Skaia (2 page)

Thaddeus stepped closer to him. “Slave,” he called out and noticed the boy jump as he turned to face him. There was fear on the young face now, but also a certain defiance.

Unusual in one so young,
Thaddeus thought. 
He must definitely be broken of it before he goes to Glaucus.
“Drop your eyes, boy. Slaves do not look at their masters.”

Thaddeus was surprised when the youngster continued to watch him and actually spoke. “You call me. Why I not look?” the boy asked, his speech stilted, still unfamiliar with this new language he was forced to learn.

Reacting without thought, Thaddeus reached out and slapped the child’s face. “Because I said so,” he replied sternly. Skaia lowered his eyes immediately, and Thaddeus smiled at the response. “Take off your tunic,” he ordered, though not so severely. “I want to see your body.”

Skaia’s head jerked up and he stepped back. “No.”

Thaddeus had expected a certain hesitation, but not an outright refusal.
An opportunity
, he realized,
to teach this boy a well-needed lesson.
His voice became harsh. “You deliberately disobey me, boy?”

Skaia looked into the master’s face and Thaddeus was again taken with the deep blue of the boy’s eyes, as he had been the day of the auction.

But he was not so pleased when the child spoke again. “I obey. I work.” The young voice was trembling slightly. “But I not take off clothes.”

Thaddeus took another step towards him, and the boy dropped the broom as he stepped away again. “You will do as I say or I will beat your ass raw.”

The boy bowed his head, but he made no move to undress. “I die,” he said softly.

Die? Who had told him that?
 Thaddeus began to understand why Castor found the boy so difficult to deal with. The older slave had been given the responsibility to train Skaia, but had been forbidden to physically punish him yet. Thaddeus began to think there was nothing else that would get through to this child. Especially if he claimed the right to die.

Such behavior would
not
be tolerated. Such thoughts
must
be eradicated before Glaucus took possession of this slave. And Thaddeus was certain he knew how to accomplish both.
Give the boy the opportunity to kill himself and see if he was strong enough to take it.
Which Thaddeus was almost sure he was not. “You may of course, choose death,” he stated evenly. “Romans can respect a man who chooses death over slavery.”

Skaia seemed to shrink under the master’s cold stare and he nibbled his lower lip, apparently not so sure he wanted to die as he had thought he was. Thaddeus almost laughed. It was the exact reaction he hoped for.
This slave was highly unlikely to take his own life.

The child knelt then, hoping the small capitulation would save him, and turned his face up to see if Thaddeus was appeased. He was not and he struck the boy again, even harder, almost toppling him. He regretted his harshness when the youngster’s nose and lip bled, and tears slipped from his eyes. But no matter Skaia’s youth, he was only a slave and he had to accept that—before Glaucus had to deal with it. And Thaddeus was determined it would happen
today
.

“
It is hardly my fault that you are too weak to die,” he remarked calmly. “As you already seem to know, there is always an option to slavery.”

When the boy only looked at him, his tears running freely now, Thaddeus struck him a third time, though not as hard. “If you choose to live as a slave rather than die, you cannot blame me for your choice.” Thaddeus called to Castor, who had approached when the argument started. “You heard us talk?”

“
Yes, Master.”

“
Make sure he understands what I said and then give him the opportunity to die.”  Thaddeus motioned Castor to move aside with him and lowered his voice even more. “Don’t make it easy, Castor. Just give him a knife. I want him to make his own decision. If he lives after he has time to consider his options, bind him to the whipping post in the garden and I’ll beat him myself when I get home.” Thaddeus sighed and spoke even more quietly as he turned away. “I think he will choose life, Castor. I hope so—I paid far too much for him. But since he has claimed the right to die, he must be given the choice.”

Castor nodded without speaking further, and watched the master leave the domus. He had, of course, heard stories of slaves who killed themselves, but never had he seen it happen. He walked towards the boy, the newest member of their household. He was very young, perhaps nine or ten, and bought from the latest batch of Gauls appearing in the market since Caesar’s latest triumph. They were proving popular at the moment, but Castor doubted such barbarians could be easily assimilated into a civilized society.

He had thought the new boy strange since the day he had arrived. Too young to know how to do anything, afraid of almost everything in his new world, and yet still defiant.
Not a good choice for Glaucus,
Castor feared. Still, he regretted that he had been forced to complain to Thaddeus, leading to this. The child would probably live, but it was unlikely Thaddeus would be gentle when the boy was whipped. Though perhaps the lesson would be learned and the boy would be easier to deal with. Surely Skaia would not provoke another whipping so carelessly.

Castor looked down at the small body still kneeling where Thaddeus left him. He forced his voice to be hard when he spoke. “Did you understand what the master said?”

The boy rose to his feet, wiping at the blood on his face, and looked up at Castor. “I understand. He say I die. I choose.” The words were brave, but the look on the child’s face was clearly not.

“
Very well.” Castor took Skaia’s arm and pulled him to the post in the small front garden. Whippings had been administered here only half a dozen times in his twelve years with the Suetonius household. One slave had been sold afterwards. The others were still here and had never given any more trouble. He thought Master Paulinus still regretted what he had been forced to do.

Castor fastened the collar the boy was wearing to the chain hanging from the post, before handing him the short knife he always carried at his waist. “Do it. I will dispose of your body when you are done. But, if you are alive when I come back, I will follow the master’s orders and bind you for whipping. He will beat you himself and he is not as gentle as I,” he said, before leaving the child alone to make his decision.

Skaia slipped down to sit on the grass at the base of the post, leaning his back against it. He finished wiping the blood from his face with the bottom of his tunic. It was cooler in the garden, and for several minutes he enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face as he remembered his home. A poor place, certainly, compared to Rome. His family had lived in a simple wooden hut, with only one room. But his small village was surrounded by a forest and a stream ran close by. Even at his young age, he had enjoyed the beauty of the setting and the wild animals he would often see at the stream.

And he had enjoyed working with his mother in the common garden, where they’d laughed and spoken of when he was grown. How he would be a warrior like his father, fighting off the Romans who had invaded their land. He had loved his mother especially, but also his fierce father who was so tall and strong. And his sister… beautiful Dala, preparing for her wedding…

His father had died first the day the Romans came. Skaia had watched him try to fight them with his great ax, and watched too as he was mowed down by the barrage of soldiers.
And I did nothing
… He had been too afraid to try to help… too afraid to even move. Skaia thought his mother had died later. He had heard her screaming, and then sudden silence.

But there had been no time to see, never an opportunity to find her. He and his sister were quickly bound with heavy ropes and pulled behind the horse of one of the soldiers, to a larger group of captives. After that, they were all marched to a rough army camp. By the end of the day, they were separated, the females being kept apart from the males. The last time he had seen Dala, she was being shoved into a crude wooden cage. Later, he was as well. Pushed into the secured enclosure along with many others who had been captured. The cage was overcrowded, and was soon full of human filth. There was no choice. They were never taken out.

He remembered being grateful the day they were all removed from the cage, even though they were bound together with chains about their necks and marched away. He had looked back often, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sister, but he had never seen her again. By the end of the day, his gratitude had disappeared. Those too weak to march had their throats slit, their collars opened, and were left behind. When he had tripped and hurt his ankle, he had thought he would meet the same fate, but one of the other captives lifted him up, and helped him until the march was halted for the night. By the next morning, he could hobble again on his own.

The first day it rained, he was glad to have the dirt and stench washed from his body. But after weeks of walking, nothing could lift his mood. It seemed he was always hungry; the scraps thrown to the captives in the evenings were always claimed by the older and stronger men, leaving the young and small to fight for whatever might be left.

Most days there were streams to drink from. When there were not, the soldiers set out buckets of water, which were again claimed by the stronger. He was soon filthy again; his clothing had become little better than rags and his feet were lacerated after his shoes fell off. He had thought he was ready to die, to simply fall, and let the soldiers cut his throat. But each time he thought he might, he would watch someone else die, and be afraid…

When they were finally close enough to Rome, some of the soldiers rode off to send for carts. The day the crude wagons arrived, the soldiers shoved all the captives inside to ride the remainder of the way. The carts were themselves just wooden cages, much like those in the camp, except they had a covering over the top. And cloths could be pulled down to cover the sides as well. Food and water came more regularly as the soldiers began to beat off any who tried to take everything. This close to Rome, all of the captives had to be kept alive for the markets and auctions. A good part of the soldiers’ pay depended on their sale.

For the first several days, Skaia simply slept the time away, waking only to eat or drink and to walk when it was permitted, to relieve himself.

Muttering in the cart had woken him when they came to the outskirts of the city, and, like any child, he’d stared curiously, holding the rough wooden bars of the cart. In spite of his fear, he had been awed by the large stone buildings, growing larger and still more grand the further into the city they went.

Then they turned away from the formal areas, moving into side streets, which were narrow and crowded with throngs of people. Skaia had huddled back then, afraid of the crowds who walked so close to the wagon, people who would spit at the captives, and call out words he could not understand.

When next they stopped, the wagons were unloaded, and the large chain that had bound them all together—now with so many empty spaces—was removed from their necks and taken away. Skaia went meekly enough with the others to be chained by his ankle to a post. The ground was not bare; there was straw to lie upon and Skaia sank into it, listening to the older men talk, most of them surmising at the prospects of being sold.

Certainly, Skaia had known they would be slaves. But for the first time, he wondered who might buy him, and for what purpose. He was thin now, little more than a layer of skin covering bones. The older men were better off—they had won the fights for the sparse food handed out. They talked now of being sent to mines or to farms. He wondered how they knew these things, and, finally he asked.