The Songs of Slaves (20 page)

             
  “
What does this mean but that they distinguish freedom and slavery, noble and humble birth, by the two principles of good and evil? They think that as men and animals beget men and animals, so from good men a good man springs. But this is what nature, though she
may intend it, cannot always accomplish. We see then that there is some foundation for this difference of opinion, and that all are not either slaves by nature or freemen by nature, and also that there is in some cases a marked distinction between the two classes, rendering it expedient and right for the one to be slaves and the others to be masters: the one practicing obedience, the others exercising the authority and lordship which nature intended them to have. The abuse of this authority is injurious to both; for the interests of part and whole, of body and soul, are the same, and the slave is a part of the master, a living but separated part of his bodily frame. Hence, where the relation of master and slave between them is natural they are friends and have a common interest, but where it rests merely on law and force the reverse is true.”

             
“True. True,” Montevarius muttered.

             
“So this is what you wanted to show me?” Connor asked, setting the scroll down. “That some men simply must be slaves w
hile others must rule?
Because N
ature orders it?”

             
“Not just Nature.
The Fates.
God.
For what has caused you to be here? Ask yourself that. And then ask yourself what you should do about that. But even
Aristotle says that some good men
–
that is to say, some men of noble character
–
come to be slaves through circumstances. But he argues that this lack of adherence to the natural form of things does not negate the institution
–
or the basic fact that in order for us to accomplish anything we must work together. And in order to work together some must lead and others must follow. Look around you. Without this cooperation none of this would be here. This villa would not be here. This wine would not exist. The money that it brings would not exist, and so there would be nothing to feed all of us. We would all live in squalor and dirt. Would that please you?”

             
“No,” Connor said. “But just because there is the need for some to lead and others to follow, does that predicate that some must own and others must be owned? Does it mean that there must be such injustice and such difference between one man and the next?”

             
“Order is justice,” Montevarius said.

             
“Order is justice,” he said again. “You begrudge me my position? Would you trade me for it if you knew the sleepless nights that come with it? The slave has nothing but his own life, and nothing but his own life to lose.”

             
Lucius Montevarius filled Connor’s bowl for the third time.

             
“Eat some of this bread,” he said. “Dip it in the oil. It is good with the wine.”

             
The candle lights flickered as Connor again took up the scroll and continued reading.

***

Connor read until his eyes strained in the dim candlelight. He reached for the wine bowl to wet his dry mouth and throat, but again found it empty. He looked up. Lucius Montevarius’s head was resting on the table, one arm supporting his weight as the other hand still loosely grasped the amphora. The
Dominus’
wine bowl was empty, as
was
the amph
ora
. He slept.

             
Connor pushed his chair from the table and arose, as one startled awake. He stared down at the head, bowed to him
–
presented to him
–
resting on the table as if awaiting his judgment. The master breathed deeply, and Connor could smell the wine fumes on his breath. Here he was
–
the man of greatness; the man of
property and wealth – in a wine-dark sleep. Connor reached forward and pulled the solid amphora out of the master’s fingers. The drunken man shuddered for a second, but then was still. Connor held the vessel in trembling hands as he starred down at his owner, the one who had bought his life from the murderers, and paid them in gold. Connor’s
breath
quickened. His chest heaved. His weight gathered back. At the edge of the table, the light flickered on the last inch of the tallow candle.

             
Gently Connor set the amphora down beside the scroll. He turned to the door, as if to go. Again he stoppe
d and looked back to Lucius
, the master of so much life and one the philosophers said was appointed by God to rule over the weak. 

             
“
Dominus
,” Connor said.

             
“
Dominus
,” h
e urged further, when the man did not move.

             
Connor reached forward and shook him by the shoulder, bracing himself lest the slave owner should suddenly turn to strike him. But Lucius still did not move.

             
Connor took the scroll under his arm and turned to go. It was not stealing
–
the
Dominus
had said that he
could borrow it. Who knew how late it was? And no one
–
especially not Montevarius
–
would accept excuses for being late for work in the morning.  But again Connor stopped. He set the book down and moved over behind the
Dominus
. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him up from the chair. He had expected that the man would at least wake up enough to stand and lean on him, but he seemed only so much dead weight. Connor bent down and hoisted the man on his shoulders easily. Montevarius was lighter than he expected. The body was lean beneath the voluminous garments. Despite his wealth, Montevarius did not seem given to eating well, and despite his energy by day the body felt old beyond his years. Carefully Connor reached down and took up Aristotle’s book in his free hand. He carried the
Dominus
over to the dark doorway that led to the stairs, and crossed the threshold.

             
The corridor at the top of the stairs was black within
–
for no one had lit the wall sconces Connor shouldered by. But he could see the gleam beyond the door at the far end, and he made for it. Montevarius stirred, but did not wake up. Connor expected that he could carry the lean man anywhere he wished in this state. They could both escape together, Connor thought
with a bitter smirk; realizing even as he did that the strong wine was playing on his head, too.

             
Connor stepped out into the candlelit room beyond. It was late, but a few of the slaves must still be astir. The curtains moved softly as night air breathed through the open windows. He saw that he was not far from the courtyard, where he had prostrated himself before the
Dominus
and begged for his freedom the last time he had been within these walls. He remembered the act with anger and disgust, but the emotions spent themselves quickly in the empty room. There was nothing to do but find some suitable place to let the master down and then to be on his way.

             
Even as Connor stepped into the long hallway, a muffled cry sounded to his blindside. He turned clumsily under his burden. A slave woman
–
about middle aged and dressed in the simple dress of the kitchen servants
–
held her hand over her mouth. She looked at Connor, her startled eyes still wide.

             
“He is not hurt, is he?”

             
There was genuine concern in her voice. Her accent was thick
–
Gothic, Connor realized, to go with her light skin and hair and tell-tale angularity of her features. Connor was learning how to identify all the
peoples that had been abandoned to this place.

             
“He is well. He is just drunk. I need a couch or someplace I can put him.”

             
“No.
No, young man.
We must take him to his room. We do not want the others to see him this way.”

             
Connor shifted his master’s weight on his shoulders. 

             
The woman took a light from one of the wall sconces and led Connor down the hall. She climbed the steps there ahead of him, looking back anxiously to see if Connor was following safely.

             
They entered the hallway of the third level. Like the first hallway, this was open to the courtyard on one side. The breeze carried the mingled fragrances of thousands of flowers up, filling their lungs with every breath. A small part of Connor’s mind was still aware that it was not too late
–
that his enemy was still completely in his power. But he did nothing but follow the woman with the light.

             
“How much further?”
Connor a
sked, again shifting Lucius
on his shoulders.

             
“Not far,” the woman answered.
“Just around the next corner, to the big doors.”

             
Just ahead, a door opened, and candlelight
flooded towards the moonlight. A slender form stepped out and turned towards them. Connor felt the breath catch in his throat even as the girl stifled a cry. Connor stared into the face of
Lucia
, daughter of Montevarius. A thin gown barely hid her supple body. Her black hair was unbound. Her face was lit by moonlight, making it appear white and smooth as alabaster. But her green eyes burned with intensity, and Connor quickly realized that they were locked on the lax body of her father and not on him. 

             
Connor opened his mouth to offer her assurance, but the slave woman spoke first.

             
“He is alright,
Domina
,” she spoke with a quick bow of her head. “This good man was watching over him, and we are just taking him to bed now that he is ready.”

             
Lucia
nodded. Connor could see in her eyes that she was well acquainted with this scene, but that this familiarity did nothing to ease her concern.

             
Without a word, she moved out of her room and led them; constantly looking back to her father, and occasionally glancing at the man who carried him.

             
Connor drank in the sight of her. The moonlight danced on her form, as an impish goddess delighting in
tormenting him with the hint of her shape. Connor was compelled forward, to try to come into any kind of contact with her, or to even let the breeze carry the suggestion of her to him.

             
But suddenly, reality pushed past the wine joy and past the trance of this young woman. Connor realized he was deep within the family home. Behind any of these doors the son of Lucius may lie. Connor’s heart quickened at the thought of his enemy. And what would that monster say when he saw Connor carrying his father, the way a dutiful slave should? And what would the young man do, to pay him for his good deed? Connor silently cursed himself. What a fool he was! Here, carrying his owner, the depriver of his God-given freedom; even following his daughter as a dog might, waiting to hungrily accept even the slightest gift of attention she may bestow.

             
Lucia
opened the double doors to an expansive room. Even without much light, Connor picked out the wide, canopied bed at the far side of the room. He made for it and set Lucius Montevarius down to sleep as best as he may. The women moved in as Connor stepped back, relieved of his burden and yet saddled with another.

             
“Help me undress him and cover him to sleep,”
Lucia
said to the slave woman.

             
Without ano
ther word Connor tucked the scroll
under his arm and turned to go. He half expected one of the two to call after him demanding to know where he was going with such a valuable item.

             
“Slave,
”
Lucia
called. The word
stabbed into Connor’s back.

             
“Thank you,” she said. She turned back to her father without waiting for a reply.

             
Connor hastened out. Best to go the way he had come.
Best not to run into anybody.
He tried to slow his steps
–
best not to be seen running as well. But he was sick to be out of the villa. He had wasted far too much time here tonight. He found his way back to the wine cellar, grabbed his lifter’s gift, and then
went
out the service door.