The Songs of Slaves (13 page)

“Forgive me,” Philip said. “I neglected to introduce you. Brontius you know. This is Sergius, Quintus, and Claudius.”

The three men grunted a greeting.

“The boy here we named Octavian, after the great Caesar. He is a Goth, and has not been with us long, so he does not know much speech.”

Connor looked to the blonde-haired boy and nodded a greeting. The boy returned his gaze with shielded caution in his gray eyes. Connor wondered how he had come to be there and where his family now might be, and what brutal ordeals he had suffered at the hands of the human traffickers.

“Quintus and Claudius were born here,” Philip continued. “Sergius sold himself to the
Dominus
. That has been illegal in the
Imperium
for many hundreds of years
; but the Imperium is so big now that between custom and law, custom is king.”

“You talk too bloody much, Philip,” Sergius said. He was a squat, broad-shouldered man of about forty with black hair, a sharp nose, and penetrating eyes.

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I do. Sorry, my friend. But as for you, my new friend, we will have to give you a name – what did you say yours was?”

“Connor.”

“Connor.
Well, that’s not an easy one. Let’s see. How about Marrius? That’s a good name.”

“My name is Connor.”

“Connor won’t do,” Philip said. “It sounds barbarian
–
no offense. You need a good Roman name.
Well, you are a heavy lifter. Maybe you would like to b
e named for some hero – Ajax
, Hector, something like that. You choose.”

For a moment, Connor thought to call himself Titus, after his teacher. He
instantly cast the thought aside
. No. His name was Connor. To throw his name away was just one more way his captors tried to throw his identity away.

“My name is Connor. And if you want me to answer you, you will have to call me Connor. I will not accept anything else.”

“Well, if being known as a barbarian pleases you,” Philip said. “Connor it is, then. But the
Dominus
won’t like it.”

The ground began to rise steadily, forcing Connor’s cramped legs to work. The stony ground crunched and shifted beneath him as he stepped, and Connor wondered why anyone would choose a place with such poor soil to try to grow anything. But the hill before them was dense with old grape vines. The dark, gnarled trunks twisted up out of the ground and furled their shaggy, chorded arms around their supports. The slender new growth raveled from the mature wood, reaching to Connor’s eye level. Their leaves – deep
green as they moved in the morning breeze – were a
heavy cloak for the
unripe fruit that hung like jade-green clusters of sea pearls.

Philip was still rambling when Connor noticed that one-by-one his companions were dropping behind, each taking a place on a long row of vines. They were halfway up the hill when Philip stopped and motioned for Connor to move off the trail into the row.

“Simple work now, my friend,” Philip said as he faced the first vine that spread before them. “Now like I said, the
Dominus
is a winemaker of consummate skill, and this is the hill from which his best wines are made. I have never had his best wines, or even more than one of his good wines, but I will say that even the wine he gives to us servants is better than much of what I used to buy when I was a free man. But his best wines are said to be like the Nectar of Elysium, and they are celebrated by the wealthy and the royal in Massilia, Arlete,
Nikaia
, Genua, Ravenna, and Rome. Now, even the
Dominus
cannot make such excellent wines without excellent grapes, and excellent grapes come from these vines in this place. Look at them. Some of these vines have been here for a century. The workers of this estate have tended them, kept them healthy and vigorous for
all that time. It is an ancient and honorable tradition. Without us the genius of the
Dominus
would have nothing to work with, you see. So let that comfort you as you adjust to your new life here.”

It did not. Connor stared for a moment at the tended bush that was supposed to be more important than him and all the other people in this place. He had tasted wine before, in Eire, and despite what he had read in Titus’s books, it had been thin and sour and inferior to either mead or ale. The idea that he was to lose his life for this meaningless purpose stung him anew through his raw and blistered spirit; and he thought that if Philip did not stop talking and leave him alone to think that he may strike the slave.

“Anyway, where I was going with that is this:” Philip continued. “Like a child, the vine brings into the world its natural abilities and instincts – the result of its lineage and place in the world, you see. But like a child, if left unchecked and undisciplined the vine will not produce good fruit. No. It must be pruned, supported, tended to. Its wild energy must be harnessed and directed. That is what we must do.”

“So that the
Dominus
can make wine?”
Connor hissed to himself under his breath.

“So that the
Dominus
can produce his art,” Philip answered, with more spirit than Connor would have expected from the thin man.
“So that he can sell it for a lot of money, so that he can prosper and we can prosper.
His prosperity is our prosperity; his ruin is our ruin. That is our place in the world. Every philosopher and prophet has said that.”

Connor did not think that Philip had ever read either philosopher or prophet, though his words were more accurate than he cared to admit. Nonetheless, Connor could not accept it as so. This is not what he was born for. This may be their place, but it was not his. Or was it possible that man was not just a victim of his birth but his fortune as well, and once fortune had acted it became fate – a fate that was inescapable and absolute?

“So enough words,” Philip said, his demeanor growing light again. “This is what must be done by the end of this week. You see these clusters of grapes? Well, we have already gone through and thinned them, so that there are just enough of them for the optimum quality, weather permitting. Now what we are doing is addressing the problem of the foliage. Look here how it shields the fruit. Well, it can shield it too much. The
fruit needs sun, but too much and it will scorch. Too little, though, and it will fail to ripen. Or even if it ripens, the leaves will trap moisture and prevent healthy air flow, making conditions perfect for rot and mold.

“So, you see this?” Philip continued, taking a cluster of fruit in his left hand, and making two quick downward sweeps with his right. “I strip off these leaves and these leaves. Just strip them off, like that. Do not bruise the plant. Now, look. The cloak is gone, but these leaves here form a little sun hat, eh?”

Philip laughed.

“So there you go. Plenty of leaves on the vine up top for health; but around the fruit remove the cloak, leave the hat. Do you understand?”

Connor nodded.

“Now, let us get to it. Look how far ahead the others are already. I’ll be at the next row. If you have questions ask. When you get to the end of the row, hop ahead to the next one in order, and that’s how we go until noon.”

Philip gave Connor a slap on the shoulder and moved up to the next row.

“If you have questions, ask,” he called back.

Connor stared straight ahead for a moment, his mind in too much turmoil to form any clear thought. He reached down and grasped a cluster of grapes, as Philip had. The young fruit was smooth in his hand. Remove the cloak; keep the hat.
Easy enough.
He grasped the next cluster and did the same thing. It took seconds. But he was almost afraid to look over, to see again just how far the row stretched, or how many rows were ahead of him.
Best not to think about it – just take the next one.
Grasp and two plucking sweeps.
Then move on to the next. The vine was finished and Connor took three steps over to the next one in the line. Grasp, strip, strip; grasp, strip, strip. He looked back to see the other men, their heads just visible above the leaves. They were already nearly a dozen vines ahead of him, moving steadily without a word. Far off to his right, past the base of the hill a dog was barking; but the bustle of dawn was replaced by the silent pace of the morning work. Connor was there, one face in a hundred – maybe more – but separated from each other. No past. No future.
Just the task at hand.
Grasp, strip, strip; on to the next.
Already, on the third vine, the green leaves were dying his hands and his fingers were tacky with sap. He
could feel the sun on the back of his head and his neck as it began to reach the hill.

Connor’s gaze was suddenly pulled from his task. Off to his left, at the next break in the rows, rode Lucius Montevarius, followed by two
bucellarii
on horseback. The
Dominus
did not look over at him, or to any of the others, but continued past. Connor heard some of the other slaves call out greetings as the three men passed, but Lucius said nothing. He sat high in his saddle, his sweeping gaze scrutinizing his vines. As the three neared the crest of the hill, Lucius halted his horse an
d dismounted. He handed the rei
ns to one of the men, whom Connor now recognized as one of the men who had held him at sword point that morning in the storeroom. The third man also dismounted and followed Lucius into one of the rows, where they began studying the vines more closely. The bodyguard looked around marking the positions of the other slaves, but his vigilance was low. There was no threat here, for the slaves only looked forward after the master passed.
Grasp, strip, strip.

But from behind the cover of the vines Connor glared at the mounted man. He was filled with the desire – the compulsion – to race towards him; to leap
at him and draw the sword that hung on the man’s own saddle; to use it on him – the man who had just threatened him with mutilation and death – before turning on Lucius, the so-called
Dominus.
But it was a useless thought. They were too far off and would see him coming long before he was a threat. He would meet an armed man on horseback while he had nothing but his cramped legs to run on and the strength of his depleted body to attack with. Besides, the other slaves were probably watching him closely and would stop him if he tried. They were so afraid to bring more trouble down on their heads that they would accept anything. They would not even try to free themselves, even though the
Dominus
was here within reach, protected by only one man. But this was the way it was to be, and Connor turned his glare from the bodyguard on to Lucius Montevarius – still oblivious to his malevolence, as he studied his precious vines. There was his captor, the man who enslaved him for his greed and gain, and Connor could do nothing but watch him and listen to the impotent protests of his violated heart. It was the same as it had been in the market. It was the same as it had been in the belly of the ships in the endless hours of transport. It was the same as it had
been in the villages of the Angles and Jutes. Suddenly it was as if a cloud covered the sun, and Connor’s mind was pulled back, feeling the horror and the hate once more. He could hear the screams of the lost, the raped,
the
dispossessed. He could hear the laughter and cries of the thieves, the murderers, the tormentors. How they cackled like demons. Shapeless and timeless the memories coughed out of their dark places and surrounded him, dragging him back down with them. With his waking eyes Connor looked at Lucius. His journey had ended here. It had ended with him in the service of this man – for his wealth and prosperity. Connor felt tears at the corners of his eyes as his face reddened and contorted in grief and rage. His body shook silently as he hid his face in the leaves. No one would hear his weakness. No one would have the satisfaction of knowing his pain. And this so called
Dominus
would not have the benefit of his labor. Connor reached for the bunch of grapes, but instead of stripping the leaves he pulled hard on the cluster. They were like beads in his hand as he let them fall to the ground.
Such small things.
He reached out again and pulled once more, ruining another cluster, another small piece of the
Dominus
’ prosperity – the cause of his
suffering. He moved on to the next vine, pulling with both hands now, feeling the satisfaction of ruin as the unripe fruit fell at his feet. It was so small, such a small act – trivial as he looked around at the expanse of vineyard; but it was revenge. It spurred him on, moving faster and faster. He was quiet, careful not to arouse attention. His hands shook as he moved;
his eyes always returning to bo
r
e
into the
Dominus
after each act of defiance. He was catching up with the others, leaving the fruitless vines behind him.

But Lucius never looked up. He was intent on his work, bending over to feel his soil, stripping the stem of a leaf and tasting the sap. He spoke infrequently to the man at his side, but his eyes never moved from his vines. His blindness spurred Connor on, until he was moving through the vines faster than any of the others.
Lucius began to walk
back towards his horse. Connor had nearly reached the half-end of his row, were it met the trail the
Dominus
would ride. Connor made for it, the cramping in his legs loosened, his weakness forgotten. He was growing drunk on each small act of revenge, and now there was only one thought – one need – in his mind. If he could reach the trail as the
Dominus
rode by he could end this. He no
longer cared about the bodyguard or his weapons. He did not care what happened anymore. He just had to get there, to reach Lucius as he rode past. But he could not run – he could only move from vine to vine, as if he was doing what his foreman had bid him. Anything else would give his intentions away. Connor was shaking. He could imagine it – he could feel the way Lucius’ throat would feel in his grasp. He had stopped blinking. His body was aroused and flushed through with anger, and he realized this was it – the
furor
of battle was almost upon him. Only his need to keep the act up held it in check. Once he moved for the
Dominus
it would be over, it would take control of him, giving him strength. He would not feel the blade that shed his blood. There would be only revenge followed by nothingness. Thoughts of what hell might follow; of what right or wrong; of what consequences
were all lost to him. All
were like distant voices that he could hear but not make out.