Chapter Five

I tried to sleep, but soon found the task impossible. The constant bumping of the carriage against the stone-paved roads, and the gentle rattling of the wheels tore me from my dreams. The little rest I managed was tormented with nightmares, and I would wake moments after shutting my eyes, screaming in madness. In consciousness, I was tortured with hallucinations. My mind imagined shadows of demons coming forth toward me from the dark umbras of the carriage; they seemed to hover above the ground, with their feet dangling lifelessly toward the floor. I trembled in dread of their presence, and as their glowing eyes narrowed, my screaming would lessen to that of choked sobs. When I finally became to weak to produce any cries and fell quiet, the man who purchased me would sit me up and pull me against his chest. Once I was in his arms the phantoms disappeared, and in certainty of my safely, I would be overcome with fatigue and sleep. This cycle continued until he finally pressed a small glass to my lips filled with a bitter liquid. I compliantly drank it, and within seconds my eyelids become heavy. I remember thinking to myself that I would shut them for a little while, and then open them again so that I may look at the man… I felt such relief as they closed that I quickly fell into a sweet slumber, of which no disturbance could wake me from.

It was only by the gentle touch of a warm cloth to my forehead that I was brought from my slumber. I cannot say how many days had passed; all I know is that when I opened my eyes, I saw nothing but an unending darkness, and for a brief moment I feared that I had gone blind. I brought my hand before my face and made the dim outline of my fingers out against the ebony surroundings. Even as they were shadowed they seemed beautiful to me; my long fingers, that curved so gracefully forward, seemed perfectly formed, and I could not but help relish in the sin of pride. Satisfied by my beauty, and the fact that I was able to admire it, the terror left me, and I let my hand fall to my side.

Though I could see little, the sensations about my body enticed me. I felt the soft brush of a silk blanket against my nude flesh, and a stuffed pillow cradled my head, made warm by the heat of my neck. Wet strands of my hair clung to the sides of my face, weighted down by the sweat that traveled from my forehead. The very bed I laid upon felt as if one had thrown water onto it, though I knew by the sticky sensation that it was nothing so simple, but more a sign of my own illness.

As the thought of water crossed my mind, I came to realize the dryness of my parched throat. In desperation I tried to swallow, only to find that it was impossible, and brought me great pain. I pressed my tongue against the insides of my cheeks, seeking the tinniest drop of saliva, and yet found nothing of substance. I moaned softly in misery and tossed my head.

As this very moan left my lips, a bowl was pressed to them. I became quiet and sealed them. The familiar voice of the man who had purchased me shattered the room’s silence.

“Drink, my slave. It is water.”

At his words, I allowed my lips part, and sweet water poured into my mouth. The taste of it brought me such satisfaction that I lifted my head from the pillow and drank until the glass was emptied of its contents. When I was finished, I fell back against my pillow gasping. I found the perspiration that covered my pillow to be cold against the back of my neck and turned uneasily.

The man’s voice spoke to me once again. His tone was exceedingly gentle, as though he took great care to lessen the intensity with each of his words.

“Tell me your name, so that I will not have to call you slave. If you do, I will pour you more water.”

The idea of more water could have procured any information from me and his offer was far more effective then any torture. I wanted nothing more then to swallow another mouthful of water from his glass; as I imagined it my throat pained. My mind was dumb by the want of water, and I could barely find the words to answer him.

“It is Sergius…”

“No, you are not Etruscan, and that is a Etruscan name. What was your first name, slave? The one your mother gave you?”

I paused at his request; even in my delusional state I found his interest of my original name strange.

“Salius; she named me Salius…”

After I spoke, the comforting sound of cascading water reached my ears, and quickly enough water was once more passing through my lips. I drank it slowly this time, taking an effort to savor each bit of it, as if it were Lucretius offering me his precious wine.

“Salius is a fair enough name.” The man spoke as I drank. “I will call you that, boy. Where do you come from?”

He drew away the glass to force my answer, and I let out a cry. The man was insistent and repeated his question, shaking the glass so that I could hear the sound of the water.

“I am from the land—from Capua…”

“Where did you come from before you were brought to Capua as a slave? You do not look of Etruscan decent; your skin is too white.”

“I came from the sea…”

“The sea is in many places.”

“The sea… Where else is it? No, in my village… It was there… With Cassia, and the children… And fire… Oh, but there was so much water there…”

My voice fell silent at this, and the man took pity to me. He let returned the bowl to my lips and let me have my fill of it. I drank the water greedily, allowing the cherished liquid to dribble from the sides of my mouth and travel down my neck. When it was empty, I desperately licked the inside of the bowl; my tongue still felt dry.

To my dismay master offered me no more water, but set the bowl down onto the ground. My bedside sank, and I felt his cold hand fall against my arm. The tips of his fingers were like biting bits of frost against my skin, and I struggled to not pull away from him.

He spoke softly to me in Latin. I strained to hear his voice, though since I was now both fed and quenched of my thirst, I found it easier to decipher his accent. His words were not choppy and rough as the men at market had been, but excessively smooth. Each phrase he spoke seemed to rise in a crescendo of ardor, and ever so gently glide back into a whisper. He did this in such a subtle way that it seemed as though it was entirely natural.

“You have pretty eyes, but you are ugly, Salius.” He whispered. “There are spots lining your arms, and your hair is thin. Your gums and fingernails bleed. It is difficult to look at you and not vomit. You truly are not worth what I paid; the man has robbed me.”

His cruel words brought no sorrow to me, and I replied to him with sincere simplicity.

“Perhaps, yes, I am ugly… Kill me then, for you can… Poison… And then, when I am dead, you can bury me and we will both be happy, because I will not hurt…”

“And why should I need to burry you?”

“What else may you do when I die?”

“Oh—I may cremate you, or leave you to rot. No, I will not let you die. I should sell you to the mines; they can make use of such repulsiveness…”

And while none of his others words offended me, this simple threat was enough to strike fear into my heart. I began to weep, and as his hands fell over my mouth, I pulled them away and begged him to reconsider. My voice trembled as I spoke, and warm tears traveled down the sides of my nose. The man jerked his hands away from my gasp and with the soft fabric of his toga wiped them away.

“Be clam, my dear Salius! I mean nothing of what I say. See? Your hair is not so thin—and even if it was, you have such beautiful blonde curls… And while your fingernails bleed, the fingers themselves are perfectly formed and without calluses. One cannot see these spots in the dark, either. I have exaggerated; you are not hideous!”

What the man said, he said without equivocation. The words left his mouth with a loving tone of reassurance, and not even the slightest hint of hesitance could be detected in them. His voice filled my heart with a strange sense of peace, and my crying gradually softened, until the room itself was completely silent. In relief I let my body fell limp against the silk sheets. A sigh of contentment escaped my lip, and as the beads of perspiration glided carelessly down my cheeks, I thought to myself that they felt the same as tears.

The man’s hand passed over my forehead and his fingertips stroked the beginning of my hairline. As his moist skin met with my own, I was once again reminded of the warmness of my body. The heat seemed to consume me from within; a fire coursed through my veins, and its scorching torridity caused each of my muscles to scream with pain.

“Am I dying?” I asked him. As I spoke, my voice rasped, and my cheeks burned in shame of its sound.

The man did not reply to my question, but instead let his hand fall back to my arm.

Without meaning to, I fell asleep.

The Gods must have pitied me, for as I slept I dreamt of my Cassia. We sat upon an elevated cliff along the shores of our old village and looked out past the unending sea. In my dream she was living, and I was entirely ignorant of her death; I thought nothing of the sacred brush of her thigh against mine, or the smoothness of her delicate hand as I held it. It was only from habit that I took a long look at her face, for her beauty always fascinated me; her golden hair, disturbed by the wind, covered part of it, and allowed me only a glimpse of single blue eye. It seemed to be both beautiful and mysterious; the delicate lines of her iris were like a blooming flower, and seemed to be of infinite number. As her eyelid fell shut, I turned away, musing on the graceful curling of her lashes, and finding content in the fact that she was my wife.

The scent of the sea, the cool breeze and the feeling of dry grass against my folded legs satisfied me, and I was at peace. The soothing cries of the gulls and the repetitive bounding of the waves against the cliff rocks sounded to me as a lullaby. I laid back down against the loving earth, gazed upward to the cerulean sky and closed my eyes. It was then that I was torn from my peace.

A hand gently patted the side of my cheek and forced me from my sleep. When I did not respond, a solicitous voice spoke my name. I became frightened and hesitantly parted my eyes. Staring down at me, with a face of utter worry, was my master. He was illuminated by a series of oil candles that were lined against the wall; I took a quick glance to them, and about the room I was captive in, only to loyally return my gaze to him. Of all the things in the room, none caught my eyes as he did. My master seemed to glow with the most magnificence, and as I watched him, the frown he wore for a moment turned to a smile. It disappeared quickly, and he shed the look of worry, reverting instead back to his classic expression of stoicism.

“Salius,” he whispered, taking care once again to make his words gentle, “someone is here for you. May I remove your tunic?”

I looked to him and remained silent, trying to understand the meaning of his words. He saw my disorientation and repeated his question slowly in Etruscan. A hint of compassion passed over his eyes; there was a quick glimmer of clemency in them, if one would dare to call it that. A cruel master would have frustrated, and simply ripped the tunic from me with no regard as to my dignity; with his request, I was able to preserve the little of it that I held to. I nodded to him as best I could, lacking the strength to speak, and he tenderly pulled it over my head and set it aside.

My head was light then, I understood little of what was happening. My master told me that I needed to stand, and when he saw it was hopeless, he helped me sit and pulled me to my feet. As he supported my limp body by underneath my underarms, another man dressed in a modest toga came before me. He took my hand and examined the tips of my fingernails, and then brought his eyes close to my arm. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he bowed my head, and stroked his fingers through my hair. He felt my forehead with his shaky hand and then forced my mouth open with a metal object. As he inspected it inside, my gums burned, and it felt as if though he was digging his dirty nails into them. I jerked at the discomfort, but dared to do no more, for fear that my master would anger. The man continued doing such strange things for many minutes, and when my legs became weak, I was allowed to sit onto the bed, where he continued.

As the man did these things to me, warm tears fell down the sides of my face, though I took care to not cry. Already my life had been sold two times with no regard, and I now feared that the third time had come. There was nothing that made the situation unique to me, there was no comforting doubt or feeling of utter disbelief to help my consternation. I must have shown my alarm, for my master put his hand onto my shoulder and assured me in a tender voice that I would remain his. When the man said he was done with me, my master helped me lay back down upon the bed and covered me with thin sheets.

I closed my eyes and listened to them speak to one another. They spoke in Greek, but their conversation was slow, and I was able to comprehend most of what they said to one another. My master began with a solemn voice that I strained to hear.

“And is he to die, then?”

As he said this, my eyes opened, and I felt my heartbeat quicken. I turned my head to see that their backs were toward me; their figures were but faint shadows against the flickering light.

“No, no; it is only a fever. You say that you purchased at the market days ago, correct? Many slaves go through such ordeals; the stress gives it to them. Give him water, and a bit of vinegar, and he will become well. He is severely dehydrated, and that accounts for his weakness.”

“What of the bleeding on his gums, and the loss of his hair? And those ugly spots that line his arms! I have bought plenty of house slaves, and never have seen such a thing.”

“Many soldiers suffer such ailments. If there is plentiful fruit, and you feed him a glass of wine each day, these symptoms will go away. They are mild, truly. Are you planning to sell him as an actor? What a shame it would be for such a lovely creature to be cut to pieces…”

“I do not intend to give him such a fate; there is no time. He will be my personal servant.”

A gentle chuckle came from the man.

“I have forgotten entirely, my Claudius. You plan to leave for Greece soon, do you not? The theater will surely miss you… What wonderful men you have provided for it.”

“I am not precisely sure, though I know it will be before the winter solstice. How much is your payment?”

“Three hundred denarius.”

“Have you raised your prices again?”

“Only a bit, Claudius. My manner of work is…”

“You need not explain yourself; it is of no matter. Come with me, and I will pay you your gold.”

They walked toward a door, and as they did, their bodies blocked the oil lamp’s light. As the blanket of darkness fell across my face, an overwhelming feeling of enervation consumed me. I closed my eyes, and as the light fell back over me, hardly minded the redness I saw through my lids. What peace enveloped my body; warmth radiated through my limbs, causing them to tingle. It felt as though I was dying.

And as the men left the room, I noticed that only one set of footsteps rang out against the floor. I moaned gently, tossed my head, but could procure no further energy from my muscles.

I laid there in my languor and accepted the phenomenon as a product of my imagination.

When the man finally returned to me and sat at my beside, all but one of the oil lamps had gone out. I was incapable of movement and lay there in misery, taking in labored breaths, and agonizing at each fall of my chest. The sweat had stopped collecting on my brow, and now felt dry against the warm air, as though my skin had become a desert. My stomach turned nervously and my heart raced with desire; each pulse reminded me of the steady dripping of water, and I hallucinated that a glass was before me, a fingers length away from my lips. I tried to lift my hand but could not, and watched in distress as it tipped and poured. The precious liquid cascaded downward onto my shriveled body, and I imagined the feeling of it against my chest; it was cool and its refreshment only added to my yearning. A feeling of thirst, so terrible that it cannot be comprehended, embedded itself into every organ of my body. The torment of it brought me to insanity, and as I lay there, I mouthed the Etruscan word for water. When none came, I tried the word much more in Latin, and then gave in, allowing my consciousness to slip from me.

And at the very moment the last of my awareness, the man’s finger rolled down my bottom lip and parted my teeth. A steady stream of water surged past them, and in instinct I swallowed it, recognizing it as being sweet, but incapable of understanding it was water. I parted my eyes and stared up at my master; his face was blurred, and I strained to make out his eyes.

“Poor boy, poor boy…” He repeated. I fidgeted ever so slightly, and a sloppy stream of water escaped down the side of my cheek. “Forgive me, Salius. I have neglected you. Do not move.”

I laid there obediently for him, and drank eagerly from the bowl he offered until it emptied. Its amount satisfied me, and the burning feeling of want that crippled my limbs was replaced with that of content. As my eyesight returned to me, and I made out the figure of my master’s face against the dimness of the room. He seemed even more beautiful then before, and as I realized the absolute perfection of his features, a sudden feeling of embarrassment consumed me. I recalled his words and thought of my own appearance. Though I had never seen my face, or managed to look at the scars that covered my back, I imagined my pulchritude to be nonexistent, and for the first time in my life was shameful of it.

My master stared at me in silence, offering not even the smallest hint of his emotion. I stared deep into eyes, studying the dark rings of his iris, and looked for the slightest deviation of sentiment, but could find nothing. When I glanced down and away from him, he apathetically set the bowl down onto the bed and placed his hands upon my shoulders. I offered him no resistance as he sat me up and pulled me against his chest, but pressed my face further into its warmth. My hand lifted timidly from the bed and managed to find a handful of his toga’s fabric. It was made of expensive silk, and felt good against my skin. I rubbed it between my fingers and experienced a strange delight in doing so. It was so delicate that it seemed a material worthy only for a God. I tried to imagine myself draped such luxury, but could not comprehend it.

“Soon you will wear silks like these.” The man whispered, as his hand passed through my oily hair. “When you are beautiful again, I will surround you with items of fancy. I will buy you yellow silks, and adorn you with jewels framed in gold. Your feet shall be cradled in the finest sandals, and your skin will be scented with imported oils. When you look into the mirror, an aureate God shall be staring back at you.”

After he said this, I became suspicious that he was drunk, and looked up at him to see if I could recognize the face of inebriation on him. My expression must have been comical, for my master smiled and let out a gentle laugh. He was truly beautiful when he smiled. His lips moist curved elegantly, parting slightly so one could see the beginnings of his teeth, and soft wrinkles formed around his mouth like crescents. And yet when his smile faded, his youthful skin returned to the same smoothness that made him so admirable; one would have mistaken him for just being born.

I was so transfixed at his loveliness that I hardly noticed as he pressed a chuck of sea salt into my mouth. Though one would have expected me to refuse it, when it met with my tongue, I was overcome with pleasure. The salt tasted good to me, and I sucked at it as a child would a cube of crystallized honey.

“You must eat all of that, or you will be sick.” He spoke. “Would you like a bit of wine and bread? The bread is fresh, and has pieces of dates baked into it…”

His soothing voice trailed off, and his eyes, staring deeply into mine, became curious. He studied me with observable concentration, and had one seen his mannerism, they would have been inclined to believe that he recognized the face of a murder in me.

The inquisitive countenance he so suddenly directed toward me struck fear into my heart. And, in my dread, a dangerous word passed from my tongue; I spoke his name. It was the first time I ever spoke directly to him with the use of a title, and his name was perhaps the most inappropriate form of addresses I could have chosen. A common master would have disciplined me with a whip for the offence, and I would have certainly died under the punitive blows. Instead of this, the man named Claudius remained still and let a frown pass over his face. The look he gave stung me with more severity than any lash could have managed.

“Why do you call me that and not ‘master’?”

In humiliation I bowed my head and waited patiently for his beating. As his hand laid itself softly upon the nape of my neck, I let out a gasp and jolted.

“I should expect my slaves to call me the title which I deserve, but you are different, Salius. You may call me Claudius. Raise your head; I will not beat you. It would be useless, for you would die before you knew any pain.”

I hesitantly lifted my head and gazed up at him. His eyes were piercing, and as he stared at me my back grew hot.

“I have invested one hundred and thirteen sestertium into you, boy. Can you possibly understand how much that is? You are in Rome now, and what is wealth in Capua is now poverty… Oh, but you are lucky you were in Capua… The story has reached here already; the other slaves murdered your master. Do you know what would have happened if you lived in Rome?” Claudius’s took my chin, and he forced my head back so that I looked directly into his eyes. “You would have been crucified. Not even your beauty could have saved you from such a fate.”

I closed my eyes and imagined my crucifixion. I watched as nails were hammered through my skin with crude mallets, and listened to the agonized crunching of my bone. I felt the heat of the merciless sun against my back, and struggled against the feeling of slow suffocation. For a brief moment I experienced the agony of death—the slow, unbinding release into absolute nothingness. When my eyes finally opened, I was convulsing in fear. The man bent down closer to me and tightened his grip on my chin.

“You do not believe me when I speak of beauty, do you? I have a secret for you, my young Salius. I have seen you before during one of Lucretius’s festivities. It was when you were healthy, and your skin clear of marks. You served me wine, and washed my hands, but refused to look at my face. It infuriated me. When you turned to tend to another I managed to see your blue eyes. The moment I realized the allurement of them—their perfect proportion, of which any sane Greek would die for—I decided that you would become mine. Lucretius was old, and I expected him to grow sick and die soon… I planed to ask him for ownership on his deathbed; he would not have denied you to me. It was a connivance that the slaves revolted and murdered him, and with great luck that I managed to find the market you were sold to…” His face abruptly turned to an expression of sedateness, and his lips grew tight. “And when I saw you again, you were sickly, and your sickness paraded your imperfection. There was no desire in my heart to buy you, for your skin was unnaturally pallid, and your cheeks had no blush in them. Those men brought you to me regardless, and you managed to further disappointment me. But when you fell at my feet and begged, it was impossible to refuse you… How callous a man must be to turn you away when you cry. You will not frustrate me with any resistance, will you, Salius? If you run away, or try to harm me, I will be blind to your tears, and have you crucified. Do you want to die in such a way?”

His question barely affected me, for my mind was occupied with trying to remember his presence at Lucretius’s party. I searched my memories for details, assured that such a man would have an impression upon me, but could find nothing. I had served wine and washed hands at many parties; the only man I could recall was a corpulent one who, after drinking several bottles, went insane and started smashing several of Lucretius’s vases. Agrippa had restrained the man with seemingly little effort, and held him until his five slaves came and helped him to his carriage. It was the party of the summer solstice, and I was certain that all Lucretius’s friends had attended. It seemed incomprehensible that I had not taken notice of a man with such elegance.

“Boy, you have not answered my question.”

The tone of my master’s voice hinted at his irritation, and so I quickly abandoned my fruitless efforts. In submission I bowed my head and answered what he requested of me.

“Please, do not sentence me to such a death.”

As I raised my head, I saw that a look of satisfaction had passed over his face. He stood up from my bedside, so swiftly that the folds of his fabric were noiseless as they fell back down to the earth, and took me beneath my arms.

“Come, Salius! Stand up, and we will go to the market!”

The thought of returning to the market terrorized me and I flung myself defiantly backward. His arms held strong, and after several seconds of such futile struggling, I let myself fall forward. My tormented screamed reverberated through the dark room, and were quickly followed by broken sobs.

My master’s hand fell over my mouth and silenced my outburst. He dipped my head back so that I looked into his eyes, and with a face of intensity attempted to comfort me.

“No, no; not to the slave market, but to the market of goods. Boy, I would not betray you.”

And that these words I fainted, for in the darkness, I saw the face of Agrippa upon him.