The Songs of Slaves (18 page)

             
It was Publius, a wide-
faced, thickly bearded man of about thirty. All of the heavy lifters were strong, but Publius was one of the biggest of any of them. Connor already did not like his low manners, coarse tongue, and arrogance; to say nothing of his smell and sloppiness. But Publius looked like he was about to make himself unavoidable.

             
“I cut down as many trees as you did,” Publius said. The tone and volume of his voice drew the other slaves around him, as they sensed a spectacle coming on.

             
“I do not care how many trees you cut down,” Connor said evenly. “I’m going home now. I will see you tomorrow.”

             
“So,
you sucking
his cock now or something?” Publius spat. “You must be if he likes you so much. You want to suck mine?”

             
“Watch your ugly mouth,” Connor said, wheeling back towards the bigger man.

             
“Leave him alone,” Gnaeus interjected. “The
Dominus
rewards who the
Dominus
rewards. This boy is alright.”

             
Connor sized things up. Publius was very close
to him, close enough that all Connor could smell was the reek of the man’s breath. Sextus, Aulus, and Gnaeus were standing close beside him, but Connor was not sure that the three men would be ready to take his side if things came to blows.

             
Publius interrupted Connor’s strategizing. He reached forward and jerked the food and wine out of Connor’s hands.

             
“Thank you,” Publius said. “I will make good use of these. Go beg the
Dominus
for more.”

             
Most of the slaves laughed.

             
Until Connor dove into Publius, dropping to grab his forward leg and driving him down.

             
Connor passed to a side pin, and then swung his leg over the giant’s chest. Publius tried to push him off, but Connor only took advantage of this to turn him face down and seize his enemy’s neck in the crook of his arm.

             
The slaves were in commotion
–
cheering, coaching, or trying to restore order. Connor ignored them. He sunk the choke in on Publius’ neck, the violence spilling from him nearly impossible to control. He reached for the small jar of wine that Publius had taken from him.

             
“You want this?” he growled
. “You want this wine?”

             
He shattered the jar on the stony ground near Publius’ head.

             
“Drink it!” Connor growled, driving his foe’s face into the new mud. “Drink it!”

             
“Connor, stop,” Sextus said. “You are going too far.”

             
“Stop, son,” Aulus echoed.

             
Connor eased his grip. He rose to his feet, his fists at the ready as he stood defiantly over Publius. The giant laid where he was, trying to catch his breath and spit out the mud. His mane of dirty hair shook as he tried to clear the dizziness.

             
Connor quickly reached down and grabbed what was left of his reward, leaving Publius’ portion where it lay.

             
Publius slowly climbed to his feet, the fight gone out of his eyes. Connor was surprised that he had no defiant last words for him. The slaves quieted, realizing how close the fight had come to turning deadly.

             
Publius turned and walked away, his head down and his shoulders sunk. One of the others picked up his
portion, perhaps to return it to him later. The heavy lifters from the south side moved silently towards home, leaving Connor with Sextus and three others.

             
“God’s teeth, son,” the tall North African renamed Marcus said, patting Connor on the back. “You fight like a demon.”

             
Connor said nothing.  He looked towards Sextus, but the older man had already begun walking slowly down the trail. Connor looked down at the cloth-wrapped parcel he held in his hands. It was about half a pound and would be welcome tonight. He found himself sorrier than he expected that he had spilled out the wine for that thug.

             
And then Connor realized that at the end of a long day of toil and danger for another man’s gain that he had nearly killed his neighbor over a portion of food. He was becoming a slave. 

VIII

             
Connor smacked his neck as the sharp bite of a tiny insect announced the work day was drawing to a close. He heaved the barrel once more, spinning the cleansing water violently within it, before turning the round opening down to the floor. Water mixed with wine dregs
–
cloudy purple and hazy white
–
spilled out across the slippery tiles towards the wide open doors. Beside him, old Sextus did the same.

             
“One more draf
t of water out to do it,” the gnarled lifter said. “Pass me the pitcher, son.”

             
Connor obliged, and then filled the other pitcher from the pool that ran the course of the near wall. He poured a gallon of the water in to the empty barrel and then braced himself to spin it again. He placed the leather mitts on the rough edges of the oak and heaved again. His shoulders, neck, back, forearms and fingers felt as if they would rip, for the lifters had been at work with the barrels all day. As high as his chest and weighing more than three times the weight of a man when they were full of wine, the slaves had moved, then transferred, and now cleaned dozens of them. It had been back-breaking work; but also at times work of precision, as he and the others had tried to drain the
contents of each barrel into a fresh one. All the while the
Dominus
had hovered by, fretting over every spill, and lamenting every drop of cloudy sediment that passed from the old barrels to the new ones. This was the art of wine-making, Sextus had told Connor, as the
Dominus
had stood over them as if every little action was critical. Montevarius had tasted and tasted again
–
even the cloudy, dank-smelling mess that filled the younger barrels. He moved from slave to slave imploring and directing as Connor had never seen him do before. He barely needed to, Connor thought, for his lifters knew their jobs and they soon showed Connor how to make the difficult easy
and the sloppy precise. And yet
the
Dominus
wore himself out over the details and wearied his slaves with his hand-wringing. Even when the slaves were too tired from the exertion of managing the barrels Montevarius was there calling to them.

             
“Clean this wine off the floor! If the wine sits then it will turn to vinegar; and if vinegar forms here than woe to us all, for its spread would ruin everything!” he called time and again.

             
But when Connor complained about all this to Sextus as they stopped long enough to take a hurried
lunch Sextus simply shrugged.

             
“He is Lucius
Montevarius
Corvinus
, and this wine is duly famous.”

             
Now finally, as the setting sun was visible through the open double doors, Connor could look forward to putting this day behind them. It looked like they would finish the barrel transfers today
–
which meant that tomorrow would be just another day in the fields. Right now that sounded good to him.

             
Connor pulled his eyes away from the vista of hills that was visible through the open doors and rolled his head around to try to relieve some of the pain in his neck and shoulders. The wine cellar was huge
, with high ceilings and several sub-chambers.
It all had been cut out of earth and stone by some hapless
slaves
years ago. Connor could not imagine such a work detail. Less daunting, but almost as impressive, was the massive timber scaffolding at the north side of the cellar. It reached the ceiling
,
where a trap door accessed the tremendous vat that crowned the interlocking network of tree-thick beams. Sextus had told him that it had been built in his father’s time
–
though it had been repaired just two or three years ago. He had explained to Connor how during harvest the grapes were piled
into the vat where they were crushed. The juice and pulp would drain down the channels.
The higher the vat the better the drain.
But he would see soon enough, Sextus promised, as harvest
–
the focus of master and slave alike on this estate
–
was only about six to eight weeks away.

             
Connor noticed that the
Dominus
was finally still, sitting back at his work table making notes in one of his many notebooks. But even his quill had paused as he held a bowl to his lips. Whether he was critically testing the new wine or perhaps enjoying some of his past successes Connor was not sure, but he did notice that the
Dominus
’ eyes were resting on him.

             
“Damn him,” Connor breathed, ceasing his stretch break and taking hold of the barrel once more.

             
“That’s it,” Sextus said. “That’s the last one. Just in time too.”

             
Connor followed Sextus and the others, rolling the barrels on their edges in semi-circles
–
the easiest way to move them without turning them sideways.

             
He stacked the barrels with the others, bung hole down to dry.

             
Montevarius rose to his feet.

             
“Good work, men,” he said, his baritone voice
reverberating on the stone walls. “Now, help me clean this wine off the floor. None must remain.
None at all.”

             
“Or there will be vinegar,” Connor mocked quietly.

             
The
Dominus
took several
full
pitcher
s and slung the water
across the wine-stained floor towards the doors. Then he grabbed a wide broom, and joined the slaves as they pushed the dregs towards the opening.

             
“
Dominus
, you will stain your clothes,” Publius said.

             
“Kiss-arse,” Sextus murmured.

             
Publius shot him a withering glance.

             
“Come, men. Night is falling,” Montevarius said. He brushed past Connor as he swept vigorously, driving the liquid out the opening, where it could drain down the hillside. Soon they had finished, and the gray tiles were freckled with tiny purple stains, but as clean as they were going to get.

             
The
Dominus
set his broom aside and moved back to his work table. He opened a bin beside it, where some of the household slaves had deposited the bundles that were to be today’s lifter’s gift.

             
“Good pork ribs and some young rosé wine,”
Montevarius said, dispensing the first of the packages.
“All for a good day’s work.
Last year’s wine is coming along very well. I am quite pleased. And I am pleased with the effort that all of you put in today. You conducted yourselves as well as any man could hope for.”

             
“He seems especially magnanimous tonight,” Connor whispered as he brought up the back of the line.

             
“He’s been drinking steadily for at least the last hour,” Sextus whispered back. “Hadn’t you noticed? That always makes him this way.”

             
As the slaves accepted their rations, they filed past the great pyramids of wine barrels and made for the staircase that led to the villa above. Someone would show them out once they emerged; lest they wander around where they did not belong.

             
“Make sure these jugs make their way back to the house, men,” Montevarius called. “They are a cost; and we need to reuse them. They’ve been going missing of late.”

             
Connor was silent as he accepted his small jug and cloth-wrapped cold meat. He carefully avoided the slight bow or any other indication of subservience; but thought it best to avoid open defiance as well. Though
he had already lost track of how many weeks he had been at the estate, this was only his second interaction with Montevarius since the
Dominus
had rejected his plea for release. He thought it best to say nothing.