The Songs of Slaves (15 page)

Philip drained his glass and refilled it. Connor took another sip and then started on the fowl. Surprisingly the meat was tender and full of the flavor of herbs. The skin was crispy and heavy with the salt that his parched body craved. When he took another sip of his wine he found that the good flavors had intensified, the bad diminished. He took another full gulp and reached for the jug.

“It was not long after that that things went bad, I guess,” Philip continued, mindless that few seemed to be listening. “Our shipment was lost at sea. Pirates, they say. Our investment gone, our creditors came like carrion – one by one at first, and then in multitudes. The clients we trusted turned out to have secret deals elsewhere. Before it was over my own partner had turned on me.”

“That’s the way in business,” Quintus said. “It’s a dog-eat-dog wor
ld.
Every man for himself.
Sell
your own mother if it brings you a profit.”

“I got off lucky,” Philip
said,
the usual glibness in his voice replaced by an almost trance-like quality. “When they took possession of me for my debts I was sure my life was over. I thought I was one for the mines and my dear wife was one for the whorehouses. But I got bought up here. And an old client – a good man – bought my wife and put her to work in his kitchen. He promised me he would treat her well and look after her. My wife always was a great one in the kitchen. The bread she would make was like the manna of heaven.”

“She was sold?” Connor said, breaking his silence.

“He can speak!” Sergius mocked.

“Yes,” Philip answered.

“And you never saw her again?”

“Once,” Philip said, pouring his third cup. His cheeks reddened but his gaze had turned steadily downward to the table. “I was taken to market with the
Dominus
to fetch some things. I saw her there. She looked well. I tried to talk to her, but we were too far apart. She saw me though. She smiled – as if she had
forgiven me for it all.
Perhaps.
Or at least that she was well.”

Brontius reached over and placed his hand on Philips forearm. “She’s well. It was your friend that bought her.”

“A loyal client,” Philip said with a weak smile. “Yes. I am sure that she’s alright.”

“Well,” Sergius started, and his interjection seemed almost a mercy. “I know another time you tasted true Montevarius wine.”

“When the
Dominus’
wife died of fever, four years ago,” Quintus supplied.

“That’s right,” Sergius continued. “Let me tell you, Connor, it was the strangest sight. The
Dominus
– board straight as always – said hardly a word during the internment period. He finished the funeral with a dry eye. But by that night the gates were wide open! Three days he forbade any kind of work. He called on all of those that had music to play – day and night, all night long. And he opened his cellars and brought out huge amphorae of the highest wine. He emptied these – almost forcing all of us slaves to drink ourselves into oblivion. Well, son, it doesn’t take much forcing. And there was some fucking going on too, I assure you! But
the
Dominus
was at the tip of all the drinking, and I have it from one of the household girls that by the second day he was weeping wretchedly out in the courtyard, completely naked; exposed to the sun and the rain and so drunk he was hallucinating and calling on gods, saints, and demons alike.”

“Enough,” Philip said, rising from his emerging stupor. “It is not appropriate to speak so of our
Dominus
. I was there. He was grieving. What he did was a generosity and in keeping with proper funeral rites.”

“See it how you like. All I know is that for three days I wa
s glutted on wine that a Consul
couldn’t afford and almost every one of the kitchen girls sucked my cock! And if it was all planned that way, why did we spend three weeks or more trying to repair all the damage our
Dominus
had encouraged in his raving?”

Philip grunted but said nothing.

“I am turning in,” Claudius said, draining his cup and rising from the table. “Corl, thanks for a fine lunch.”

“We do not go back out till about the third hour past noon,” Quintus said to Connor, as he too rose from the table. “I suggest you take a rest on your bed. Good
masters know that workers die in the heat of the day, and so they give us this time for ourselves.”

“The weather may not be quite dangerous today,” Claudius said. “But every worker knows that when the boss gives you something you hold on to it.”

Connor nodded his head. His eyes felt heavy with the weight if his third cup of wine. The wind that blew through the open windows was hot, and though his tunic had dried there was still a ring of sweat around his neck. He rose and moved towards his bed. Brontius got up and walked towards the door.

“
Make it quick and get to bed,”
Sergius said to him. “Do not let that woman wear you out. We have a lot to do yet.”

Connor lay down. The branches that made up the bed gave way a few inches as it received his weight. It was the most comfortable surface he had rested on in as long as he could remember, and the smell of verbena and lavender were heavy in his nose. The wine made the thatched roof seem further away than he knew it to be. Brontius left the door open behind him, and the old dog moved slowly in to lick the plates. Maximus still traced in the dirt floor, but for a moment Connor felt the boy’s round eyes on him. He looked over at Philip, who
sat motionless at the table, his head downcast. Then the blurry edges of the room closed in and he remembered no more.                      

VI

             
The sun was still burning down as the slaves took to the hillside again. Despite the brief slumber, Connor’s head ached. The inebriation of the wine had given way to a dull throbbing, and his whole body seemed parched. He took another pull of water as he came to the row he had left off at, and resumed work.

             
The slaves were quiet, as they woke up slowly from their
meridiatio
. Only Sergius still chattered on, not caring if anyone responded to him or not. Connor had seen that the man had filled two of his water skins with wine instead, and he was still drinking lustily between his vines.

Connor turned his eyes to his work, picking his way through the tangled tendrils and pulling exactly the right leaves, as if he had done it all of his life. His mind was blank and quiet for the first time in an age. He embraced the exhaustion, submitted to the meaninglessness. For the
moment he was too tired to resist
anymore. A few hours among the vines, watching the day grow old, and then it would be time to go in. There would be more wine, some more food, and more sleep. Why fight it?

             
As the work crew reached the side of the hill,
the faint call of human voices met their ears. Another work crew was down at the base of the next hill. The rise of the land was funneling their voices up, bearing their song lightly on the breeze. Sergius
–
rosy faced and eager with wine
–
recognized the song and began to sing along in his loud, uneven timbre. Brontius joined in, and then most of the others. Connor turned his eyes back to his work as the men sang.

             
The words were shallow, sometimes even foolish. Connor would later learn that the song was only a form and the words were often changed by the caller. But the rhythm of the voices soon began to work through him. His hands began to move to it as he tended the vines. He swayed subtly, moving his weight back and forth as he sidestepped down the row. And again, all sense of time was lost. The singing and the work became one, and above them the sun slowly moved ever closer to the hills as the heat began to subside, degree by degree, and the breeze began to slowly gather the moisture, and the subtle scents of the declining day.

             
The song finally played itself out; but Philip immediately began another one. The rhythm and the intonations were different, but again the same pace, the
same droning
beneath the
melody as every voice in the work crew joined in with no attention to skill or artifice. The slaves let the song come out, carrying the weight of their souls with it. The words spilled out into the air and vanished, Connor thought, they were sounds for no one to hear.

             
Again the song ended. The sun was just above the far hill. Four hours of work had slipped by. They were nearly at the bottom of the slope
–
only a few rows up. The shadows were long, and the cooler air had dried away the sweat of his body. Just below the narrow dusty path weaved between the hills, a tiny tributary between the manor house and the road that led towards Massilia. Connor had almost termed it the road that led to freedom, but he was beginning to realize that it was not that. The doors to freedom had been closed on him months ago. What was there besides this
–
t
he cycle of work and rest, the solace of wine and song in a world of toil under an indifferent sun?

             
But even as this thought formed, Connor’s fortitude slipped. The memories could not be held back
–
not the thoughts of his capture, with all the death and atrocity
–
but the images of the past long before. Titus, Dania, and all the others cascaded before his mind’s
eye. He remembered running through the fields and laughing around the hearth. He remembered the feeling of being wanted, of being loved. But the distance was manifest
–
an ocean of anguish separated him from all that he desired, an ocean that could never be crossed. Connor’s spirit sputtered and shook like a bonfire in the driving wind, and he felt as if a new and terrible scream would burst from his chest. He could endure silence no longer.

             
The slaves froze, staring at Connor as he began to sing.

             
It was not the primal scream that had been forming in his throat, nor was it the rhythmic chanting of slaves at their work. Connor sang in Gaelic, the words springing to his mind just as he uttered them, running like a river out of his soul. His voice was clear and strong as he poured out his music over the shadow-clad valley. One by one the slaves remembered their work, but listened on silently, reverently to the voice they had not expected.

             
Connor wove the notes and rhythms in increasingly complex patterns, following the inspiration that guided him, like the master bard he was born to be. The highs and the lows of his voice danced together.
The slaves did not know his tongue, but the emotion in his voice called to even the hardest of them, until it seemed that even the stars that began to shine one by one had been conjured by his wizardry. Tears formed in Philip’s eyes as
–
like the others
–
he was carried away to an ideal past, the unification of all the good things that had almost been.

             
The rows passed, and Connor sang on. His song was ever-changing and growing in intensity. His mouth was dry, and his throat was burning from his effort, but he did not care. He could not contain it. Reluctantly the sun was slipping by the hill as the slaves neared the path and the end of their work, enchanted to silence by the music.

             
Then
–
rising his head as he reached the end of the row
–
Connor’s song ceased mid-note.

             
The girl was staring at him, as she sat high in the saddle of her dark horse, fascination in her green eyes. Black rivulets of hair cascaded down over her shoulders, framing a face of such subtle perfection that Connor would not have thought it possible. Her skin was smooth and olive toned, like others he had seen in this land. Her lips were full and her mouth just slightly opened, as if she were seeing something amazing that
she had never imagined. Her frame was slight and the lines of her body
–
from her fine fingers to her bare arms, to her round breasts, long torso, and legs hidden beneath her blue
stolla
–
had a sweeping grace that did not seem to Connor to even be of mortal kind. The half-moon had just begun to gleam in the fading light and shone directly above her, and it seemed to Connor’s affected mind that this being could be none other than the moon goddess’ daughter.

             
For a moment the girl stared silently at him, and Connor stared silently back. He had taken no notice of the female chaperone on horseback beside the girl, nor her two bodyguards who eyed him with a mix of suspicion and impatience.

             
“Continue,” the girl finally said.

             
Connor still said nothing.

             
“Yes, Connor,” Philip said quietly. “Continue.”

             
Connor kept his eyes on the girl.

             
“The song is over,” he said in Latin.