Atilus the Slave. E. C. Tubb
Thrusting himself forward, the Greek touched me, his lips moist, his hands clammy.
‘An unexpected pleasure,’ he purred. ‘A young boy who can talk a civilised language. I think I could use such a lad. Oiled, taught a few of the more tender arts, he could command a fair price in Antioch.’
‘Greeks!’ The burly man spat. ‘You turn a man’s stomach.’
‘Careful, Brachus!’
‘Why? I’m a Roman citizen and as good as any man who walks the earth. You want to bid for the boy? Then name your figure, but by all the gods you’ll not get him cheap!’
His anger was real and I sensed a rivalry of long standing between the two men. Another of the buyers came forward, ran his hands over my shoulders, arms and body, stared into my eyes then shook his head.
‘No. Taming him would take too long. You’re a fool to consider him, Thalidies, he could do your client a serious injury.’
‘Stick to the east if you want perverts,’ advised another. ‘That young barbarian can’t be trusted. What do you know of him, decarus?’
‘He knifed a legionary,’ said Mucius stiffly. ‘It took three to hold him.’
An exaggeration, but it worked. The Greek shrugged and turned away. Brachus remained, his eyes thoughtful. I saw him whisper to Mucius and coins changed hands.
Later, on the way to the auction block, Mucius trod heavily on my foot. I was limping as I mounted the pedestal and a small, crippled boy was of little worth.
Brachus bought me cheap, but he didn’t keep me for long. He sold me to a man who owned land and a villa in Narbonese Gaul.
CHAPTER THREE
Publius Varus Severus was a tall, spare man in his middle forties. His shoulders were stooped, his lips thin, and he walked with a slight limp, the relic of a wound he had received during military service. He was a widower with a son a year older than myself, his other, older son, having died three years earlier. It was for the sake of Macer rather than a need for slaves which made him interested in me.
His villa was at Vienne, which lay to the south of Lyons where Brachus had disposed of the other slaves he had bought. We had travelled fast, yet had been caught by the winter, and I was cold and miserable as we were led into the house.
Severus prodded me as if I had been a horse.
‘He’s fit, Domini,’ said Brachus. ‘Strong bones and muscles and his teeth are sound. Open your mouth, boy.’
Severus nodded as he looked inside. He wore a heavy ring on his hand, the signet of a member of the equestrian order. A knight, he had great local influence and family connections in Rome.
‘From Britain, you say?’
‘Taken during the Emperor’s campaign. He fought like a man and put up such a good show the legionaries spared him. As a soldier yourself, Domini, you can appreciate how they like a display of courage. He’s a little wild, but can be tamed. And he speaks good Latin and knows Greek.’
‘Greek?’
‘Yes.’ Brachus had been pleased at the discovery; it enhanced my value. ‘And he’s tough. He kept up all the time even though his feet were bleeding. You could use him in the fields, but he’d be of greater value in the house. It would be a pity to waste all that education.’
‘Your name, boy?’
I told him and Brachus slapped my face.
You address the Domini as “master”,’ he snapped. ‘And your name is simply Atilus, a slave needs no more than one.’
The blow had been hard and I lowered my face to stare at the elaborate mosaics set into the floor of the atrium. It was a large chamber with glowing braziers set at intervals and a line of statues at the walls. The air was warm and scented with the tang of incense which had been burned before the household gods. There were couches and low tables set with vases of alabaster. The house itself was the largest I had ever entered and I wondered why, if the Romans had so much, they should be greedy for more.
Severus said, thoughtfully, ‘He needs taming, you say?’
‘Training, rather, Domini. The Britons are savages and unused to civilised customs, but he is young and will quickly learn. I thought of you as soon as I saw him.’
‘The price?’
‘Twenty gold pieces.’
‘Ten. I could use the boy, but the price of slaves has fallen and will drop even lower now that the Emperor has taken Britain. Take it or leave it, I am not inclined to haggle.’
Brachus took it and I entered the household.
I was house-trained, taught certain skills, even tutored after a fashion, but my main purpose was to fetch and carry and to attend Macer wherever he went.
As the years passed we grew close.
He was lonely, chafing at the restrictions of the farm, impatient to enter the life beyond. Though he was older than I was, he had barely more growth, a lack he tried to make up with strenuous exercise. Together we chopped wood, swinging axes until our muscles ached, digging, running, leaping from tuft to tuft of the thick grass which grew in the western marshes.
I grew tall and strong. The food, though plain, was wholesome, and the female slaves in the kitchens always had a little extra to spare. One of them, Celia, used to save scraps from the master’s table, sharing them with me as we sat beneath the trees edging the slave quarters.
She was of Macer’s age, a slim, dark-haired girl with a budding figure, and was already conscious of her physical attractions. Some of the men had tried to get close to her and she told me about it as we chewed fragments of chicken and goose.
‘Cilo tried to kiss me this morning,’ she said casually. ‘He said he loved me, but all he wants is to use my body. Do you, Atilus?’
‘Love you?’
‘Use my body, stupid. You know what women are for, don’t you?’ She bit into another scrap of meat. ‘Is it true that before a fight all the British warriors lie with women? And if there aren’t enough women to go around, they share what is available?’
‘No,’ I said flatly. ‘That isn’t true.’
‘How can you be sure? You were only a boy at the time. Anyway, you can’t deny they fight naked and covered with paint.’
‘That isn’t true, either. Woad isn’t paint.’
‘It’s close enough.’ She shrugged and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Kiss me, Atilus.’
She was on me before I knew it, body pressing, lips rammed against my own. As a kiss it was clumsy, but I was young and couldn’t help but respond. Laughing she pulled away.
‘There, Atilus, you see? You’re just like all the rest. Think of me the next time Macer takes you to the baths.’
The day was warm, but I felt a chill as I entered the house. Celia had reminded me of things I had almost forgotten. The strongest grief can be eased by time and now the past seemed very remote. The life of the villa had enfolded me, kept me busy, softened me while it developed both body and mind. I was a slave and had accepted the life of a slave. Romans fed, housed, and clothed me and, like a tamed beast, I no longer flinched at the touch of the hands which had made it captive.
For that Didius was partly to blame.
The tutor was an old man, a Greek, and he had been delighted to learn that I spoke his tongue, though badly. He had insisted that we speak it together when Macer was present, and much to Severus’s pleasure, both he and I had gained proficiency in the language. He had given the old man a new woollen garment. I had received nothing, but I was only a barbarian, while Didius was the product of a civilisation which had been old when Rome was