by Doug Kelly
Aton entered Acadia and walked a short distance through it, and then his growling stomach reminded him that he had not eaten for some time. He looked in vain for an inn, but after speaking to a man who had his left arm in a sling and was leaning under the archway of the door to the home in which he lived, the stranger asked him to enter, and graciously presented all the amenities of the house to Aton. The man with the sling sat opposite him, and remarked that most of the citizens were gone to the war camp, but he could not because of his injury. He then told Aton how it had happened, with the usual hypochondria of the wounded. He had been assisting with the placement of a battering ram upon a war wagon when a maneuvering lever snapped and the beam fell, but only a part of the broken lever had hit him. Thrown with great force, the fragment of the pole grazed his arm, but the impact was strong enough to dislocate his shoulder. All of the physicians had gone to the battle to serve the injured soldiers and he was left to his own remedy.
He thought it lucky that he was no worse because very few ever recovered from serious wounds. Especially from injuries caused by swords, spears, or arrows during wartime. How could he fight in combat? He was wounded, and the injured generally died. Only the fortunate escaped. The man’s stories ran on, talking as much for his own amusement as that of his guest. Aton’s host worried because he could not join the battle camp and assist the detachment of men to which he was obligated. The man supposed battering rams would be in position by now, and shaking the walls of a sieged city with each mighty blow. He wondered aloud if his commander would miss his presence on the battlefield. Aton asked his host what he did when not on the field of battle. He sheepishly admitted to Aton that when not engaged in combat, he was his commander’s servant.
Aton was startled, and almost jumped from the table. His gracious host was a slave. The man had used the term servant instead of the hateful name of slave, which the most degraded did not care to admit. Most men Aton knew deemed it a disgrace to sit down with a slave, to eat with him, even to accidently touch him. With peasants, or other free men of lower classes, they were on familiar terms although the upper classes repressed them to the extreme. To most, the slave was less than a dog. Then, stealing a glance at the man's wrists, Aton saw the scars from the metal shackles that had permanently marked the distal extreme of his forearms. He had not noticed this before.
—— —— ——
In the dominions and territories around the lake, slavery was all too frequent. The privileged had framed the laws to reduce the common person to perpetual servitude. For every offense, the punishment could revert to slavery. If a starving man stole a loaf of bread, he became a slave, or more accurately, an indentured servant that served in perpetuity for the ruling family because judges never correctly assessed the value of the offenses or the perpetrator’s labor, so that the offenders could work off their crime, and their labors hardly ever directly benefited the alleged victim.
Rulers proclaimed that theft damaged the entire community because it corrupted society’s morality, and it was as if the thief had stolen, not from one, but from every member of the clan. Therefore, the criminal must make restitution to all. The offender’s labor compensated for the value of the transgression multiple times over. The thief was the slave of the community, but because the community could not employ him, the ruling family released him to those who would pay. Therefore, under cover of the highest morality, they perpetrated the greatest injustice. For the theft of food, they could reduce a man to a slave. Then his wife and children, unable to support themselves, became beggars and permanently destitute.
The ruling classes seized and leased out those servants, indentured in perpetuity, to any who would take them. Slaves could never become free again, because they must repay their purchaser the amount paid for them, and how could they do that, since protocol and tradition confined them to servitude?
To control the enslaved, a blacksmith would twist a metal wire loosely around the wrists, and then fuse the ends together. He would insert a metal rod into the opening of the metal shackle, and then give it half a turn, forcing the wire against the wrist, causing it to fit tightly, often painfully, and form a smaller ring at the outside. Slave owners used the smaller ring to string a gang of slaves together with rope. The friction of the metal against the wrist created a distinctive scar that permanently identified a person as a slave. It was a mark the slave could never remove and from which they could never run away.
To speak discourteously of the ruling family or of their religion, to go out of a dominion without consent, to trade without permission, to innocently forget to bow in the presence of the privileged class, all those and a thousand other things were crimes deserving the wire shackle. A man could study all day what he must do and what he must not do to escape servitude, but because of all those rules, it was impossible to conform. Yet the leaders hypocritically said that they did those things for the sake of public morality, and that because they had sold no man, even though they effectively had, the indentured servants were not slaves. It was true that they sold no people in the open market; they leased them instead. Hypocritically, the owners of slaves could not sell them to another owner, but they could place them in the hands of a representative of the ruling family, presenting them with their freedom if they chose to do so. However, the ruling family rarely actually granted freedom.
The legal official, upon payment of a fine from the leaser, transferred the slave. The larger part of the fine went to the benefit of the ruling family, usually the warlord or a favored clan leader. Under their laws, delinquent debt packed the land with slaves because earning an income was rare. From the time of birth, the ruling class could declare a child to be in debt because its destitute mother, who provided its sustenance, was the wife of a commoner fed by the upper class.
They practiced that to such an extent, that if a person owed anything, their fate was sealed: they became a slave. The estates of the upper class were full of men who worked their entire lives for the profit of others. Consequently, vagrant bandits filled the woods, because those who found an opportunity to escape never failed to do so, notwithstanding the hunt that the ruling class invariably made for them and the cruel punishments that waited after recapture. Many of those unfortunate souls, after predicting that their oppressors would imprison them into servitude, escaped at their first opportunity, usually during the depths of night. Hidden by the cloak of darkness, they lived in the forests until they died of starvation or at the hands of cannibals, the wandering men of the swamp.
It was only by the favor of the upper class that any man remained free, and only if he accumulated wealth for them. The ruling class, whom they paid heavily for permission to live in their own homes, protected all the merchants and those who had permission to trade out of their territory. The ruling families supported the principles of tyranny and oppression and used those principles to govern the merchants and clan leaders. Using those same principles, merchants and clan leaders had power over all the workers under their control. The wealthy upper class were absolute masters over their own servants, or slaves, as they truly were, who worked upon their estates, and with the authority to execute, they could even hang the offender at their whim.
Although begging was an offense punishable by servitude, the privileged only used it when the offender was fit and strong enough to work. The diseased, aged, helpless, and feeble could break the law and starve by the roadside because it profited no one to make them slaves. Publicly, they constantly declared to free and slave alike that they do all these things in the name of morality and for the good of the clans.
—— —— ——
When the slave caught Aton's glance, he pulled his sleeves farther down to cover his scarred wrists, and asked his guest in a low and humble voice to forgive him for his insolence. With his face slightly flushed, Aton finished his meal. He was confused, to say the least. The traditions and the tone of the society in which he had belonged had prejudiced him strongly against the man whose hosp
itality he so greatly appreciated. On the other hand, the ideas that had for so long churned in his mind, in his solitary thoughts in the forest, were entirely opposed to indentured servitude and slavery. Secretly, he had long since condemned it and desired to abolish it.
He had eaten at a slave's table and sat with him face to face. Reflecting on his reaction at the table, he questioned the concept of slavery again. He wondered if he should adhere to the ancient prejudice, the ancient exclusiveness of his former class, or should he boldly follow his conscience? His conscience prevailed, and he extended his right hand to the slave as he rose to say goodbye.
“Thank you for everything. My name is Aton Matin. Please forgive me for not introducing myself earlier.”
“The slave grasped Aton’s hand firmly and said, “My name is Hauk. I am pleased to meet you.”
The act was significant to Hauk because someone had finally recognized him as a person and not just as a member of his class. Hauk did not know the conflict that had taken place in Aton’s mind; but to have shaken hands with even a common servant, as he supposed Aton to be, was a surprise. He could not understand it. This was the first time anyone of a class above him had taken his hand since he had been born.
“Will you reside in this city or do you move on?” asked Hauk.
“I have come to offer my services to your warlord. I must continue on my journey and find him.”
“Services? What do you have to offer?”
Hauk tried not to laugh at the starving man with tattered clothes because Aton had made the impression of a stray dog more than as a skilled warrior. What could he offer Grinald? Hauk did crack a thin smile, but tried to hide it with his hand.
“Loyalty and my service on the battlefield. I could be a warrior in his ranks and prove my manhood in combat.”
“Oh, Aton, be careful with what you desire.”
“Why shouldn’t I seek what I wish?”
“Because you might attain it.”
“Go on, explain yourself,” said Aton.
“I have been on the battlefield. That’s where you find death, not manhood. For me, I had no choice.” He held his scarred wrists up for Aton to see again as a redundant reminder that he was a slave, and as a slave was subject to his master’s bidding. “The field of combat is not full of courage. It’s full of fear. I have seen grown men cry for their mothers as they bleed to death. Remember this: Grinald does not go to war for honor. He seeks to expand his control and fatten his treasury. He would be glad to sacrifice your life to do that. So yes, be careful what you seek because you might find it.”
“I have no other options,” Aton admitted with a hushed tone, as he looked up at the dark worm-eaten rafters of the house.
“I could tell by your accent that you’re not from around here. Are you on the run, with bounty on your head?”
“Yes, I had to leave.”
The hand of Hauk’s good arm shot upward, and he turned his head and closed his eyes. “Stop. Tell me no more about the offense. A slip of my tongue could cost a life.” He lowered his hand, looked at Aton and whispered, “But are your pursuers close?”
“I have traveled far. They’ll never find me.”
“Good. I wish you luck, my friend. I will pray to the gods for you.”
Aton clasped Hauk’s extended forearm, and then touched the man’s uninjured shoulder as if they were best friends and thanked him for all of his hospitality. Aton offered him a silver coin and asked in what direction he should walk to find Grinald’s battle camp. Hauk was enthralled with amazement at the sight of the coin. He could scarcely point out the road to battle when Aton had asked. As a slave, he had nothing but the implements of war his master had given him and his owner had certainly never paid Hauk anything for his effort in combat. Hauk did not take the small coin that Aton had offered, one of the few he possessed. Aton therefore put it on the table and left.
Passing through the town, Aton followed the path that led in the direction Hauk had indicated. In a short time, it led him to a wider road, which he immediately recognized as the main road to the war camp because of all the ruts and road dust covering the nearby vegetation. Wagon wheels, marching feet, and animal hooves had trampled down the grass several wagons wide, and they had cut up the grain and cotton fields, too. Grinald’s soldiers had already passed, and Aton only had to follow the unmistakable trail of war. Bravery and manhood waited ahead, or so he thought.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aton walked until the rough road, the dust, and the heat began to affect him, and then sat down beside the trail that led to Grinald’s armed forces. The sun was setting and the long day was coming to its end. A horseman rode swiftly past. The rider was coming from the distant battle camp, and because he was armed with only a slim sword and had a leather bag slung from his shoulder, he appeared to be a messenger. The horse’s hooves churned the surface of the dirt road, lifting the gray dust, which rose and floated above the shrubbery, rendering visible the horse’s long path. Sometime afterwards, while Aton continued to rest from the exertion of walking through the heat of the afternoon, he heard the sound of approaching wheels and saw two wagons pulled by horses coming along the road from Acadia.
The driver of the lead wagon pulled the reins in such a way that the horse moved the cart to the side of the road, to drive around Aton. As they got closer to him, the rear wagon did likewise. Although the carts took the other side of the road, Aton could see that the wagons carried spears, bundles of arrows, and an assortment of other armaments, probably the same weapons he had watched the sailors unload from the warship that morning. Feeling that it was time to continue his journey, he rose as the carts approached. His tired feet were stiff, and he limped as he stepped into the road.
Aton and the closest driver spoke, and he walked as well as he could beside the moving wagons, using his boar spear as a staff while they chatted. There were two men with each cart, and they all noticed how he limped along, barely keeping pace with the old horses. One of them took a gourd canteen from under the seat and offered him a drink of water. Aton heartily accepted. Refreshed, his parched lips wet again, he continued the conversation and learned that the weapons were from the vessel he had followed on the lake. His assumption had been correct. A neighboring clan leader, who had wanted to secure an alliance with Grinald, had loaded it with armaments for his prospective warlord’s use. One of the carters asked Aton if his clan had called him from their reserve forces to fight in battle or if he was on his way to support the troops while they lay siege to the next town. Aton answered that he was on his way to enlist; he wanted to experience battle and reap the plunders of war and was not yet under any warlord’s flag.
“So you are a free man, are you?” asked a wagon driver.
“Yes. Of course I am,” answered Aton. He was a little irritated with the question, but then he remembered how that might not be so obvious. After all, he had just eaten with Hauk, a slave, and was already seated next to him by the time he had realized the class of man who had granted him the hospitality of a meal. Aton lifted his tired arms to reveal his wrists. Obviously, there were no scars.
“Let me give you one bit of advice,” said the other wagon driver. “Enlist directly with Grinald’s forces.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re not a professional soldier. Unless you want to remain shackled to some distant clan’s battle commander, like a dog on a leash, you had better commit to Grinald’s ranks. The warlord will take you. I’m sure of it.”
“Do you mean the warlord will pay me more for my services?”
The wagon drivers could not contain their laughter. When the hilarity of Aton’s question subsided to a level that would allow the carter to speak again, he said, “Pay you? No one is going to pay you. They feed you, until the food is gone. You better hope that food lasts until the battle is over. You’ll be stuck there wanting to eat your shoe leather when you get hungry enough.”
“Don’t discourage the boy,” said an
other wagon driver.
“I’m just telling him the truth.”
“I’m not calling you a liar,” said his friend, as he brushed his long gray hair back onto his shoulders. He was old enough to be his coworker’s father, and was lucky to have lived this long because he had fought in so many dangerous battles himself and was still surviving a life on dangerous roads, transporting goods through hostile territories. “Now listen here, boy.” He pointed at Aton, although it was already obvious that the older man was talking to him. “You just go ahead and take my advice. Stay with Grinald’s men. Make friends with the battle commanders and you’ll get a portion of the loot. When it’s over, you get to go home. With all the others, they keep the plunder and they’ll use you to get more. More for them, that is. Warlord Grinald doesn’t need the money. He does all this for show, to let everyone know he is powerful.”
Grinald’s army was composed of servants from his own estates, of townsmen who were mostly merchants and their slaves, and any volunteers who would like to offer their services. Grinald, or Black Fang as he was occasionally known on the battlefield, was ambitious and had always desired as large an army as possible because it enabled him to intimidate the clans allied with him. These forces, when collected together in camp, were often troublesome and might be inclined to seize authority from a warlord if they perceived him as weak. Grinald always welcomed volunteers and preferred to use them to swell his ranks during wartime.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said Aton, a little out of breath from trying to keep up with the moving wagons.
Aton thanked them for the information and said that he would follow their advice. After a short while, he became burdened with the conversation because it was difficult to speak and keep moving at their pace, and he could hardly keep up with the wagons after he had already walked for so long that day. Realizing that he needed rest, he told them goodbye and looked around for some cover for the evening. It was dusk and he knew he could go no farther. When the two drivers of the lead wagon understood his intention, they whispered among themselves, then told him to get up into one of the carts and sit. Aton graciously accepted their offer and climbed into the first wagon. The crude wheels fit poorly on the axle and often sank deep into the ruts, continually jolting him against the bundles of war supplies.