I nodded my agreement. “Ok, I’ll stay quiet and out of the way.”
A half an hour or so later we walked up a path to the farm of Nicias. The head overseer, a man named Patrobas, greeted Tros. He looked at me questioningly. Tros explained that I was a slave he was delivering to Cleon and Patrobas ignored me completely.
I unhitched Malthake from the little cart and tied her to a tree that offered her some greenery and lay myself down in the back of the cart to wait. I quickly fell asleep. After a while I was awoken by Malthake braying. She still had food, so maybe she needed water. I couldn’t remember when we had watered her. I checked the skins. Some wine, but no water. I took a sip of wine (really terrible stuff).
Looking around I saw Tros not too far off talking with another man. Their conversation seemed intense, almost an argument.
There were some slaves a little off to one side working on something. I thought I would ask them where I could get some water for Malthake (who sweetheart that she was, was still braying).
“Calm down sweetie. I’ll see what I can find.”
I approached the group of slaves, they were standing in a ditch of water, and digging. I later learned (the hard way) that they were clearing an irrigation ditch. My lucky day! Here was water! Dirty it’s true, but Malthake had never seemed too particular. I turned around to get Malthake and a woman who was carrying a basket bumped into me and the basket (full of dried barley) splashed into the water.
The woman cried out and pointed her finger at me. “He pushed me!”
Soon we had a small group looking at us, but Tros and his friend were not part of it. A man who clearly was in a position of authority and carrying a long staff came over and as soon as he approached the woman burst into tears and repeated “He pushed me!”
With no warning at all he hit me across the right shoulder with his staff as hard as he could (I assume it was as hard as he could, I hope so, I don’t want to imagine that he could have hit me harder). The pain was indescribable. The staff was as thick as my wrist and 5 feet long and I fell down immediately screaming. I’ve never felt anything like it. As I lay screaming, he kicked me in the back and then again. I was immobile with fear and pain. He came around to my head and placed his foot on the side of my neck and began to shift his weight onto me.
“Stop!” I heard Tros yell and I was flooded with immense relief. I had expected him to beat me to death.
“This slave is the property of Megakreon and sold to Cleon. Damage him and you’ll answer to Megakreon!”
By now, I had rolled a bit so I could see the man who hit me and Tros.
“He ruined a basket of barley.”
Tros looked at the basket and the woman and silently handed a coin to the man he had been talking with.
The man with the staff, turned immediately and struck the woman who had bumped me. He hit her in the chest and when she fell he kicked her over and over. She crawled towards the ditch and he kicked her into the water and with his staff held her down. He’s going to drown her, I thought, and nobody is going to do anything. I looked to Tros, but he stood still, his face blank. Then Petrobas said “Enough, that slave is property of Nicias.” Imitating Tros, even his tone of voice, like it was all some kind of joke. After what seemed like forever, the overseer lifted his staff and let her up. She rose gasping and choking, blood and bloody water streaming down her face. “Be more careful you clumsy bitch. I know he never pushed you.”
She looked at him (and me) with true hatred but said nothing.
Tros gave me his hand and I pulled myself up as best I could. My right shoulder and arm were numb and throbbing and full of pain all at the same time. I stood bent over from the pain in my back and with Tros’ help walked to the cart.
“Well, I guess we won’t be sleeping here tonight.”
He pulled up my tunic to see my shoulder. “You’ll live.”
I turned my head to see and discovered new pain in my neck. There was only a little blood but a large angry bruise had already started.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see her. I was just looking for water for the donkey.”
“I know. It wasn’t your fault. I saw the whole thing. She wasn’t looking where she was going. Zeuxis just likes to hit people with that big stick of his.” He gave me a small smile. “I had hoped you would stay out of trouble for just one night. We’ll sleep on the road tonight. No great loss. You owe me an oblo”
“How much is that?”
“More than you’re likely to ever have.”
“I am sorry Tros. I hate that you wasted money on me. I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
“Well, let’s get on the road. I know a good place for us to spend the night about 2 hours from here.” He looked at me as I was bent over and gingerly touching my shoulder and wincing with the pain but unable to stop touching it. “Maybe longer. Ready?”
I nodded and he went and untied Malthake (still braying) and took her to the ditch for water and in a few minutes we were on our way again.
I walked at such a slow pace that Tros suggested I should sit in the cart. “I doubt she can go any slower than you.”
But Malthake must have known I was hurt, because she kept up her pace. Riding in the cart was as painful, if not more so, as walking. I felt every bump and shake, but I didn’t want to reject their generosity, so I just suffered in as much silence as I could. Tros, when he tells the story, says that I complained nonstop, but I don’t remember it that way.
We passed several small farms, but Tros didn’t seem interested in asking for shelter for the night and I didn’t want to say anything.
We stopped after about an hour and a half by a little stream and Tros washed the blood from my shoulder with the ice cold water. After, he built us a fire and we cooked a little dinner. One of the overseers at the farm had given him some squash which we roasted and we drank some wine. As the fire died down, we spread ourselves out on the stream bank to sleep.
“Would he really have killed her?”
“I doubt it. Killing is a big deal, even if it’s a slave. It’s religious pollution and at minimum a purification would be needed. Plus slaves are expensive. Nicias wouldn’t have been too happy. Still Nicias is a hard master. He has over a thousand slaves working in the silver mines south of the city. It’s a hard and short life. His farm slaves all know what might happen if they get on the wrong side of Petrobas or one of his men. Of course, working a man to death on little food is different. Apparently the gods don’t think of that as anything bad.
“But don’t worry, Cleon is a reasonable man. You work hard and stay on Belos’ good side, he’s the head over there – same as Petrobas, and you’ll be fine.
“How do I stay on Belos’ good side?”
“Well, I’m not sure he has a good side to tell the truth. He’s a mean bastard and ugly to boot. But he likes hard workers. Cleon likes money and if the farm produces money Cleon is happy and Belos is happy if Cleon is happy and if Belos is happy, you’ll be happy. Of course, if Cleon isn’t happy…
“I go to the silver mines?”
“No! Like all these rich bastards, Cleon has lots of different interests, but his money comes from tanning and leather work. If you don’t do well on the farm they might send you to the tanners, it stinks and it’s probably pretty rough, but nothing like the mines. I doubt you’ll get sent to the tannery, too old.” He thought for a moment. “Just make sure you work out on the farm.”
I hurt all over and was sick with fear.
We lay watching the stars for a long while in silence.
“Tell me a story. Something to cheer us up”
I started to tell him again about New York. “Heard that one! Tell me another!” Funny how quickly people can tire of an unimaginable marvel. “Tell me a story of your people. One with war and heroes!”
I thought for a moment. I knew a lot of stories, I read a lot, watched television, saw movies. But what could I tell him that would translate well? Nothing with car chases or airplanes o
r elevators or cell phones. Nothing that would require too much backstory.
I told him the story of Casablanca.
“Not so many years ago and not so far from here there was a great war.”
“The Persians?”
“No! A land called Germany. She had raised a mighty army and invaded most of the lands that were around her. Many people fled from their homes to escape the invading army and many of those people sought shelter in a city called Casablanca. In Casablanca our hero, Rick, owned a bar.”
“What’s a bar?”
“It’s a place where travelers or refugees can buy food and wine.”
“Like a stall in the agora?”
“No, because you eat and drink in the bar, because you are a refugee and don’t have your own place to eat and drink. Also it’s fun to be with other people and there is music.”
“Oh, ok. Go on.”
And I told him the rest of the story (with, relatively, few interruptions).
At the end he said “That’s a great story! I was worried that Rick was a coward for running away from the Germans, but I’m glad that in the end he and Louie decided to fight! And when he killed Major Strasser! I never liked that guy!”
“I’m glad you liked it. Good night, Tros.”
“Good night, Robert.”
The next morning my shoulder was a giant flaming ball of pain. The bruise had spread down to my bicep and any movement was agony. And my back and my neck. Even my butt hurt from riding in the cart.
Tros passed out our breakfast, some figs (I like figs, but really, I was getting tired of them) and the bread the old woman had given me yesterday (it felt like years had passed). The bread was hard and took some chewing but it was filling.
“Ok, you ride in the cart today and we should reach the next farm in a few hours. When we get there just stay in the damn cart and out of trouble. If you get beaten-up anymore Belos will tell Cleon that you are damaged goods and Cleon will demand a refund and Megakreon will take it out of my hide. So, for the love of Zeus, please be careful!”
I gave him my closed-lipped smile and nodded agreement.
We do reach the next farm in a few hours and I do stay in the cart. After a while Tros comes back. He has a skin of wine and a hunk of cheese.
I get out of the cart and stretch. My shoulder is still extremely painful, but my back and neck hurt less. I move around a little and I’m walking more or less like normal.
Tros hands me the skin and I take a swig. The wine is still terrible, but I’m getting used to it. “I’m going to take a look at the olive groves, get a sense for the size of this year’s crop. You can come with me if you promise to be careful.”
“I promise.” Although I’m not sure why I want to see the olive groves.
Tros walks off and I follow. He is basically giving me a tour of the farm. “This farm is a lot like Cleon’s. Here they have about 100, maybe 110 slaves.” He waves to a field on our right. “This is barley, beyond this field is lentils and further on there is wheat.” We pass a yard with chickens and a pen with goats. “There’s also a pasture for sheep. This field to our left holds the vineyard.”
He stops and walks a little way to nearest grapevines and holds up to me the bunch of tiny green grapes. “See here, how the bunches are uneven, there are gaps between the grapes? That means the weather has been too hot. It’s going to be a small harvest this year. That means less wine next year and higher prices. Megakreon doesn’t trade in wine, but this is the kind of information he gets from these trips.”
We walk on past many fields, mostly barley, but other stuff as well. We see many slaves working in the fields. Some digging, some carrying water, some weeding, but many seem to be just inspecting the plants.
“What are all these people doing?”
“Killing bugs. If you don’t stay on top of the insects, they’ll eat the better part of your crop. If you’re lucky, you’ll get insect killing duty most of the time. It’s hard on the back and the knees, but not too bad overall.”
Finally we reach the olive groves. Tros approached a large gnarled tree and stroked it with genuine affection. “This tree is probably more than 100 years old. Olive trees give fruit on a two year cycle. One year, lots of smaller fruits, and the next year fewer larger fruits.” He pointed above at an olive. “Look at the size of that olive, this is a big fruit year for this tree. The larger fruits, generally, aren’t processed into oil, but are cured and sold to be eaten.”
He walked on a bit, then pointed up at another tree full of olives. “See how this tree has lots of smaller olives, this is an oil year for this tree.” He spun around, looking at all the trees. “These trees all look good and healthy. Plenty of water and sun. It should be a good harvest.”
We spent another two hours in the olive groves. Tros inspecting practically every tree. Checking low leaves for signs of insects or disease, picking low fruit to sample. He offered me a hard green olive. I bit into it and spit it right out, to his amusement. It was incredibly bitter and so astringent my mouth was puckered for the rest of our visit to the groves.
We walked back the way we came through the fields and animal yards and vineyards to a collection of buildings.
“That building is the main house. It’s where the owner stays when he visits from the city. It’s usually empty. These two big buildings are the dormitories for the slaves. One for the men and one for the women and children. That smaller building is the overseer house. Tonight, you’ll sleep in the men’s dormitory. Bring your blanket from the cart. You sleep on the floor, try to find a spot away from the chamber pots, but don’t get into any fights. Just keep your head down and stay out of trouble. If someone wants your spot, give it to him. It’s just one night. You already owe me an oblo.” He smiled to show it was a joke, but I can tell he felt the loss of the money.
My own guilt at putting him further from his goal hurt me more than even my shoulder.
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
About an hour before sunset, the slaves started to come in from the fields and dinner was served, a lentil stew with vegetables. The food on the farms was much better than in the city. That was something.
Just before dark, as if by silent agreement, all the slaves finished their food and went into their separate dormitories.
Tros approached me “You go with the men.”
I suddenly realized that he had said “you sleep in there” earlier, not “we’ll sleep in there”.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No, I’m going to sleep tonight in the overseer house. Sorry. It’s just for one night.”
“OK. See you in the morning.”
“Hurry up. You want to find a spot before it gets too dark to see the ground.”
I hurried off after the male slaves.
The dormitory was just a big open room. It was about 100 feet long and 30 feet wide with a dirt floor. A little light filtered gaps in the boards, but there were no lamps. There were already about 30 men laying on blankets on the ground. There were only about another 15 men still eating outside, so room shouldn’t be a problem. I lay my blanket down at a fairly empty spot, following Tros’ suggestion, far from the row of chamber pots that were set up at one end.
I closed my eyes and waited for sleep. I didn’t even bother trying to find a less uncomfortable position. I was clear that, from now on, uncomfortable was the order of things and the sooner I made my peace with that the better.
I’d been laying down for just a few minutes what I felt a light kick on my shoulder (thankfully my left shoulder). I opened my eyes and in the dim light I saw a large rough looking man standing over me.
“New guy.” He grunted
“I’m not new. We’re just passing through.” And I closed my eyes again
He kicked me a bit harder
“Passing through guy.”
“What?”
“What’s your story? Where are you from? Why do you talk so strange? Where are you passing through to? We d
on’t get a lot of folks passing through.”
I sat up with a sigh. There were now 45 or 50 men in the dormitory. It was too dark to see them, but I could feel their attention. I needed to make sure this didn’t escalate into a problem.
“My name is Robert. I talk with an accent because my home is far away and Greek isn’t my native language. I’m a slave now, sold to the farm of Cleon and I’m being delivered.” Saying it like that, like I was takeout food, made me suddenly dizzy.
The big guy seemed to consider this for a moment. “Say something in your native language.”
“Something” I was feeling uncooperative, but then fear got the better of me, so I continued. “No man is an island, every man is a piece of the mainland, a part of the whole. Any man’s death saddens me, because I am involved in Mankind. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
“Hey, you really are from someplace far!” He seemed surprised. “I never met anyone who didn’t speak Greek as a child. What’s it like there?”
So I told them my now stock New York story. Millions of people, cars, subways, cell phones, hot and cold running water, etc.
The room was silent and I could hear men jostling to get closer.
After that they demanded (and while we were all friendly at this point, I could still feel some threat) another, so I told them my Casablanca (no point reworking a new story when I had a road tested one ready).
Then it was late and they had all worked hard so we lay down to sleep. I slept for just a short time (I think) when I felt a hand on my back. I pushed it away and settled down to sleep again. The hand came back and again I pushed it away. Fully awake now, I could hear men in the dark engaged with each other. After another push I was left alone and slept until morning.
Chapter 8
Gravity is the force of attraction between any two bodies with mass. Its strength is proportional to the mass of the bodies and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. So, the Earth attracts us and we attract the Earth. Because the Earth is massive and close it attracts us strongly. The Sun is many thousands of times more massive but much further away, so it barely attracts us at all and we barely attract it.
A New York Lawyer in the Court of Pericles Page 5
