The Songs of Slaves (19 page)

             
“You
–
Connor
–
stay behind a moment,” Montevarius said. “There is something I would talk to you about.”

             
Publius rolled his eyes, but Sextus pushed the big man forward. They climbed the stairs ahead, and soon the last clunking footfalls of the weary slaves echoed their last on the cellar walls.

             
Montevarius sat down at his work table. Taking the clay amphora he refilled his bowl with dark red wine.

             
“Sit with me a moment.”

             
Wondering what sort of new trouble was in store; Connor drew up the low stool and sat down across from the master.

             
“I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said, when you appeared in the courtyard. When was it?
A
few
month
s
ago?”

             
Connor shrugged.

             
Montevarius set his bowl down. He paged through his notebook until he found a blank leaf and
then pushed it towards Connor.

             
“You said you were trained by priests,” he said, sliding the inkwell and quill over to him. “I observe that you speak well. But can you write?”

             
“I can,
Dominus
.”

             
“Can you write in Greek?”

             
“To some degree.”

             
“Do you know Homer?”

             
“Only a small amount,
Dominus
.
My teacher, Titus Vestius
Laterensis
, emphasized other things. Most of my Greek was spent on the Gospels, though I read the
Apology
as well.”

             
“The
Apology
?
Now there is a gem. But surely your teacher did not teach you Greek from the Gospels. The Greek there is so poor. Write some Homer for me on this page.”

             
Connor took the quill and set the page before him. It had been some time since he had attempted to write, and his first touch to the page left a large ink blot. But slowly he scratched what he wanted across the page.

             
“I must qualify,
Dominus
, that I did not spend my youth in a school as a rich man would.”

             
“Of course not.
You are of Hibernia, which
from the many accounts I have heard from friends and clients who spent time in Britannia is the wild ends of the earth. I am sure that most of your life must have been consumed eking out a living as best as you may in that God-forsaken place. But I would see what ability you have.”

             
Connor slid the notebook back to Montevarius.

             
  Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of
Peleus, that
brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Zeus fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.

             
Montevarius eyed the writing. He took up the quill and slowly made a few corrections.

             
“
Good. Not perfect, but not bad either. We could not make a pedagogue of you yet; but maybe someday
–
perhaps for young children who had not yet learned much. At any rate, it is a good skill to have. You may not want to be a heavy lifter forever.”

             
“I believe,
Dominus
, that it was not I who chose to become a lifter.”

             
“Not as such, perhaps. As usual, I will ignore your insolence. What else do you know?”

             
“As I said, mostly the scriptures.
Titus spent a great deal of his effort teaching me Latin; and I read some of his favorite philosophers in that language. But he did not have many books, and much of what I learned was from his lecturing or reciting from memory. That was fine with me, for that is the way of my people anyway.”

             
“What sort of philosophy.”

             
“Titus loved the Stoics
–
Marcus Aurelius and Seneca largely.”

             
“Ah! I consider myself a Stoic,” Montevarius said, taking another deep draft of wine. “But I will tell you, the Stoics are out of favor in this day and age. Unfashionable, they tell me. How about Aristotle? Do you know any Aristotle?”

             
“Titus favored Plato,” Connor said, surprised by the animation he was seeing in the
Dominus
. “I know of Aristotle, but I know almost none of his work.”

             
Montevarius rose suddenly to his feet. Connor rose as well, but the
Dominus
motioned for him to sit. Montevarius took up another drinking bowl and rinsed it in the pool. He shook the water out with exaggerated
arcs as he returned to his seat.

             
“I reasoned as much, young man. I reasoned as much.”

             
He filled the bowl with wine from his own amphora, and then slid it over to Connor.

             
“Drink,” he said.

             
Connor realized that he must have been staring. He raised the bowl
–
but before he even touched the wine t
o his lips the aroma
greeted him. The wine the slaves made for themselves was thin and at times musty or even vinegary. Even the wine that was the lifter’s gift was
–
though far superior to the slave make
–
flat on the nose and light in body. But this wine
–
this wine seemed to light his senses up before he even took a sip of the dark, silky liquid. Connor filled his mouth. He was thirsty from the long day, and this intensified his satisfaction as the wine slid down his throat. He instantly felt the warmth fill him, traveling like a messenger of the gods to all his knotted muscles. But as he set the bowl down, he realized to his surprise that the experience was not finished. There was an after-effect to this wine
–
changing flavors and shifting feelings. It seemed to last on long after he had
swallowed,
and in a moment the urge to drink more of it was inescapable.

             
“Good, isn’t it?” Montevarius said, rocking his chair back; a smile creasing his gaunt face.

             
Connor nodded, feeling instantly foolish that he had been observed so openly.

             
“Have some bread,” the
Dominus
said, sliding him his own plate. “I think Aristotle would really help you. You are an intelligent man. At your age to be able to work your way through three languages! And all without a real education
–
it is, as I said, not bad. But you are a great worker too. You stand out, Connor. But you are conflicted, and you are full to the brim with hate. And it is all because you do not understand.”

             
Connor stopped chewing.
Because he did not understand?
What was there to not understand?

             
“I brought this book out of my library this morning,” the master said, interrupting the protest forming in Connor’s mind. “I would like you to try to read it to me. It is in Greek, but
see
if you can manage it.”

             
He handed a scroll to Connor. Connor took it, and was instantly hushed by it
–
for he had never held a real scroll before. Many books were just long sheets of rolled paper, and some
–
like Montevarius’s notebook
–
w
ere small sheets of paper sown together. But this was
a real scroll with a smooth wooden spire. Connor carefully unrolled the thick paper and gazed at the rich black letters.

             
“It is
Politics
by Aristotle,” Montevarius said. “Read.”

             
Connor took a deep breath and obliged.

             
“Every state is a community of some kind, and every community is established with a view to some good; for mankind always acts in order to obtain that which they think
good
. But, if all communities aim at some good, the state or political community, which is the highest of all, and which embraces all the rest, aims at good in a greater degree than any other, and at the highest good.”

             
“Good. Your accent is deplorable, but good reading. Continue.”

             
Connor obeyed, working his way over the Greek script as best as he could,
pausing
to sip the wine as he went. Montevarius rocked back in his chair and listened.

             
“
For that which can foresee by the exercise of mind is by nature intended to be lord and master, and
that which can with its body give effect to such foresight is a subject, and by nature a slave; hence master and slave have the same interest,”
Connor read after just a few lines.

             
Connor read on as Aristotle spoke of women being like slaves, and barbarians being like slaves to the Greeks. He slowed his voice as he worked over the words, trying to untangle the writer’s wandering argument. Montevarius listened silently.

             
“
Hence it is evident that the state is a creation of nature, and that man is by nature a political animal. And he who by nature and not by mere accident is without a state, is either a bad man or above humanity; he is like the ‘Tribeless, lawless, hearthless one,’
whom Homer denounces- the natural outcast is forthwith a lover of war; he may be compared to an isolated piece at draughts”

             
“That is good,” Montevarius said, refilling Connor’s wine bowl. “Read that passage again.”

             
Connor did as he was told, and then went on to read as Aristotle wrote of the order of the household being parallel to the order of the state, and of justice being parallel to order. Without order, man is just a beast of lust and gluttony, the philosopher asserted.

             
“
Let us first speak of master and slave, looking to the needs of practical life and also seeking to attain some better theory of their relation than exists at present. For some are of opinion that the rule of a master is a science, and that the management of a household, and the mastership of slaves, and the political and royal rule, as I was saying at the outset, are all the same. Others affirm that the rule of a master over slaves is contrary to
nature,
and that the distinction between slave and freeman exists by law only, and not by nature; and being an interference with nature is therefore unjust.”

             
Connor sat up in his stool as he finished reading this passage. Lucius Montevarius remained passive, as if listening to a disembodied voice. Outside the cicadas chorused noisily as full dark fell over the land. Connor read on as Aristotle wrote of the relationship between the owner and the one that is owned, spelling it out in laborious detail, but some paragraphs passed before the writer began to draw to a point.

             
“
But is there any one thus intended by nature to be a slave, and for whom such a condition is expedient and right, or rather is not all slavery a violation of nature?
There is no difficulty in answering this question, on grounds both of reason and of fact. For that some should rule and others be ruled is a thing not only necessary, but expedient; from the hour of their birth, some are marked out for subjection, others for rule.”

             
Connor grew silent.

             
“Read on, young man.”

             
Connor obeyed, as Aristotle expounded on how nothing could be accomplished without cooperation, and how without slaves nothing would ever advance. He went on to argue that the gods had give
n some the intelligence to rule;
while others had been give
n
the brawn to work
,
but not the intelligence to know what was best for them. The able were to do the work of advancing mankind, while the wise were to tell them what to do. This was the natural order that the philosopher expounded. Despite the rush of the wine
–
or perhaps because of it
–
Connor felt his heart sinking as he read.