connor broke into a tirade of cursing.

  “I saw him!” he finally said. “I saw him leaving. I should have known then. But why? Why would he come here? He never comes here? And why force himself on field slaves when he has his pick of the household slaves and every whore in the villages nearby? To say nothing of the free women he could seduce with his wealth and guile.”

  “Why, indeed,” Philip muttered.

  “Why? Because he can,” Quintus answered.

  Philip nodded. “Because it is within his power to do so, and for Lorentius that alone is enough.”

  “But she is Brontius’ woman!” Connor protested as if to the shadows on the wall. “Lorentius fucks whoever he wants. Why does he have to come all the way out here to take what belongs to someone else?”

  Philip raised his eyebrow.

  “By our standards she is Brontius’,” he said. “But she is not. She belongs to the Dominus. Lorentius has every legal right to do what he has done. We have no recourse. The best thing we can do is forget about it, and to give Brontius and Melinda their berth until they forget about it, too.”

  Connor listened to Philip’s words as he explained the obvious. He heard the feigned patience, but heard the undercurrent of genuine weariness in the older man’s voice as well. He stared back at the spiraling patterns Maximus drew, but his mind’s eye was on the reddened face of Melinda as she attempted to scrub the violation from her.

  “No. We are slaves, but we are entitled to justice,” Connor said. “We can, if nothing else, see that the abuses are stopped.”

  Connor stormed out of the cottage, and again took to the path towards the villa.

  ***

  The domestics paid no heed as Connor entered the villa – they were accustomed to him coming and going. He expected to find the Master in the wine cellar, but he was not there. Nor was he in the courtyard, as the falling leaves and declining light replaced the warmth and fragrance Connor remembered of that place. Connor finally found a doorman who could tell him where the Master was, though he also warned him that he did not look as if he wanted to be disturbed. But Connor could not be put off, and so with his ears red from the cold, but his palms sweating and heart quickened he opened the doors to the Master’s library.

  It took Connor’s eyes a moment to adjust to the lamplight and the dim gray that streamed through the heavy glass windows; but he soon saw Lucius Montevarius sitting at a table engrossed in an old scroll. The dancing light of th
e oil lamp drew long shadows across Lucius’s face, making him appear older than he was. His amphora and bowl were at his right elbow, as he studied the Greek script. Connor approached the table and then dropped to his knees, bowing his head until it nearly touched the floor.

  “Connor? Did I not give you the evening off?”

  “Dominus, I’ve come to seek an audience with you. There is a pressing matter I must bring to your attention.”

  Lucius gazed back at the manuscript, carefully marking his place.

  “What is it? Please, stand up.”

  “There has been a crime in the west-end slave quarters.”

  “A crime? When isn’t there? Connor, as you well know, you are to report crimes to your foreman, and he is to report them to his foreman who will – if need be – report it to me. Now, go tell him about it; and tomorrow we’ll see if we can’t uncover the thief. I only have a few hours to rest.”

  “This is too serious for that, Dominus. A woman has been raped.”

  “Raped?” Montevarius repeated, rising to his feet. “Who?”

  “Her name is Melinda. She is a field slave.”

  Montevarius thought for a moment. “I do not know her. Are you sure that she was raped, and is not merely making trouble or lashing out at some paramour who angered her?”

  “There are witnesses, Dominus, very reliable ones.”

  “Who is the perpetrator then?” Montevarius demanded.

  “The rapist is Lorentius Montevarius, your son,” Connor said.

  The blood drained from Lucius’ face. He took a deep breath, turning his back on Connor, and then made his way back to his seat. He took a draught of wine as he rocked back in his chair, gazing into the flickering lamplight.

  “Is she badly hurt?” Montevarius said at length.

  “She lives, Dominus. I do not know how bad her injuries may be. But she is deeply distraught.”

  “Naturally enough,” Montevarius said. There was a weariness in his voice, but a lack of conviction that urged Connor further.

  “There are more victims, Dominus. Melinda has a man – a husband, if you will – a man named Brontius. He is a man born to your property, and one of your most loyal and hard-working slaves. Melinda is his woman, and so this crime is a crime against this man as well. Two of your loyal subjects – slaves who look to you as their master and provider – have been harmed by these malicious actions.”

  Lucius Montevarius turned and looked Connor in the eye.

  “Thank you, Connor. Your words have been noted. I will look into it, and I will speak with my son.”

  Connor hesitated, not knowing whether to say anything further to make his case, or to just trust his Master’s judgment and withdraw. He did not have a chance to decide.

  “Speak to me about what, Father?”

  Lorentius strode into the room. The lamplight seemed to shine on his eyes and his teeth as he smiled – an expression that was at once conciliatory and mischievous. He no longer wore his scarlet cloak, and he had straightened his clothes. Though he was safe within his house, he still wore his sword.

  “You would like to speak to me about what?” Lorentius repeated. He glared at Connor, but Connor did not back down.

  “I do not know that this is the time or place for it, my son,” Lucius said evenly. “We should speak in private.”

  “Oh? Well, you speak in private to this shit-eating slave about me, so what would you have to say that he shouldn’t hear? It seems that we have no secrets from him, dear Father. So what vile lies was he telling you about me? I am very curious to hear what slander our beasts have about me this week? Stolen your bread? Fucked your women? Eaten your babies? What is it, barbarian? With what filth do you attempt to draw my own father away from me?”

  Connor steeled himself and did not turn away from Lorentius’ malevolent stare.

  “You know what you did.”

  Lorentius swung, back-fisting Connor hard across the jaw. He slammed his knee into Connor’s body before driving into him with repeated punches until Connor lost his footing and fell. Connor covered his head, struggling to suppress the urge to fight back as the pain shot through him. He must make room for the Master’s justice. Lorentius reached for his sword hilt, but seemed to think better of it. Crossing the room in three powerful strides he took hold of the fireplace poker. He raised the iron bar over his head as he charged back towards Connor.

  “Stop!” Montevarius shouted. “Stop this moment, Lorentius!”

  But Lorentius did not stop until he had brought the tool down hard across Connor’s back. He reared back again, but Lucius grabbed the poker and wrenched it out of his son’s hand. Lorentius kicked Connor in the gut before moving away.

  “You want to listen to your little slaves before you listen to your own son?” Lorentius spat. “Are they going to carry on your name, or revere you when you die? You want to heed their lies at the expense of your own flesh and blood?”

  “Silence, Lorentius!” Lucius thundered. “Hold your tongue! Enough of this show of temper and unmanly indecorum! I will not question you in front of my slave and within hearing of the prying ears in the hallway. We will discuss this matter as men, in private and with patience.”

  “What is happening?” Lucia cried. Connor looked up to see her standing over him, spreading her arms protectively. The rage seemed to wash from Lorentius’ face, leaving a look of shamed resentment and he took a step back. He, too, had not seen Lucia enter the room and did not know how much she had seen.

  Lucia crouched down beside Connor, one of her arms still raised to ward off Lorentius’ blows. She placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder as if that alone could heal him. Connor looked up at her distressed face and drew strength from the compassion in her eyes.

  “It is alright, little sister,” Lorentius said, changing his tone. “Everything is alright. Go along now. This does not concern you, my little bird.”

  “Do not hurt him,” Lucia pleaded. “Whatever it is, I am sure that he did not mean to do any harm. Father, please go easy.”

  “It is alright, Lucia,” Lucius said. “Everything is in hand.”

  Lorentius walked over and took Lucia by the hand gently lifting her to her feet. He moved to escort her out of the room, but Lucia stopped him.

  “Not until you promise not to hurt him any further!”

  A ripple of annoyance crossed Lorentius’ countenance, but was quickly replaced by the placating mask of the indulgent older brother.

  “If it pleases you,” Lorentius said, forcing a smile. “I think this corporal punishment is met out and perhaps we can move on to discipline you find less offensive.”

  Lucia hesitated, glancing back to Connor and then to her father. She then allowed herself to be led.

  “I’m sorry that you had to see any of this,” Lorentius said. “Young ladies should not have to be concerned with such matters.”

  “Please, Lorentius. I know that you are angry with him, but he is a good man.”

  “Leave this to Father and I, my dear. We will take care of you. You do not need to worry about the management of slaves. Go back to your room, and I will come up to check on you anon.”

  “Yes, go Lucia,” Lucius said. “All is in hand.”

  Lucia took one last look at Connor, who still was curled up on the floor. Reluctantly, she closed the door behind her.

  “You have upset your sister,” Lucius accused.

  For once Lorentius seemed to take something to heart. Lucia’s intervention had taken the momentum from his rage, and now he was silent. But as Connor climbed back to his knees he could still see bloodlust in the young man’s face. Connor then realized that Lorentius had set him up. He had wanted to give him something to come to the Master with. He had wanted Connor to give him a reason. This was all a sick joke.

  “Are you alright, Connor?” Lucius Montevarius said. He reached down as if to help, but then seemed to remember his place at the last moment.

  “Yes, Dominus,” Connor said, wiping bloo
d out of his face.

  Lucius stood up straighter. Lorentius remained quiet, carrying on a show of seething in anger, though his real emotions were unreadable.

  “Connor, I will talk with my son,” Lucius said. “I forbid you to mention anything that has been said or done here this evening to any of the other slaves. It is not your place. If you do, you can rest assured that you will be disciplined. As for the offense, I am full of regret that it ever happened, and yet there are a few things that I must remind you. You are a sensitive and philosophical soul, but you must remember that these sentimentalities do not always carry over into practical life. If my son has overstepped his ethical bounds in his treatment of this female slave, as you say, he has not in fact overstepped his legal bounds. Even as charged, he has committed no wrong-doing, as the slave was mine and by extension his. In the same way, the woman’s union to the man –”

  “Brontius,” Connor said. “His name is Brontius, and her name is Melinda. They are not objects; they are your loyal dependents.”

  “He makes them sound like they are your children,” Lorentius smirked.

  “Be still! Both of you. Connor, do not interrupt me again. I am your Dominus by right and by oath. This Brontius is a slave and has no legal right to marry, and therefore such a marriage has no legal protection. This man has no say in what happens with this woman, and it cannot be established that a wrong to her was a wrong to him, or even that there was a wrong done; as a man has a right to do what he will with his property.

  “Moreover, your attitude in coming here to accuse, appeal, and answer without regard to your place is inappropriate. I fear that I have been too lax with you and encouraged you over much; but the actions of your masters are out of your scope to challenge or restrain.”

  Connor stared at Lucius Montevarius.

  “You are dismissed. We will work together again tomorrow, and if we have occasion to speak let it be of better topics.”

  Connor struggled to his feet and again wiped blood from his face. He was aghast and had no words. Without bowing he turned and stumbled out of the room. Lucius and Lorentius began a heated discussion even before he had closed the doors. In the hallway the domestics were hovering, looking at him with different expressions ranging from pity to amusement. He walked by them, saying nothing, not even registering the faces of the men who had shared his work in the cellars or the women who had shared his bed. He pushed past them all, and finally past the armed bucellarii who had returned when the sounds of commotion had echoed through the halls.