Rome in Flames (3 page)

– chapter v –

Sold

 

Conan wanted me to be brave. So I managed to hold back my tears, telling myself I would see him again. At the first chance, I would escape and look for Conan. Somehow, I would track him down. We would run away, maybe even find our way back home.

Then I remembered how huge the city was. Conan might be anywhere among the thousands of buildings, or in the countryside round about. How could I ever find him?

I would never see him again. I was quite alone now. No father, no brother, no sisters, no mother. I wanted to crawl away and hide somewhere, like a wounded animal cut off from the herd. But I couldn't. For it was my turn to stand on the stone block, under the gaze of a hundred eyes.

Just one person looked at me with pity. One person understood how I felt. It was a little girl, five or six years old, standing near the front of the crowd. Her eyes were fixed on my face.

She tugged at the hand of the man standing next to her. She asked him something, and he answered her impatiently. With a pleading look, she asked him again. She reminded me of my sister Enid, who always felt sorry for hurt and helpless creatures. Enid would bring home a sick puppy or a bird that had fallen from the nest, and try to nurse it better, usually without success.

The man gave in to his daughter's pleading. He made a bid to buy me. No one else made a higher bid, so I was sold to him. He didn't exactly look thrilled, but the girl was pleased.

As we walked through the city, she tried to talk to me. I could tell she was asking me questions and was disappointed that I couldn't answer her. But still she talked away, pointing things out – a temple, a shop, a statue. I hardly noticed. I was walking in a kind of daze.

We came to a house, and a slave opened the door to us. The house, which looked large from the outside, was surprisingly small inside, I thought. We went through another door, and instead of being outside again, we were still in the building. Then there was an open space with trees and statues, then more of the house. I felt lost in the place.

The man shouted, and two slaves hurried towards us. He gave them some orders. The slaves led me off through a long, narrow room to another room, small and warm, with a square pond set in the floor. The two slaves cut off all my hair, which had grown long and tangled while I was a prisoner. Then they made me take off my ragged clothes. They pointed to the pond.

There were steps leading down into the water. When my foot went in, I gasped, for the water was warm. Did they mean to boil me and eat me, like barley in a pot?

I refused to get in, although the slaves yelled at me. I fought and struggled with them. Finally, one – with a sigh – stepped into the water himself, to prove that it was safe. He pretended to wash, showing me what to do as if I had never washed before in my life.

So that was what this place was for. In Rome, there were no cool, rippling streams to bathe in, like we had at home. You could only wash yourself indoors, in stale, warm water.

When I'd finished washing, I found that my own clothes had been taken away. The slaves gave me a Roman tunic. I didn't want to wear it, but I was too tired to argue.

Without my trousers, my legs felt chilly and bare. The tunic hardly reached to my knees. It was made of pale greyish wool, very drab compared with the chequered patterns of my own clothes. And it was quite old, by the look of it. I wondered what had happened to its previous wearer. Had he died, or run away? Had he simply grown out of the tunic as he got older?

I was determined not to let that happen to me. I would not spend years of my life in slavery. I would escape somehow – even if I got killed in doing it.

The two slaves seemed pleased with their handiwork. They led me through the house to a hot room full of food smells. There was a fire burning under a stone archway. A small, middle-aged man was busy stirring pots of food on a ledge above the fire.

This must be the cooking-place. Why did the Romans need a separate room for everything they did? It meant they had to walk a long way from cooking room to eating room to sleeping room. (In a hut, like the one I used to live in, everything you needed was right next to you.)

The two slaves talked to the cook. It was obvious they were talking about me and finding me funny. I stared at the ground.

The small man beckoned me closer. Without stopping work, he looked me up and down. He had the sort of eyes that noticed everything but gave nothing away. Was he another slave? He didn't behave like one. He behaved as if he owned the place.

He ordered the two slaves out of the room. Then, without wasting words, he pointed to the cooking pots and showed me he wanted me to stir them. I hung back. At home, cooking was women's work. A man would never be seen stirring pots!

The cook spoke to me in a stern voice. I turned away, ignoring him.

Whack! He hit me hard on the ear, almost knocking me over. Although he wasn't much taller than me, he had rock-hard fists and a temper as hot as his cooking fire. He said something that sounded like: ‘Get on with it – or else.'

So I obeyed. I reminded myself that none of my people could see me. Conan would never know I had been made to do women's work.

All at once, I felt desperately lonely. I was in a strange place, surrounded by foreigners. I couldn't understand them; they couldn't understand me. It was like being a dumb animal. And if I didn't obey them, they would beat me like an animal, too.

I was aching with hunger. It was torture to be surrounded by food, and yet not dare to eat any of it. But the cook must have heard the rumbling of my empty stomach. He handed me a hunk of bread.

A rich meal was being prepared for the master. The cook scurried around, doing several things at once. He wanted me to chop up vegetables, but then got angry when I didn't slice them the way he wanted. He grilled some fish on a rack over the fire, cursing loudly because one of them got burnt. (Curses are easy to recognize in any language!)

When all the food was ready, it looked like a king's feast. Two serving boys carried it out of the kitchen, a few dishes at a time. The cook made me wash out the empty pots. I was very tired by now, but we still had work to do, for the household slaves had to be fed. Although there seemed to be crowds of them, later I found out that there were only twenty-two, including me.

When I entered the slaves' eating place, every single person turned to stare at me. One or two of them tried to be friendly, but I kept my head down and said nothing. There was only one thing I wanted – a place to sleep.

Although it was dark outside, no one seemed ready to go to bed. Oily-smelling lamps gave a pale, flickering light. I longed for the warm red glow of the fire at home, and the comfort of my straw bedding.

At last, I was led to the slaves' sleeping place – a big room, high up in the house. It held a row of strange-looking objects set on wooden legs. Other slaves lay down on these things and covered themselves with blankets. Not knowing what else to do, I copied them. The thing I lay on was soft – not as soft as a heap of straw, but certainly better than the wooden deck of the ship. Why sleep up in the air, though? No use wondering, it was just one more weird Roman custom.

I wished Conan was there so that I could talk to him about the day. It had felt like the longest day of my entire life.

‘I am being brave,' I wanted to tell him. ‘I'm being as strong as I can.'

Although the Romans could force me to dress like a slave and act like a slave, they could not make me think like one. I might have to learn the ways of Rome, but my heart would stay true to my own people. I promised myself that.

– chapter vi –

The master's house

 

After a day or two, the other slaves got used to me being there. They stopped staring at me, and they stopped trying to talk to me. Mostly, they just ignored me.

The cook couldn't ignore me, though. He got annoyed when I didn't understand his orders – and if he got really angry he would hit me. So I soon began to learn the meaning of some Roman words. Slice those mushrooms . . . knead the dough . . . stoke up the fire . . . hurry up! The cook was always in a hurry. I could never work fast enough to please him.

Whenever I had a free moment, I thought about ways to escape from the place. It would not be easy. I couldn't climb out of a window, for all the windows opened onto the inner courtyard, not the street outside. I couldn't simply walk out of the door without the doorman seeing me.

The house was not a prison. Other slaves went out, but they always came back. Didn't they want to escape? But when I tried to leave, the doorman started asking me questions which I couldn't answer. He marched me back to the kitchen to see if the cook had sent me out. The cook got angrier than ever, and hit me again.

He wasn't always angry, though. Sometimes, if he thought I was working hard, he would reward me with extra food. Once or twice, he let me taste the leftovers from the master's table – strange things like snails, roast peacock and stuffed mice. (I would much rather eat bread and cheese.)

Every morning the whole household, slaves included, gathered in the main room where the gods lived. They were three small stone figures standing on a shelf, with an altar table below them. It seemed that these were the special gods of the house, although they didn't look very impressive. The master prayed to them every day, and put an offering of food and drink on their altar.

Rome must be crowded with gods, if every house had its own little ones, as well as the huge statues I'd seen outside the temples. There must almost be more gods than people. Was this the reason the Romans were so powerful?

Later in the morning, the master's wife would come into the kitchen to give the cook his orders. She was a haughty-looking woman. Her face was always painted white and her eyebrows black. She wore lots of gold rings and necklaces. The cook was quite scared of her, which amused me.

Sometimes, the little girl came with her. When her mother wasn't watching, she would give me an anxious smile. I hope you're all right, her smile seemed to say. I hope you're not too unhappy.

There was also a son in the family, a boy of about eight years old. Four people altogether – and twenty-two slaves to look after them. It seemed ridiculous to me. They had slaves to help them get dressed, slaves to cook their food and serve it, slaves to clean the house, slaves to attend them when they went out. Couldn't they do anything for themselves?

Of course, they were rich. The house was proof of that – it was enormous. Now and then, I caught a glimpse of the rooms where the family spent their time. There were wonderful pictures on the walls and even on the floor, made up of hundreds of little coloured stones. Then there was the walled garden, almost like another room. It had shady archways all around, and a pond where a spring of water leaped up, sparkling in the sunshine.

I explored the house gradually, getting to know my way around. The best time was the hour after the midday meal, when everyone, master and slaves, went to sleep. Everyone except me, that is. I couldn't get used to sleeping in the daytime, even though I would be dead tired by bedtime.

One day, I discovered the stable where the master's horses were kept. They were beautiful, sleek animals, not like our rough-coated ponies at home, but the sound and smell of them somehow drew me back to the old days. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine . . .

Someone spoke to me, and I jumped. The voice belonged to the slave in charge of the horses – a man of about my father's age, with skin as black as the midnight sky. He had been asleep in a little upper room above my head in the stable.

Although I'd woken him up, he didn't seem angry with me. He spoke again, and I guessed somehow that he was asking me a question. When I couldn't answer, he pointed to himself and said ‘Tiro.' Was that his name?

‘Tiro,' I repeated. Then I touched my own chest. ‘Bryn.'

‘Bryn.' It sounded strange when he said it, but I didn't care. No one else had bothered to find out my name. (The cook shouted ‘
Puer!
' when he wanted my attention. He used the same name for the serving boys, so perhaps it just meant ‘boy', ‘slave' or ‘idiot'.)

Now I knew someone else's name. Tiro. I said it to myself a few times, memorizing it.

Tiro was quite happy for me to look around. He told me the horses' names and let me give them some grain. I wished I could work in the stable instead of the hot, steamy kitchen.

There was a big double door, wide enough for a carriage, which must lead out into the street. But it was closed and bolted with a heavy bar of metal. Every time I went back to the stable, I hoped the door would be open. But that never happened during the hour of sleep.

* * *

One day a new slave arrived. He was introduced to the rest of the household, and everyone stared at him, just as they had stared at me. But he didn't seem to care. He stared back, as if he was better than they were. He looked about Conan's age, with dark hair and a proud, handsome face.

He settled in much more easily than I did. But then, he could speak Latin, the Roman language. He wasn't a lowly kitchen slave like me. He was the attendant to the master's son.

Now and then he came into the kitchen to order a drink or some food for the boy. The cook would get it for him, grumbling loudly. But one day when the new slave came in, the cook wasn't there. He had already gone off to have his afternoon sleep, leaving me to wash up the last of the pots.

The new slave gave me an order in Latin. I shrugged, holding out my hands to show I didn't understand. He spoke louder – as if that would help! I wasn't deaf.

Speaking in my own language, I told him to get lost. I had discovered I could be as rude as I liked, as long as I kept a polite look on my face, for no one understood my words.

‘Don't you tell me to get lost, you ignorant savage,' he replied instantly, and I gaped at him. He was speaking my own language!

‘Oh, come on. Don't stand staring at me like a half-witted donkey,' he said. ‘The young master would like some . . .' And here he came to a stop. He obviously didn't know the word for whatever he wanted. Or rather, he only knew it in Latin.

‘How do you know my language?' I asked him. ‘You don't look like a Celt.'

‘Mind your own business,' he said, looking around. ‘Ah, here we are.' He had spotted some fruit on a shelf. (It was a type of sticky brown fruit which didn't exist in Britain, or in our language.) ‘Get me a plate for this, will you?'

I didn't like the way he ordered me around – after all, he was only a slave like me. But I obeyed him. It was so good to be able to talk to someone after all this time.

‘What's your name?' I asked him.

‘Theon.'

‘I'm Bryn,' I said. ‘Where do you come from?'

‘From Rome, of course.'

‘Did you ever live in Britain?'

‘No. And I never want to, either. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .'

He went away. The next time I saw him, I tried to talk to him. I was just being friendly, but he ignored me completely.

‘What's the matter with you?' I said. Then I noticed two of the other slaves watching us. They were probably surprised to see me open my mouth – normally I was as silent as a statue.

‘We can't talk now,' Theon muttered. ‘Later, maybe.'

I saw that he didn't want anyone else to know that he spoke my language. Was he ashamed of it?

The next day he came into the kitchen again when the cook wasn't there.

‘Listen,' he said, ‘don't talk to me in front of anyone else. If you do, you'll be wasting your time. I'll simply pretend I don't understand. I don't want the others to think I'm a complete savage.'

‘All right, I won't,' I said. ‘But how do you come to speak our language?'

‘My mother was a Celt. It was the first language I ever learned.'

‘I thought you told me you were born in Rome.'

He said, ‘My mother was captured in one of your people's tribal wars. She was sold to a Roman slave dealer and brought to Rome. But she was always harking back to her old life. She told me all about it when I was a child. I could never understand what was so wonderful about living in a mud-floored hut. Life is far more comfortable in Rome.'

‘Everyone likes what they're used to,' I said. I looked at him again – his black hair and dark brown eyes. ‘Funny, I never would have guessed you have Celtic blood in you.'

‘That's because my father was Greek. I take after him. I can speak Greek and Latin,' he said proudly. ‘Both of them are more useful than
your
language. You should make the effort to learn Latin, you know.'

‘Why should I? I hate the Romans. Why should I speak the language of my enemies?'

He sighed. ‘You're just as stubborn as my mother. What is it with you people? Refusing to change. Living in the past. It won't do you any good.'

I would have argued, but at that moment the cook came back. Theon went out without another word.