“It may be no surprise, or even no great comfort to men such as us living in times such as these, when we read this wise man’s words ‘Look back over the past, with its changing empires that rose and fell, and you can foresee the future, too. Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.’”
“True,” Connor said. “But he also says ‘The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts. Where a man can live, he can also live well.’”
Montevarius nodded emphatically. “Indeed. Indeed. That is perhaps at the core of what he is trying to teach us: that we make things what they are. That our perceptions are reality, and so let that reality be disciplined and ordered. Desire and fear only cloud the mind, and therefore these things rob us of what we want and bring us what we fear. The Stoic tries to take each day as it comes, realizing that the positive and the negative are two sides of the same whole.”
“Then perhaps the good slave is the perfect Stoic,” Connor said.
Lucius raised an eyebrow as he refilled his bowl.
Connor cleared his throat and continued.
“As it says: ‘Forward, as occasion offers. Never look round to see whether any shall note it. Be satisfied with success in even the smallest matter, and think that even such a result is no trifle. We ought to do good to others as simply as a horse runs, or a bee makes honey, or a vine bears grapes season after season without thinking of the grapes it has borne.’
“The slave is happy in all that is good. He perseveres through all that is bad. He has desires, but they can only be secondary to him. Is this not the frame of mind that the Stoic strives for? The idea of tranquility, of harmony with the world and with life?”
“But the Stoic seeks to free his mind,” Montevarius said.
“Yes Dominus. But in so doing, in many ways he makes his mindset not more complicated but more simple. The free man becomes more like the slave in order to become truly free.”
Montevarius smiled.
“Then we have a paradox,” he said. “And nothing pleases a philosopher more than a paradox!”
The Dominus lifted his bowl in an exaggerated toast, then drained it and set it down.
“But I would say that you gained this knowledge of the tranquility of slaves from those around you and not from yourself, Connor; for there is little such acceptance in your soul.”
“Then perhaps I must learn it, as you do.”
“I doubt you mean that. But whether you do or not, it has been good talking to you. I remember the old days, when I was young, when the people of quality in these parts would hold symposiums that would last through the whole night and into the next morning. There by the music of the harp and with the wine flowing, we would explore philosophy and meaning to the point of exhaustion. No one is like that now. It is like I have no one to talk to. Now it seems that my peers look at the education of their youth as some drudgery that they had endured and outgrown. All they look to now is the undulations of pleasure and trouble. And the priests and men of the Church regard everything outside of their narrow view as dangerous and sinful. You can see them shut the gates of their mind as you talk to them. They fold their arms and you see their skin flush, as they inform you of what your own opinion is supposed to be.”
Montevarius poured more wine for himself. Connor held his nearly empty bowl back.
“Even my son does not care. He does not care.”
“What of your daughter, Dominus?” Connor ventured, realizing that even mentioning a master’s daughter could put a slave on shaky ground.
“My daughter? She is a good girl. Emotional. Intuitive. But she is a woman. Women understand very little. I hear that there is a great woman philosopher who lives in Alexandria, and that men even go to the Library there to train under her. But such things are foreign to us Gauls.”
“Perhaps you could educate your slaves then.”
Montevarius laughed.
“People already think I’m mad for talking to you,” he said. “And you came to me with something of an education. You cannot educate slaves.”
“But did you not just say that you despair because no one seems to have the light anymore? Does education not elevate man? How could that be bad?”
“Now, my good man, no one likes a riddling knave. You think they should be educated? Try it. Then let me know how that works. Now, I must dismiss you. It is getting late, and you need to get some rest before we start again tomorrow.”
Connor stood to his feet, and bowed. He collected his lifter’s gift and moved towards the steps.
“Perhaps I will bring you a book to borrow tomorrow, Connor. Some Epictetus maybe. He compliments Marcus Aurelius well. Perhaps I will, if I think about it.”
“Thank you, Dominus.”
He bowed once more and closed the door, leaving Montevarius in the lamp lit gloom.
The air outside was still hot, but an evening breeze was blowing as Connor walked out the open villa gates. Down the hill he could see lights on in the windows of the cottages. The sound of voices carried on the winds, as the slaves took advantage of the bright moonlight and relaxed after the long day. Connor made for the cottage that Priscilla shared with some of the other domestics, hoping to find her happy to see him.
“There you are, lad,” Philip said. He had been sitting on the low rock wall. He rose, his thin frame obviously sore from the long summer field work, and he rubbed his bald head.
“Philip, what are you doing here?”
“Out for a walk. It’s a fine night.”
“Isn’t it,” Connor said, incredulous that Philip would desire more walking after pacing the vineyard all day long.
“We saved you some supper. Lentil stew and bread. I’m sure you’re quite hungry after another day in the cellars.”
“Thank you. I am. I will be there a little later.”
“Oh?”
“As you said, it is a fine night. I was going to enjoy it a little. I will be home anon.”
“Listen, my friend,” Philip said, looking serious. “The truth is I was waiting out here to talk to you.”
“Of course you were. You’re not very subtle, Philip. But can’t it wait? God knows we spend enough time together in the vineyards to talk about anything that might be on your mind.”
“And you want to get to the girls, before someone else does.”
“Yes,” Connor said, turning to go.
“What has happened to you, Connor?”
Connor stopped and turned towards the older slave.
“People are talking about you,” Philip continued. “The other lifters are muttering, and everyone else sees it too. You stand out, Connor. For lots of reasons you stand out. But you are using that wrongly. You are clever, and a hard worker; but you are using those talents to rise too quickly. It is already said that you are among the Dominus’ favorites – that he relies on you and favors you above men who have been here serving faithfully for many years. Men resent that, you see. It is said that the Dominus actually talks to you! Talks to you as in holds a conversation and you answer him back! Only the longest-serving, most trusted family slaves hold such a relationship – and they are careful to use it modestly and wisely. One woman said that she even saw you speaking to Lucia, as if you were friends. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
Speak to Lucia as if they were friends, Connor thought – now that would be something.
“So some of the lifters mutter,” Connor said. “So Sejius and his ilk do not like that I seem to be elevated above them. What is that to me?”
“It is not just them, you see. Even the members of your own household remark that you are never around – that they do not feel like you want to be around us any more than you have to be.”
“I need to take time for myself. It is part of my nature.”
“And you need to take time to chase your whores,” Philip corrected. “For tha
t is what those women you associate with are. They are using you because of what you can give them, and because you are novel. They sleep with the new, favored heavy lifter because they feel like it gives them status and something over their peers. If they get pregnant they are rewarded after a fashion; and what are those bastards? They are born slaves – fatherless property.”
“I’m not going to get them pregnant. They are using me. And I am using them. Slaves are not allowed to marry, Philip. We are not allowed to form real families. What does it matter what I do? What am I supposed to be preserving myself for?”
“The young man you were when you first came here would not have said that. What happened to him? The young man who had pure passions, and not the base intents of climbing the ladder, or bedding as many women as he could? The Connor I first met was trained to be a priest, and acted like it.”
“You old, prattling fool!” Connor sparked, but then collected himself. “I was not trained to be a priest, I was trained by priests. And it was because of this training that I was still living idly in my home village when the raiders came. There I was – still working for the priests as I always had, hunting, farming, herding. Accomplishing nothing! When I should have been putting my skills to good use as a warrior for one of the strong men of Eire. But why was I not? Because I had been taught that it was wrong to kill, that a spiritual man was a man of thought and purpose. Well, what thought and purpose have I now? What thought and purpose is there in blindly doing the bidding of another? What hope is there in being a slave? There is nothing but what small bit of something you can touch and hold for the briefest most fleeting moment, knowing all the while that it is not and never can be yours to keep. And you would wait out here to remind me – after I have worked hard all day and even risked my life for the work we do here – that I should not seek to rise too quickly? The others are muttering that I am getting above them on the ladder? This ladder does not go anywhere, Philip! It does not go anywhere.”
“The man you were bought to replace was a good lifter,” Philip replied calmly. “He was young and strong. He was funny and well-liked by all of us. Do you know what happened to him? He fell from the scaffolding, shortly after last harvest, as the wine was being made. The long hours and the heat made him just careless enough to miss his footing and he fell. He broke his head open on the tiles, and it took him four hours to die. No matter how much the Dominus may seem to like you or care about you, we are all ultimately just tools here. We are here to do a job, to perform a function. That is God’s will. The way we must do that is through a life of quietness, respect, and piety. You are trying to sooth your pain with what pleasure you can find. Is it not better to accept it and find your place in it?”
“You accept it your way, and I’ll accept it mine,” Connor said. He knew even as he said it what a week retort it was. The truth was that he had nothing left to say.
“Thank you for your concern, Philip,” Connor offered as he turned to go.
“That is all it is, my friend. I believe that you will settle on the right thing.”
Connor looked over his shoulder as the older slave shuffled towards their home in the far corner of the estate. Connor sighed deeply. He was done thinking for the night.
XI
“Arise! Arise! Arise!”
Connor awoke with a start and leapt out of bed. He nearly collided with Philip as he tried to get to the window to see what was on fire. He spied the silhouette of the rider as he galloped past, crying out to the slaves that slept in their cottages.
“It is time,” Philip said.
“It’s not even dawn yet,” Connor said.
“Regardless, the rider was sent by the Dominus. That means that he is out in the vineyards and has seen the grapes, and that they are ready. Harvest begins now! A happy time for all of us.”
“Bloody hell, I was having a good dream,” Sergius protested, trying to rub the hangover headache out of his temples.
“Quickly, friends,” Philip called. “Grab your breakfast for the road and take plenty of water. We have no time to waste.”
“We’ve watched those grapes ripen for weeks,” Connor said. “Now suddenly they all have to come off right now?”
“Yes, right now,” Brontius said. Born on the vineyard, this would probably be his twentieth working harvest or greater, and so his satchel was already packed and his shears where in his hands.
“Part of the Dominus’ art,” Philip said, reaching for his hat. “When he says it is time for the grapes to come off, it is exactly time. Just like in all of the cellar operations – timing is everything.”
Connor splashed water in his face and pushed his hair back. He grabbed a loaf of bread and his empty water skin and shoved them into his satchel.
“Quit making so much noise!” Corl griped from his bed.
“You must come too, Corl. The Dominus needs all hands. Everybody must do what they can. Nothing of our labor must be left to rot on the vine.”
Corl cursed before assenting “I’m coming in a moment.”
The slaves filed out of the cottage, taking time to urinate on the ground and then to fill their water skins from the stream. They followed Philip along the path, complaining further when he quickened to a trot. The first gray light of dawn began to chase the stars away one by one as groups of men, women, and the children old enough to follow instructions took to the hillsides.
Connor enjoyed the seclusion of the vineyards at times. Out on his area of vines with the few men who shared his cottage and therefore his usual assignment, once they spread out and started to work he could feel as if he was all alone. If he chose, he could easily tune everything else out and just follow the methodical patterns of whatever sort of task they had to perform that day. Once he had become used to life here he found the vineyard to be tranquil. It was a good place to think or a good place not to, if one so chose. Today was different, however. As Connor and his team took to their hillside many other slaves were arriving there too. It was not only some of the other teams, but Connor recognized men and women from the household staff as well, their sleeves rolled up, baskets in tow, and shears in their hands.
“Everybody is out here.”
“That is right,” Philip answered. “Everybody. We are going to move through the vineyard plot by plot in the pattern that the Dominus dictates.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Hm. I’ve seen it take four solid days. I’ve seen it take more than a week. It depends on how things go.”
Connor turned as he heard an unexpected sound behind him. A priest in a black robe walked through the central pathway, ringing a bell and swinging a small incense burner from a rope as he chanted a prayer.
No sooner had he disappeared up the hillside then Montevarius arrived, mounted on his horse that seemed as bristling with nervous energy as he did. Connor then realized that it had been he who had ridden through the slave quarters calling them all to rise and take to the fields.
“It is time, men and women, it is time!” he called. “The fulfillment of our toil this year. Time to bring in the fruit of our labors. The next few days I am asking a lot of each of you, but if you hang together with me, we will not only be completing what has been given to us; but will ensure our prosperity through the winter and secure our futures. Now I ask you, let no one think of weariness, or hunger, or heat; but let us all think of our impending success. It is at hand for us to reach out and bring it in.”
Without waiting for a response Montevarius spurred his horse onward, presumably to where other slaves were working. Connor lowered his head and went straight to work, taking the first cluster of round, violet grapes in his hand and snipping the vine where it held them. As if in response to their master’s words and the first act of harvest, the slaves began to sing.
It was one thing to hear a few of his fellows singing, as perhaps another group within ear shot echoed the song back. It was quite another to be in the midst of more than a hundred men and women s
inging as they worked. There was some confusion at times over the words, but it did not matter – the rhythms were familiar to all, as were the patterns; and the slaves threw themselves into their work and their singing with equal vigor. Connor joined in, not taking the lead or embellishing the song as he often did, but following on with his fellow workers He sang and swayed as he took each ripened cluster and freed it from its web before dropping it gently into the basket. When the basket was full and heavy he trotted to the end of the row and emptied it into the wagon. Then he returned to his place and started again, working in tandem with Philip and Brontius. When he finished one complete vine, he skipped two and went to the third. Philip and Brontius filed in behind him, hopping each other in line as the work went by quickly and seamlessly, without any real need to talk. Mesmerized by the music, Connor did not even realize that he was hungry and thirsty for quite some time. When he did, he would grab a mouthful of bread or water with one hand while working with the other, letting the others carry the song for him.
Connor loosened a few grapes and ate them. Their violet skins were thick and tough, but the flesh inside was warm and sweet, with a bright sharpness as they slid back. Instead of spitting out the seeds, he swallowed them whole as they provided a back current of bitterness. His mouth seemed coated as with honey. Connor was not an expert, but with grapes like these how could it not be less than an excellent vintage year?
***
The experienced laborer always notices the exact moment that early morning is ended and the day becomes hot. It was at this first realization that Connor ended his second long row. Without talking about it, Philip, Brontius, and he reasoned what row they needed to start next, based on the numbers of people working in front of them. They moved ahead seven rows and started work again. As soon as they had, another group passed them to take their place at the next row. They were domestics – household slaves – Connor surmised, not by the way they were dressed but rather by the way they moved. Connor turned back to his work, but then caught something out of the corner of his eye. A young woman followed the others, and took her place at the first vine of the row directly ahead of Connor’s. Connor peered through the foliage, trying to get a better look, trying to figure out why she seemed familiar to him. She was wearing a plain linen tunic that reached to her calves, and had a blue kerchief over her black hair. Even with her back turned, Connor recognized that hair, just as he recognized her form, and the graceful way Lucia moved.
The Songs of Slaves Page 16