The Songs of Slaves (27 page)

But i
t was wrong to watc
h her in her secrets, he thought
. Besides, what magic might fill this place and catch him here? Carefully,
reluctantly,
he crept backwards into the shadows.

His heart was pounding, but not with the fear of being caught.  Once more behind one of the oak trees, he rocked up on his heels and carefully rose. He looked around, but saw that they were alone. The slaves’ celebration was still barely audible from the hillside. The smell of late summer air filled him, along with the slightest remnants of the incense, or whatever it had been, that
Lucia
had been burning. He wanted to go
back – not sneak back, but walk boldly back to her. Connor took a deep breath and mastered himself. He glanced back to the copse of trees once more, and then turned back to his way home.

“Good night,
Domina
,” he breathed.     

XII

             
The trees that had been full and gold were now dropping browning leaves along the path. Connor fought off a shiver as he walked towards home under an overcast sky. He was approaching his first winter here, and despite the reduced workload the other slaves had assured him of, winter was never something anyone looked forward to. Connor could imagine how drafty the cottage he shared with his work team must be, even if the
Dominus
would not restrict how much wood they might burn. He would be looking forward to working in the underground wine cellars just to warm himself up.

             
The sight of Lorentius walking on the path straight towards him arrested his reverie. The young master was still a few hundred meters off, coming from the direction of the stream and the slave quarters Connor himself used. Connor could not imagine what Lorentius might be doing there – far from the house or stables or anything else that the lazy, pleasure-seeking man might be interested in. Connor could already see the smug expression on his enemy’s face. He looked so much like his father, but where his father had wisdom he had cunning, and where his father had decorum he
had arrogance. A well-made cloak of scarlet shielded the young master from the autumn chill, but Connor noticed as he drew closer that his fine tunic, belt, and breeches seemed disheveled – out of keeping with his usual self-abso
rbed fastidiousness. Lorentius’
fiendish smile seemed to deepen as the two drew nearer.

             
“How he struts like a cockerel,” Connor thought.

             
Connor would have loved to escape, to find any excuse to leave the path and avoid the encounter with the young master. But no – he realized that even if he could, he should not. Lorentius would be
Dominus
here someday. Even if Connor could never truly make peace with him, there would have to be some sort of truce. For the sake of going on with his life he could not live in a state of fear, shunning his master’s every approach. Connor took a deep breath. He resolved that he would simply lower his
head in deference as the
Dominus
approached, in respect to his position and his family if not to the man himself. Perhaps this simple suppl
ication would dampen Lorentius’
malice towards him, and make their future dealings more bearable.

             
Lorentius was almost upon him. Connor could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the heir’s velvet boots.

             
“
Dominus
,” Connor offered, bowing his head as he gave up the right-of-way.

             
He sensed Lorentius smirk as he walked by, on towards the villa. If Connor had been free this show of rudeness might be enough in and of itself to cause ample offense. But there had been no blows, no verbal derision. The relative indifference had been a pleasant alteration from their previous exchanges. It was a start. Connor lifted his head and moved on to his cottage, not seeing Lorentius gaze back at him as he walked.

             
As Connor rounded the corner he saw Melinda, standing up to her waist in the stream, her back turned towards him. She was dressed in her work gown, though like her auburn hair it was disarrayed. She was vigorously washing something, though no one would do laundry by standing so deep in the cold water. As Connor came closer he suddenly understood that she was washing herself, scrubbing under her dress and splashing water on her face. There was a frenetic urgency in her movements, a desperation that unnerved
Connor; and as he drew nearer he heard a stifled cry of misery escape her throat.

             
“Melinda?”

             
Water splashed as Melinda turned quickly. She gazed up at Connor, her eyes bloodshot,
her
face red. Then suddenly she darted out of the stream, dashing for the door of her cottage.

             
“Melinda!” Connor called as the door slammed.
             

             
Connor was paralyzed for a moment. Pushing his confusion aside, he slowly walked to the door and knocked.

             
“Melinda, are you alright? Is something wrong? Do you need help?”

             
There was no answer. Connor knocked more insistently.

             
The door jerked open, but instead of Melinda a hefty, older Frankish slave named Irsul stood at the threshold.

             
“Go away, young man,” Irsul ordered.

             
“Is she alright?” Connor asked, a feeling of foolishness competing with his confusion.

             
Irsul nodded. “She will be. Go home.”

             
Without another word she shut the door. Connor regarded the house once more, hearing the faint sounds of sobbing coming from within. He turned back towards the path and ran for his cottage.

             
Maximus looked up from tracing dirt as Connor burst in. It was dim and quiet inside. Brontius sat at the table, his head downcast, his big fingers wrapped around a jug of wine. Claudius, Quintus, and Philip sat across from him, regarding him wordlessly as if observing a sick calf. Corl and Sergius were not there. Connor realized then just how quiet not only the cottage was, but the whole collection of cottages. At this time the
meridiatio
would be over. People should be stirring around, gathering wood for their fires if nothing else. Philip eventually transferred his gaze from Brontius to Connor, the expression on his thin face grave but belaying little else.

             
“Brontius, come with me,” Connor said. “Something is wrong with Melinda. She seemed in
health, but highly upset. She would not talk to me. Maybe she would want to talk to you.”

             
Connor perceived too late the look that Philip was shooting him, the signal to hold his tongue. Brontius said nothing, but just took another drag of wine from the jar.

             
“What is wrong?”

             
Abruptly, Brontius pushed the bench back and rose from the table. Taking the wine with him, he shouldered past Connor. The door slammed behind him.

             
At their feet Maximus was drawing vigorously. Connor looked down, noticing the complex, amazingly even spiral pattern. It reminded him of something he had seen before, something long ago.

             
“Brontius went to visit Melinda, as usual,” Philip said in his most even voice. “He found Lorentius there.”

             
Connor felt himself flush. His mouth went dry.

             
“Surely he cannot think for a moment that she was wiling!” Connor protested, passing over the horror
of the revelation to seize upon the one thing he thought they might find control for.

             
“There was no question that she was not,” Philip said. “Even so, the injury remains.”

             
Connor broke into a tirade of cursing.

             
“I saw him!” he finally said. “I saw him leaving. I should have known then.
But why?
Why would he come here? He never comes here? And why force
himself
on field slaves when he has his pick of the household slaves and every whore in the villages nearby? To say nothing of the free women he could seduce with his wealth and guile.”

             
“Why, indeed,” Philip muttered.

             
“Why? Because he can,” Quintus answered.

             
Philip nodded. “Because it is within his power to do so, and for Lorentius that alone is enough.”

             
“But she is Brontius’ woman!” Connor protested as if to the shadows on the wall. “Lorentius fucks whoever he wants. Why does he have to come all the way out here to take what belongs to someone else?”

             
Philip raised his eyebrow.

             
“By ou
r standards she is Brontius’,” h
e said. “But she is not. She belongs to the
Dominus
. Lorentius has every legal right to do what he has done. We have no recourse. The best thing we can do is forget about it, and to give Brontius and Melinda their berth until they forget about it, too.”

             
Connor listened to Philip’s words as he explained the obvious. He heard the feigned patience, but heard the undercurrent of genuine weariness in the older man’s voice as well. He stared back at the spiraling patterns Maximus drew, but his mind’s eye was on the reddened face of Melinda as she attempted to scrub the violation from her.

             
“No. We are slaves, but we are enti
tled to justice,
” Connor said. “We can, if nothing
else,
see that the abuses are stopped.”

             
Connor stormed out of the cottage, and again took to the path towards the villa.

***

             
The domestics paid no heed as Connor entered the villa – they were accustomed to him coming and going. He expected to find the Master in the wine cellar, but he was not there. Nor was he in the courtyard, as the falling leaves and declining light replaced the warmth and fragrance Connor remembered of that place. Connor finally found a doorman who could tell him where the Master was, though he also warned him that he did not look as if he wanted to be disturbed. But Connor could not be put off, and so with his ears red from the cold, but his palms sweating and heart quickened he opened the doors to the Master’s library.

             
It took Connor’s eyes a moment to adjust to the lamplight and the dim gray that streamed through the heavy glass windows; but he soon saw Lucius Montevarius sitting at a table engrossed in an old scroll. The dancing light of the oil lamp drew long shadows across Lucius’s face, making him appear older than he was. His amphora and bowl were at his right elbow, as he studied the Greek script. Connor approached the
table and then dropped to his knees, bowing his head until it nearly touched the floor.

             
“Connor?
Did I not give you the evening off?”

             
“
Dominus
, I’ve come to seek an audience with you. There is a pressing matter I must bring to your attention.”

             
Lucius gazed back at the manuscript, carefully marking his place.

             
“What is it? Please, stand up.”

             
“There has been a crime in the west-end slave quarters.”

             
“A crime?
When isn’t there? Connor, as you well know, you are to report crimes to your foreman, and he is to report them to his foreman who will – if need be – report it to me. Now, go tell him about it; and tomorrow we’ll see if we can’t uncover the thief. I only have a few hours to rest.”

             
“This is too serious for that,
Dominus
. A woman has been raped.”

             
“Raped?” Montevarius repeated, rising to his feet.
“Who?”

             
“Her name is Melinda. She is a field slave.”

             
Montevarius thought for a moment. “I do not know her. Are you sure that she was raped, and is not merely making trouble or lashing out at some paramour who angered her?”

             
“There are witnesses,
Dominus
, very reliable ones.”

             
“Who is the perpetrator then?” Montevarius demanded.

             
“The rapist is Lorentius Montevarius, your son,” Connor said.