Sold Into Freedom

by Carole Towriss

  “I’m looking for the cloth dealer? I need to have a new tunic made.”

  “One moment.”

  An older woman with green eyes and beautiful skin the color of walnuts appeared. “I'm Lydia. May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the owner.”

  “This is my shop. I can help you.”

  A woman who ran the shop? If her appearance didn’t indicate she wasn’t Roman, this fact did. He somehow managed to cover his shock. He hoped. “I need to have a new tunic made. Maybe more than one.”

  “Please come in.” She stepped aside, and he entered a spacious atrium. “Will you remove your cloak, please . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Quintus Valerius. Certainly.” The slave accepted the garment, and gently laid it on a lectus.

  Lydia fingered the top edges of his tunic. “Do you prefer linen or silk?”

  His checks heated. “Wool.”

  “Wool?” She looked up at him through dark lashes, eyes wide.

  “Linen is too fine for my new job. But I will take one linen one for other times. And two wool tunics.”

  “Bleached, at least?”

  “If that makes you feel better.” He grinned.

  “It does.” She smiled. “Demas can measure you, if you’ll go with him.” She waved an arm toward the servant who had greeted him earlier.

  After his measurements were taken, he returned to the shop, but saw only Demas.

  “Is Lydia still around?”

  “She’s in the peristyle. Come, I will take you.” He retrieved the cloak and led Quin down the hall.

  Quin let out a low whistle when he entered the indoor garden.

  Lydia spun around. “Is something wrong, Tribune?”

  “No, of course not. This is just the most beautiful place I’ve been in since I came to Philippi. I didn’t see gardens like this in Rome.”

  “Thank you, very much. We’ve worked quite hard on it.”

  “These flowers are stunning. So many different kinds, different colors.” He pressed his nose into a blossom and inhaled. “Smells good.”

  “That’s a rose.”

  “I saw some in Rome, I think, but they looked a little different.”

  “Oh, there are many varieties. All these are roses.” She fingered the petals of a blossom before she sat. “I love roses. Please sit.”

  “Impressive.” He sat across from her on another couch. “How did you know I was a tribune? I’m not in uniform.”

  “You’re patrician, judging by the stripe on your toga, and military, judging by your bearing. Simple deduction.”

  He chuckled. “You should be military yourself.”

  She slid a tray of fruit toward him. “What brings you to Macedonia? There are no campaigns here that I know of.”

  “No, I’ve retired. But there have been . . . complications, and now it looks like I will be the keeper of the prisons.”

  “Would you like some wine?”

  Her lack of reaction stunned him. “No, I need to go back to the market. The city will give me a house, but I don’t have a couch, or a blanket, or . . . many things.”

  “Let me go with you, then. Demas and Syntyche will join us.” She rose and headed for the front of the house.

  Apparently, he had no choice in the matter. Not that he minded. She was delightful and reminded him of his mater.

  Lydia wrapped her arm around his bicep as they strolled back toward the market.

  “Now, where do you get your meat?”

  “I haven’t, yet. I’ve been staying at the inn until this morning.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. You get your meat from Akakios, your fruit from Maris, and your bread from Artemesia.” She pointed to the vendors as she mentioned them.

  “Artemesia. Another woman?”

  Her laugh came easy and often. “Naturally! I always support other women when I can.”

  “How did you end up selling cloth?” Following her slaves, they turned south and then onto Commercial Road.

  “My husband had the business, in Anatolia. His parents learned to dye in purple, and taught him. We married and moved here, bringing with us the only legitimate imported Tyrian purple cloth to the entire region. But he died shortly after we arrived. I had to fill some of his outstanding orders, and people kept coming back. I guess since I was a foreigner they didn’t mind that I was a woman, and of course we had excellent product.”

  “A Roman woman would never be allowed to do that.”

  “Nor a Greek.” She picked up some apples and gestured to the merchant, holding up four fingers.

  “Do you have any children?”

  She looked away. “We were not married very long, and I never remarried.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “It was a long time ago. Besides, there have always been plenty of children in the house.” She shrugged. “It’s enough.”

  “What’s going on over there?” He pointed to the middle of the stoa, where a crowd waited by one of the stalls.

  “I’m not sure.” Releasing his arm, she stepped closer. “Ahh . . . That’s the new slave girl of Maximus and Cassia.”

  “But why so many people?”

  She leaned in. “She’s a seer.”

  He chuckled. “Really?”

  He drew up next to the slave girl, and his stomach dropped.

  The girl from the ship. He might have recognized her dominus’s name, but Maximus was common.

  “I heard they bought her recently at the slave market in Ostia, part of a large group taken a few months ago in Britannia.”

  His stomach knotted. “Where in Britannia?”

  “I don’t know. Why would that matter?”

  “Just curious.” Even here, his past followed him.

  Lydia’s gaze held his. “This bothers you greatly, I believe.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged.

  “You’re a terrible liar. I think you’ve not had much practice at deception.” She laughed.

  “It’s not really encouraged in the army, unless you’re deceiving the enemy.”

  “It’s refreshing.” She laid a hand on his chest. “You must join us for cena tonight. I have some guests you would enjoy meeting.”

  He shook his head. “I really shouldn’t.”

  “You must. You just said you have nothing in your home.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Soon then, yes?”

  “Who is your guest?”

  “Just a visitor to Philippi.” Her green eyes, so much like his mater’s in every way except color, sparkled. She was up to something. “Someone I think you would enjoy talking to. He’s quite fascinating. He has some interesting companions too. Are you sure you can’t make it?”

  He might as well relent. She’d just keep asking. “All right. May I bring some wine?”

  “Wine you get from Marcus, no one else. And tell him you are my friend. Otherwise you’ll pay twice as much because you’re new in town. He has fantastic wine but he’ll take advantage of anyone he can.”

  He wasn’t really in the mood for a leisurely dinner. He had plenty to do before he reported to the prison tomorrow. But Lydia seemed to know everyone and everything about Philippi. If he intended to stay—and he appeared to have no choice for the near future—she could be a valuable resource, even an ally. And he would need all the help he could find.

  Gallus reviewed the name and the directions on the tablet before him. Patroclus. The name had been given to him by his cousin’s husband. Gallus was never quite sure what Cassia saw in him, but at least in this, Maximus had proven to be useful.

  Patroclus was said to be the man to see when interested in buying or selling land. Gallus had heard of such a man but had not had the name until now. It was said he always managed to obtain a price higher than the open market allowed, but that the price came at a substantial commission. Discretion was also one of his most sought-after services.

  Those who had used
him were careful before recommending him to anyone else, lest they lose their own access by sending someone he disapproved of. His business was not exactly legitimate since city taxes would eat into his profit.

  Gallus rubbed out the information from the wax and left his office.

  Patroclus’s exact location was known only to his customers. It was situated well off the forum in one of the residential blocks. As Gallus neared the area, he studied the buildings before him. He checked his memory, then the buildings again. All insulae. Apartments for the poorest of Philippi. This couldn’t be right.

  But it was the only information he had. He banged on the main door with his seal ring, three short raps.

  A lanky, young Ethiopian opened the door a hand’s width.

  “I was sent by Marcellus Tulius.”

  The door slammed in Gallus’s face. Not a gesture a duovir was accustomed to. He swallowed his pride and waited. If he wanted the discretion and the profit, he had no other options.

  At length, the door swung open again. The dark-skinned slave stepped back and allowed Gallus to enter, then led him up several flights of stairs into the atrium of the entire uppermost floor.

  Though only one floor, it was exquisitely furnished. Gallus’s own domus held no finer things. Sculptures lined the walls. The hallway led to a small peristyle full of trees, shrubs, and flowers.

  The slave gestured to a couch near the impluvium and then disappeared. The sunken area in the floor at this time of year held very little water, but that would soon change when the rains picked up. The open space above allowed fresh air and sunlight to flood the atrium, as well as allowing the domus to store water.

  Voices whispered in the hallway, the slave and his master peered out several times, and finally the furtive Greek entered the room.

  “How may I help you today?” His voice was sickeningly sweet.

  “I wish to sell some property.”

  “Ah. Perhaps we should discuss this in my office.” He ambled down the hall, and ducked into a side room. “Where is the property in question?” He pointed to a wall covered with maps.

  It took Gallus a moment to locate the right map, but he eventually indicated the land he wanted sold.

  “You have documents for the land?”

  Gallus raised his fist, the scroll in it.

  He seemed surprised. “That will make things much easier.”

  No wonder he could charge so much.

  Patroclus studied the map for several moments before turning around. “My fee will be 20,000 sesterces.” His posture made it clear there would be no negotiation.

  Gallus nearly choked. “Twenty—are you serious? What could possibly make you think you are worth that?” The man came highly recommended, but this?

  He clasped his chubby hands behind his back. “I can get you two hundred thousand.”

  “T-two hundred thousand? That’s quite a bit more than I expected.” Probably triple what he thought. Thoughts of what he could do with that much coin raced through his mind.

  A sly grin crept across his face. “Hence my fee.”

  “Who would pay that much more?”

  “I know these things. That is why you pay me.”

  “And you will keep my name out of it?”

  “If that is your wish.”

  “It is. Now, is there a contract, or how do we proceed?”

  “I keep nothing on parchment or even on wax. For your safety as well as mine.”

  “Then what protection do I have?”

  “Do you trust the man who sent you here?”

  He didn’t, really. But what honest man would have sent him here? “I suppose.”

  “I see. Well then, do you think I would remain in business long if I cheated my clients? I may charge an exorbitant fee, but my customers know precisely what that fee is and exactly what my services include before our business even begins. There are no surprises, no secrets. And you owe me nothing until the transaction is final. You bring the grant, I bring the money. Minus my share, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Such a large parcel may take me a few weeks. I will contact you when I have a buyer.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll know.” He turned to leave. “My slave will see you out.” His voice floated in from the hallway.

  The silent African appeared and ushered him out.

  Such a strange visit. Should he feel relieved, worried, excited? Would Patroclus truly find someone willing to pay that much for a farm outside Philippi? And would he keep Gallus’s name out of the sale?

  All he could do was wait and see. If there was nothing in writing, he could always deny any knowledge. So far. It seemed that at this point he had nothing to lose. And 180,000 sesterces to gain.

  An amphora of wine in one hand, Quin knocked on the gate of Lydia’s domus. It wasn’t the most expensive wine, but it was all he could afford. He’d purchased where Lydia had instructed him to, so he hoped it would be acceptable.

  The same young slave who had met him before opened the door. “Tribune, welcome.”

  A little familiar for a slave, but maybe Lydia treated her slaves with a looser hand than had his pater.

  The slave gestured toward the back of the domus. “They are in the peristyle. May I take the wine for you?”

  “Thank you.” Quin removed his cloak and handed it over before stepping inside. He was only half way back when Lydia met him.

  “Quintus, I’m so glad you decided to join us. Come.” She slipped her arm through his and led him to the garden. “I want you to meet some new friends of mine. This is Paulos and Silas. Our young friend is Timotheos. He’s from Lystra, and he just joined Paulos.” She left Quin to stand next to a taller man, close to her own age. “And this is one of my dearest friends, Loukas. He lives here in Philippi. I’ve known him for many years.”

  The slave from the door—what did she call him the other day? Demas?—appeared from the dining area. “Lydia, cena is waiting.”

  “Excellent. Shall we go?” Lydia stepped back to let the others precede her into the triclinium.

  Quin waited until they were the only ones left in the garden. “Lydia?”

  “Yes?”

  “You let your slaves call you Lydia?”

  She laughed, a soft, beautiful sound. “Oh, my dear. Quintus, they’re not slaves. I’ve bought each of them and then freed them. I do it whenever I can. Some stay here to work for me, some leave to try to find their families.” She led him into the dining area and stopped by the couch to the right.

  “Come sit here, by Timos and Demas.”

  He sat on the couch, then leaned on his elbow.

  He glanced at Paulos, Silas, and Loukas across from him, then at Lydia in the center. Beside her were Syntyche and another slave—no, not a slave any longer. Someone who worked for her.

  “You remember Syntyche? And this is Zenobia.” Before reclining, Lydia handed him a loaf of bread, soft and warm. It took a good deal of restraint to avoid gobbling it like a stray dog on the street.

  After more bread and fresh fruit, he blew out a long breath.

  Lydia pushed herself up on her arm. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s just been a long time since I’ve eaten so well.”

  “But I thought you came from your father’s estate.”

  “I did. But I ate mostly with Attalos, with my servant.”

  “You ate with your slave?” Syntyche giggled.

  “Syn. That’s none of our business.” Lydia touched the young girl’s arm.

  Quintus shrugged. “It’s a fair question. My father was not someone most people would want to share a meal with. And he wasn’t particularly fond of me.” He reached for a bunch of grapes. “I spent far more time with Attalos growing up than my father. He was my tutor, my friend . . .”

  “You must miss him very much.” Lydia’s voice was soft.

  “I do.” He shoved several grapes in his mouth. “This is delicious, Lydia. Thank you. I’ve lived as a
soldier so long I forgot what it felt like to have money. Which I actually don’t have, anymore.” He laughed. “So I shouldn’t get used to this. Most of my meals will be more like what I ate this morning. Dry bread and cheese. Olives if I’m lucky.”

  An older man, Paulos had thinning brown hair, a full beard and a warm smile. “Quintus, Lydia said were a tribune. Your Latin tells me you are from Rome.”

  Quin allowed one corner of his mouth to turn up. The old man’s worn woolen tunic made him appear a farmer, or a simple laborer, but his bearing and his speech indicated he was highly educated. And perceptive. “I was born and raised in Rome. I haven’t lived there for many years.”

  “Ah. The life of a soldier. Never long in one place.”

  “Until now.”

  “You plan to stay in Philippi?”

  “For now, I have no choice.”

  “You don’t sound happy about that.”

  How did he explain without sounding like a child robbed of a toy? “I was injured and had to leave the army. I accepted land as my pension, but it has been . . . misappropriated.”

  Silas laughed, his whole body shaking. “That sounds like a polite word for a despicable action.”

  Quin grinned. “You could say that.”

  “It sounds like your life has suddenly gone in a direction you did not plan,” said Paulos.

  “I never expected to leave the army. I could never even have imagined this.”

  “You can take comfort in the knowledge that Yahweh was not caught off guard.”

  “Yahweh?”

  Paulos smiled. “The one true God. The living God.”

  Quin avoided scoffing. “Oh, the Jewish god.”

  “He is not only the God of the Jews. And I think He may have brought you here for a very special reason.”

  “Why would he do that? And did he have to wound and rob me to do it?”

  “You should not hold God responsible for the evils of man.”

  “If he is not willing or able to prevent man from such evil, perhaps he isn’t all that powerful.”

  “Just because he is not responsible for the evil doesn’t mean he can’t redeem it.”

  Lydia should have warned Quin he would be dining with a man who talked in circles. Perhaps Paulos wasn’t as smart as he first appeared.