The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  And once again, for Connor time seemed to cease its rhythm. He lay on the ground weeping, but no sound could escape his throat. His thoughts were a torrent as every organ of his body quaked with the flood of nameless emotion that coursed through him.

  Then slowly he was able to bring himself back up to his knees. He could not see the others, as he wiped the grime from his face. It was perhaps mere curiosity that brought him up to his feet, where he could see the slaves working along the vines more than a hundred meters away. Too dazed to even wonder what purpose could still move him, Connor crossed the path and again took the hard, unripe fruit in his hand. A tremor of anger spasmed through his fingers, but he made no motion. Instead his right hand swept the leaves away.

  He moved on to the next bunch, and the next, until he moved to the next vine. The work passed quickly. His feelings were scorched and his mind empty as his fingers found their task. Without realizing it, his eyes focused on the vines before him, perceiving their organic symmetry, and slowly he began to feel the life in them – and to sense what should be done. He touched them as he may have touched a stranger, his blank mind peering at them, trying to understand. The work began to stream by – always the same, but each task subtly different.

  Connor was still unaware of the measure of time, but he could feel the sun burning down on him – first at the top of his head, and then neck as it crept towards his back. He could sense the air grow warmer as the subtle current moved through the leaves. Connor looked down from his work to find himself on the far side of the hill, well away from where he had begun. The sound of rustling leaves and voices further pulled him out of his silent world. Philip was moving towards him, cleaning the vines as he went. The slave was moving quickly, and his motions seemed almost reckless to Connor now.

  “Let us catch up. The others are moving ahead to the next rows. We are making progress.”

  Philip tried to make eye contact with Connor as they met in the middle, but Connor would not.

  “This way then, my friend. We cannot let the day get away from us.”

  Connor followed him, and soon he was on another row, moving the opposite direction with the monotonous task. But the monotony had now receded, replaced by a meditative receptiveness. For the first time since his capture Connor was thinking of nothing. He was neither living nor reliving the cold or the cruelty. There was only his task and the living thing before him. The beginning was far behind him as the hot sun climbed the sky, and the vineyard seemed endless. The occasional chatter of his companions mixed with the songs of the birds, and all of Connor’s desperation was lulled into an exhausted slumber.

  ***

  “You’re burned,” Brontius’s voice cut in. “You’re redder than a whore’s cloak.”

  Connor looked up. The sun was high overhead.

  “We’ll work on some covering for you after lunch. Some use mud on their arms, but I don’t like that because it pulls on my hairs. Let’s go get some food. Hurry. Hurry. It is a long walk.”

  Connor followed Brontius as he entered the path, just behind the others. Sergius was delivering a story, that Connor had half missed and had no interest in following; but he could see that the stocky slave’s words were aggravating Philip for some reason. Reaching the bottom of the hill, they followed the stream until they could cross on the walking bridge. Connor could see and hear the other teams of slaves, moving off their lines at various places in the estate, all apparently heading home. Their noise was subdued, but Connor’s group was moving much more quickly than they had that morning. The work may have been easy that day, as Philip had said, but the sun was hot and the air close. His feet were sore from standing and his water skin had long since run out.

  The men exchanged waves and salutations as other groups of slaves passed by. Sergius catcalled at a small group of women, with Quintus aping him a split second late. Rather than taking any offense, most of the women shouted back and a few giggled as they passed by.

  Ahead, protected on either side by the hills, several small cottages were strewn like discarded dice. They were interspersed with vegetable gardens and behind them more vineyards grew – shaggy and less ordered than those on the hillsides. It was low ground, and probably flooded in the spring, but the air here seemed cooler and the sun’s wrath more restrained.

  “Home is where the heart is,” Philip chimed, pointing to one of the cottages in the center. A rooster mocked a greeting from the wooden pen by the low door. An ancient dog with a long nose and gray spots raised its head, but could not be bothered to rise or to bark.

  The slaves ducked their heads as they entered through the open doorway. Philip stopped to invite Connor with a grand gesture, as if he were about to enter the mead hall of the High King.

  Connor blinked as he entered, for despite the open windows the single roomed dwelling seemed impossibly dark. As his eyes adjusted he discerned a large fireplace of clay lined with stone that seemed to double as an oven. There was a table with two rough-hewn benches. Low beds lined the walls. In the middle of the dirt floor sat a child – perhaps eight years old. As the boy looked up at them Connor noticed the broad face, slack mouth, and round eyes of one born simple. After a moment’s pause the child dropped his gaze back down to the ground, and went back to tracing arcs with his chubby, wide-spread fingers.

  “Food ready yet?” Claudius demanded.

  “Almost, almost,” creaked a voice. A thin, crooked man stepped out of the shadows at the side of the fireplace.

  “Get the table set, and it will be ready by the time you are.”

  Philip moved to the window sill and poured some water from a jar onto his hands, then wiped them clean with a towel. He offered the jar to Connor, who accepted, but the others ignored it.

  “This is Corl,” Philip said of the old man. “He has a barbarian name, like you. Say hello, Corl.”

  “Hello, Corl,” the old man said, and then cackled a toothless, absurd laugh that ended as abruptly as it had begun.

  “He is obviously less sound than this boy,” Philip said. “This is Maximus. His mother died in labor shortly after his father died in an accident. The managers try to put him to work, but he always winds up right back here, as you see him. But we do not mind. He is actually a great help to us, when he decides to be.”

  Quintus was placing more loaves of the same course bread on the table, beside a large bowl of green and black olives. Claudius set a deep dish of yellow-green oil in front of Sergius, who sat by with his arms folded.

  “Come and sit,” Brontius said to Connor. “Here is an open spot for you.”

  Connor did as he was instructed. Philip sat down beside him.

  “That over there is your bed,” Philip said. “The man who used to sleep there put a great deal of care into making it, and Brontius’s woman brought by some fresh herbs just yesterday so that you will not have to deal with the fleas. Very hospitable of her. Do not worry. The man died, but he did not die in that bed and he did not die of fever, so you should be alright.”

  “Maybe some strange dreams, now and then,” Corl said as he brought a tray with six pigeons – dressed with sage and roasted golden – to the table. It was strange fare, but Connor’s stomach was empty and his body drained. He filled his water cup and drank it before Sergius could fill his own cup with wine.

  “Corl, there are only six birds,” Philip said. “I told you we were to have a seventh from now on.”

  “I’m sorry. I did not know that you were the Dominus now and that I was to listen to all the prattle that comes from your mouth. Do I make pigeons fall from the sky? No, the boy caught six and so we have six. Nothing I can do about it. I’m sure the young fellow here can go without one more day.”

  Philip pulled a thigh from the bird on his plate and placed it on Connor’s. Brontius did the same.

  “Here you go, fellow,” Sergius said, placing a small wing beside the pieces.

  Claudius and Octavian rose and brought thighs over.

  “Can’t have y
ou wasting away on us,” Claudius said.

  “Have some wine,” Sergius offered.

  With an exaggerated display of hospitality, Sergius poured the dark red liquid into a clay cup and slid it over to Connor. Sergius lifted his own cup in toast and then drank deeply.

  Connor put the cup to his lips. He had wine before, back home- usually at communion or on strange occasions. But the liquid that met his tongue was not what he remembered – it was dry, dry as the hot day they had been working in. He caught an aroma that reminded him of plums and blackberries, but there was an undercurrent of vinegar and dust in the thin drink, before it gave way to a sense of herbs and soil, and then an acrid bite.

  “Ah! You like it?” Philip said. “This is what we do. This is what we make here. Now, you see, this is from our vineyards – these vines you see outside the window. The Dominus is gracious enough to help us with it. He deigns to oversee our efforts, but it cannot be truly considered a wine of Montevarius. No, it does not earn that distinction.”

  Connor took another sip. It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe that all of his suffering and all of his trials had brought him to this – that his life was now to be devoted to this, so ordinary a thing.

  “Now, I did have my fill of true Montevarius wine once,” Philip continued. “I was free then, in business. I was at a client’s villa – a very rich client. My partner was there too, and our wives. There was food – such food. And dancing and music. And then our client took us aside and poured our goblets full of the deepest, heaviest red wine that you have ever beheld. I remember thinking – this is what Jove’s wine must be like. I wasn’t even a Pagan. But that’s what was on my mind you see. It hit me like a weight, and I could not stop drinking it. Before I knew it my client and my partner seemed to be speaking a strange language. I remember a girl dancing to a lyre and Egyptian frame drums. The rest of the night is all a haze. Forgotten I guess.”

  “Sounds like a good night, though,” Sergius said. “No matter how many times I hear the story.”

  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 world. 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 was 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 – the cycle of work and rest, the solace of wine and song in a world of toil under an indifferent sun?