The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

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 months 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 to 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 – were 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.

&
nbsp; “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 given some the intelligence to rule; while others had been given 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.

  “What does this mean but that they distinguish freedom and slavery, noble and humble birth, by the two principles of good and evil? They think that as men and animals beget men and animals, so from good men a good man springs. But this is what nature, though she may intend it, cannot always accomplish. We see then that there is some foundation for this difference of opinion, and that all are not either slaves by nature or freemen by nature, and also that there is in some cases a marked distinction between the two classes, rendering it expedient and right for the one to be slaves and the others to be masters: the one practicing obedience, the others exercising the authority and lordship which nature intended them to have. The abuse of this authority is injurious to both; for the interests of part and whole, of body and soul, are the same, and the slave is a part of the master, a living but separated part of his bodily frame. Hence, where the relation of master and slave between them is natural they are friends and have a common interest, but where it rests merely on law and force the reverse is true.”

  “True. True,” Montevarius muttered.

  “So this is what you wanted to show me?” Connor asked, setting the scroll down. “That some men simply must be slaves while others must rule? Because Nature orders it?”

  “Not just Nature. The Fates. God. For what has caused you to be here? Ask yourself that. And then ask yourself what you should do about that. But even Aristotle says that some good men – that is to say, some men of noble character – come to be slaves through circumstances. But he argues that this lack of adherence to the natural form of things does not negate the institution – or the basic fact that in order for us to accomplish anything we must work together. And in order to work together some must lead and others must follow. Look around you. Without this cooperation none of this would be here. This villa would not be here. This wine would not exist. The money that it brings would not exist, and so there would be nothing to feed all of us. We would all live in squalor and dirt. Would that please you?”

  “No,” Connor said. “But just because there is the need for some to lead and others to follow, does that predicate that some must own and others must be owned? Does it mean that there must be such injustice and such difference between one man and the next?”

  “Order is justice,” Montevarius said.

  “Order is justice,” he said again. “You begrudge me my position? Would you trade me for it if you knew the sleepless nights that come with it? The slave has nothing but his own life, and nothing but his own life to lose.”

  Lucius Montevarius filled Connor’s bowl for the third time.

  “Eat some of this bread,” he said. “Dip it in the oil. It is good with the wine.”

  The candle lights flickered as Connor again took up the scroll and continued reading.

  ***

  Connor read until his eyes strained in the dim candlelight. He reached for the wine bowl to wet his dry mouth and throat, but again found it empty. He looked up. Lucius Montevarius’s head was resting on the table, one arm supporting his weight as the other hand still loosely grasped the amphora. The Dominus’ wine bowl was empty, as was the amphora. He slept.

  Connor pushed his chair from the table and arose, as one startled awake. He stared down at the head, bowed to him – presented to him – resting on the table as if awaiting his judgment. The master breathed deeply, and Connor could smell the wine fumes on his breath. Here he was – the man of greatness; the man of property and wealth – in a wine-dark sleep. Connor reached forward and pulled the solid amphora out of the master’s fingers. The drunken man shuddered for a second, but then was still. Connor held the vessel in trembling hands as he starred down at his owner, the one who had bought his life from the murderers, and paid them in gold. Connor’s breath quickened. His chest heaved. His weight gathered back. At the edge of the table, the light flickered on the last inch of the tallow candle.

  Gently Connor set the amphora down beside the scroll. He turned to the door, as if to go. Again he stopped and looked back to Lucius, the master of so much life and one the philosophers said was appointed by God to rule over the weak.

  “Dominus,” Connor said.

  “Dominus,” he urged further, when the man did not move.

  Connor reached forward and shook him by the shoulder, bracing himself lest the slave owner should suddenly turn to strike him. But Lucius still did not move.

  Connor took the scroll under his arm and turned to go. It was not stealing – the Dominus had said that he could borrow it. Who knew how late it was? And no one – especially not Montevarius – would accept excuses for being late for work in the morning. But again Connor stopped. He set the book down and moved over behind the Dominus. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him up from the chair. He had expected that the man would at least wake up enough to stand and lean on him, but he seemed only so much dead weight. Connor bent down and hoisted the man on his shoulders easily. Montevarius was lighter than he expected. The body was lean beneath the voluminous garments. Despite his wealth, Montevarius did not seem given to eating well, and despite his energy by day the body felt old beyond his years. Carefully Connor reached down and took up Aristotle’s book in his free hand. He carried the Dominus over to the dark doorway that led to the stairs, and crossed the threshold.

  The corridor at the top of the stairs was black within – for no one had lit the wall sconces Connor shouldered by. But he could see the gleam beyond the door at the far end, and he made for it. Montevarius stirred, but did not wake up. Connor expected that he could carry the lean man anywhere he wished in this state. They could both escape together, Connor thought with a bitter smirk; realizing even as he did that the strong wine was playing on his head, too.

  Connor stepped out into the candlelit room beyond. It was late, but a few of the slaves must still be astir. The curtains moved softly as night air breathed through the open windows. He saw that he was not far from the courtyard, where he had prostrated himself before the Dominus and begged for his freedom the last time he had been
within these walls. He remembered the act with anger and disgust, but the emotions spent themselves quickly in the empty room. There was nothing to do but find some suitable place to let the master down and then to be on his way.

  Even as Connor stepped into the long hallway, a muffled cry sounded to his blindside. He turned clumsily under his burden. A slave woman – about middle aged and dressed in the simple dress of the kitchen servants – held her hand over her mouth. She looked at Connor, her startled eyes still wide.

  “He is not hurt, is he?”

  There was genuine concern in her voice. Her accent was thick – Gothic, Connor realized, to go with her light skin and hair and tell-tale angularity of her features. Connor was learning how to identify all the peoples that had been abandoned to this place.

  “He is well. He is just drunk. I need a couch or someplace I can put him.”

  “No. No, young man. We must take him to his room. We do not want the others to see him this way.”

  Connor shifted his master’s weight on his shoulders.

  The woman took a light from one of the wall sconces and led Connor down the hall. She climbed the steps there ahead of him, looking back anxiously to see if Connor was following safely.

  They entered the hallway of the third level. Like the first hallway, this was open to the courtyard on one side. The breeze carried the mingled fragrances of thousands of flowers up, filling their lungs with every breath. A small part of Connor’s mind was still aware that it was not too late – that his enemy was still completely in his power. But he did nothing but follow the woman with the light.

  “How much further?” Connor asked, again shifting Lucius on his shoulders.

  “Not far,” the woman answered. “Just around the next corner, to the big doors.”

  Just ahead, a door opened, and candlelight flooded towards the moonlight. A slender form stepped out and turned towards them. Connor felt the breath catch in his throat even as the girl stifled a cry. Connor stared into the face of Lucia, daughter of Montevarius. A thin gown barely hid her supple body. Her black hair was unbound. Her face was lit by moonlight, making it appear white and smooth as alabaster. But her green eyes burned with intensity, and Connor quickly realized that they were locked on the lax body of her father and not on him.