Lynne Ellison's The Green Bronze Mirror

by Christopher Posner

away; soon order reigned again, and Karen went on upstairs.

  She heaved a sigh of relief- that had been a close shave. For a minute she had thought the landlord would throw Marius and herself out too, but fortunately Marius had argued successfully in their favour and he had decided to let them stay.

  She lay down on the blanket with the brown dress as a pillow. It was convenient having two dresses, she reflected; one would have presented difficulties where washing was concerned. She could hardly have sat round naked waiting for it to dry, so she would just have had to wear the same one, and a nice state that would have been in by now.

  It was rather a long time since Karen had bathed. The last occasion had been when the whole cohort and its attendants had been organized to wash in the sea, and that was over a week ago. She was now feeling distinctly itchy again, and she had a deadly fear of getting lice, but still, there was nothing to be done about it. Most people here had lice, it seemed. Perhaps tomorrow she would be bought and her new owner would give her a bath. She hoped so.

  The noise from below was not conducive to sleep, so she lay awake thinking about her parents and her home in the twentieth century, and her life there which had been so abruptly ended by that mirror. She could think of no rational explanation for it, so she was forced to conclude that it was magic. After a while she stopped thinking on these lines because it only led to more hopeless puzzles and worry; instead she listened to the sounds coming up from the floor below. The clink of tankards, snatches of conversation, and the sound of people tramping to and fro half hypnotized her, so that they all merged into a gentle wave of sound that gradually sent her off to sleep. She did not even hear Marius when he came banging in much later, having had a long conversation with another soldier, for, seeing her asleep, he climbed quite quietly into bed.

  V

  'WELL,' SAID MARIUS, 'YOU'VE GOT TO ADMIT THAT she's pretty.'

  The merchant stroked his beard and looked Karen up and down depreciatingly. 'Pretty, yes,' he said, 'but hardly unusual. And it's the unusual they want, nowadays. I know. Still, I'll take her. With her hair brushed she might almost merit a block of her own. How much do you want for her?

  'I paid twelve hundred sesterces,' Marius said, 'so I'll want at least fifteen hundred.'

  'Fifteen hundred sesterces!' The merchant looked horrified. 'My dear fellow, what do you think I am? I can't possibly give you that price for an untried slave-girl when I don't even know what she can do ...'

  Now Karen liked Marius, because he had stood up for her in the tavern last night, and she determined to get herself sold for as good a price as possible.

  'I can write,' she said helpfully.

  The merchant flung up his hands, and his manner changed instantly. Now he wanted Karen, because there were not many slaves- especially girls- who could write.

  'You never told me that!' he said to Marius, accusingly.

  'She never told me.'

  'I'll give you sixteen hundred for her.'

  'Done!' They shook hands, and Marius stowed the money away in his tunic.

  He walked over to Karen before leaving, and whispered, 'Thanks, kid. Can you really write?'

  'Yes,' she said, and he looked surprised.

  'Well! It's just as well you can. I hate to think what sort of temper the merchant'd be in if he found you couldn't!'

  He walked off jauntily, and was soon lost to sight among the milling crowds.

  'Now,' said the merchant, turning to Karen, 'It's the fourth hour already, or not so long before it. We'd better get you fixed up.' He led her over to a large canvas tent which had been temporarily erected in the square. Inside were rows of women slaves standing patiently.

  'Who's got the comb?' he asked, and when it was produced he looked at it quizzically, knocked some of the fluff and hairs out of it on a tent-pole, and handed the object to Karen.

  'Spruce yourself up a bit, my dear,' he said. 'That's not a bad dress you're wearing-no, not bad at all. You might as well keep that on. It'll save me digging out my best draperies for you.'

  Karen dragged the little bone comb through her hair. It was a struggle, and she lost her temper with its pulling, but she managed to make the hair curl up slightly at the ends. She tossed it back off her face.

  'There!' she said. 'Is that better?'

  The women smiled and murmured to one another. One of them reached out and stroked Karen's hair gently, running a strand through her fingers. 'It's very pretty,' she said, 'You'll have to be careful, or the merchant will keep you for himself.'

  They giggled, and the merchant roared at them to be quiet. 'Come on,' he ordered.

  Each dealer had his own square in the market, and these were arranged with a space between so that prospective buyers could walk up and down and view everything on display.

  Karen was shown a little marble block about two feet high and told to stand on it.

  She suddenly lost her temper at this and blazed out in rebellion. 'What? Just like a bit of old furniture for everyone to stare at? I won't! You can't make me!'

  'Oh yes, we can,' said the merchant smoothly, and he beckoned to his assistant, who came up grinning.

  'Being difficult, are you?' he said, and coolly twisted her arm.

  'Ouch! Stop it, you--'

  'Get up, then, like the boss says.'

  Karen climbed up, feeling stupid for giving in so easily, but her arm ached, and what was the use of objecting? The assistant clipped a pair of ankle-rings around her feet and ran the chains through a hole in the block.

  'There you are, my beauty,' he said, 'Cheer up. You can sit down if you like. I don't suppose it'll be long before the boss gets a buyer for you.'

  Karen sighed and remained standing. She rested on one foot and surveyed the scene.

  The market was packed full of slaves; it was a particularly good day from the merchants' point of view. There were Britons and blond Germans, dark or brown-haired Greeks, sallow-complexioned Spaniards; Moors, Jews, Negroes in dozens, and even a few Oriental slaves; frail girls like lilies with polished black hair and slanting mysterious eyes.

  Karen sighed again. Now she was one of them and would probably be bought to serve in some great household. Perhaps she would have to look after children-horrid spoilt little Roman children. Perhaps when her buyer found she could write she would be set to work copying out endless manuscripts. That was a dreary prospect! What she really wanted to do was be allowed to help in the stables, but they'd never let her do that. No, she'd most likely have to clean pots or weave. It might be fun to try weaving. She speculated on it for a while, but knew that the novelty would soon wear off if she had to do it all day. She watched the milling throng of people, picking out this one and that, trying to guess what sort of character each had.

  That little fat man, now. She guessed he would be hasty, rather particular-little fat men often were, specially if they had red faces. She was sure he would be a magistrate. She could picture him sitting in the halls of the Basilica, dealing out death by crucifixion and life sentences in the galleys.

  Then she noticed a young man standing in the portico of one of the magnificent buildings that were scattered around the edge of the market, and took a closer look at him. He was dressed in a toga of pure white, and was engaged in conversation with two friends. His hair was curled delicately over his forehead, and she could see the make-up on his cheeks. As he talked, his hands gestured elegantly; he had obviously been learning the art of witty conversation, although it didn't look as if he had much wit of his own, because the other men's laughs were obviously faked. They were probably trying to get into his good books and bleed him of a little money at the same time.

  Karen smiled to herself. What a fop! The word described him exactly. She could imagine what it would be like belonging to him. She'd have to do everything for him. Bath him, dress him, read to him, sing to him- that was a laugh; back at school in the twentieth century the music mistress despaired of Karen
's ever being able to sing. But perhaps he would have special people to sing to him. He'd lie around all day on scented cushions, and she would do nothing except press fruit into his mouth. Good and hard, too! There was a chance it might throttle him.

  Her attention was diverted by the arrival of a thin, angular man with a snow-white beard. What was he saying to the merchant. He was Zenocrates, steward of the house of Lucius Domitius Caecina, and the Lady Julia was looking for a likely girl to work in the house. Had the merchant anything that would interest her?

  Karen kept an eye on them, wondering if the merchant would suggest her, and, sure enough, he was coming in her direction, past the groups of Africans, and cursing a child that bowled its hoop against his legs.

  The man with the white beard walked all round the block.

  'Hmm,' he said, 'What is there to recommend her? What can she do?'

  The merchant smiled and folded his arms.

  'She can write,' he replied, with calculating pride in his voice.

  Zenocrates raised his eyebrows.

  'Can she, indeed? Write your name on here, girl' He gave her a tablet of wax and a stylus. Karen wrote her name in capitals and handed it back. The steward seemed satisfied; he told the merchant to keep Karen aside, and he would ask the Lady Julia what she thought.

  'Well, well,' said the merchant, when the other had gone, 'The Lady Julia Caecina herself! She'll pay anything I care to ask: you're a lucky girl for me, I do declare.