Memoirs Of Vinca
A Slave Girl In Rome's Imperial Palace,
c.170-181 AD
Translator's Note:
It is rumoured that the manuscript was discovered, in near-pristine condition, beneath the stone floor of a long-since-abandoned Roman villa on the hillsides near Syracuse, modern-day Sicily, around 400AD. By this time well into its period of fragmentation and eventual collapse, the Roman Empire (or to be more precise, those charged with preserving and upholding its resonance,) was apt to cling to any memento, however rudimentary, of its former greatness, indeed, of its very existence.. The manuscript was later placed alongside the works of renowned scholars and scribes such as Seneca, Cicero, Pliny and Marcus Aurelius himself in the Great Library of Alexandria, Egypt, miraculously surviving the inferno that engulfed the library in 740 AD, when it was torched by an invading Muslim army. Over 1,800 years since it was first composed, it has finally found a home at the John Rylands Library in Manchester, England, renowned for its collection of antique writings, many from the pen of ordinary people.
Contents aside, the astonishing aspect of these memoirs is the author herself, a former slave no less, who appears to have composed them during a period when such persons were generally presupposed to be illiterate. Having studied the manuscript at length, historians have concluded that the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, himself a man of letters of no mean ability and champion of the disadvantaged, may have encouraged his slaves to learn literacy for the sake of personal betterment. Slaves, given the opportunity to earn their freedom after years of devoted service, often required some marketable skill or trade to prepare them for life post-manumission; literacy would help to increase their opportunities tenfold.
The most startling revelation of all, however, occurs at the memoirs' close, which ultimately I do not intend to disclose at this point. Once more, we may question the accuracies behind the words, but if we consider that these memoirs were apparently written without publication in mind and, what is more, by a former slave who was incidentally female,, then surely, gifted in mind, spirit and articulation yet socially disadvantaged in so many other ways, would she really have had anything to lose by revealing the truth?
Thomas Blanchett PhD MPhil
Professor Of Classics, The University Of Manchester
I was born in Roman-occupied Britannia. My mind has blocked most of that terrible day, namely the day when the men in red cloaks and crested helmets took me away from my family, wrenched me panicked and screaming from the arms of my mother. I dimly recall a furore of some kind, an uprising, a terrible battle. My father, one of our village chieftains, had decided that it was time to take a stand once and for all against our Roman occupiers, an enterprise that was, in hindsight, doomed to failure. Our occupiers were too fast, too strong, too organised. I don't remember anything else. I was eight years old.
I do recall, with vivid and bitter clarity, the long and arduous journey crouched in the stinking bowels of a galleon, legs and feet chained together, quivering and petrified. Numerous other captives occupied this cramped space; all were silent, not least because of the scowling centurion posted permanently at the door. My knees were tucked up tightly into my chest, my long red hair, usually curly and abundant, had grown limpid and dull, thanks to a lack of washing. We were fed twice a day, usually a bowl of thin, watery soup and a hunk of bread, almost always stale. I'd never been so hungry in my life. After spending what felt like several weeks in this unenviable condition, the ship finally docked at the port city I later came to know as Ostia. From here, our feet unbound, we were loaded on to carts of various sizes. I still had no idea where I was, or where I would be taken. In fact, I was convinced we were still in Britannia. I wondered when my parents would arrive to take me home. For all I knew, I had been taken on a long and arduous boat journey as punishment for my so-called misdemeanours, which appeared to consist of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, after which I would be returned, grateful and smiling, to my parents. It wasn't to be.
Everyone-that is, the milling soldiers and the drivers of the carts, seemed to be speaking in Latin, a language of which I had only the most rudimentary grasp at that time. The native tongue of our conquerors, and the language which we, the conquered, had been forced to acquire. One or two stood their ground, looking bored, while the others chattered, joked and milled. As we mounted the carts, the soldiers shouted instructions to the drivers, two words standing out amongst all others; "Roma" and Neopolis." I had heard of "Roma" over the years; it was a place spoken of in hushed, reverent tones among the crested legions skirting the barriers my village. I recall making my way home from play in the forest as dusk began to fall, passing a small group of centurions supping wine around a camp-fire, complaining about the temperamental Briton weather and their longing for the day of their return to t "majestic, sun-kissed Rome". The carts departed in different directions, some bound for Neopolis, which I took to be another city; the others, my cart included, bound for Rome and the beginnings of my new life.
It didn't take me long to work out that this place, wherever or whatever it was, certainly wasn't Britannia, or at least not the Britannia of my memory. Once out in the open countryside, I noticed that the surrounding landscapes were dramatically different; the hillsides and fields gleamed copper and gold beneath the sun's relentless heat, the pathways lined with olive groves and unusual flora. The city of Ostia itself was far grander than anything I'd ever seen. A kind-hearted woman offered me some water from a satchel, holding the vessel to my lips as I supped gratefully. I passed the satchel back to her; she offered it to the man sitting to her right. I wiped my mouth and tried to go to sleep, only to be crudely interrupted by one of the guards. "No sleeping allowed yet!" he hissed.
My young mind, hitherto having travelled no further than the borders of my village, was unprepared for the sheer, blinding magnificence of Rome, epicentre of the world. Approaching its imposing gates, bearing the inscription SPQR and crowned by a fearsome-looking eagle with wings outstretched, my eyes widened in shock and surprise. Simply put, the city was immense, and overwhelmingly so. Its buildings appeared carved from the very clouds themselves; majestic, white, stretching as far as the hilly horizons. Other structures were equally large but obviously much, much older, and somewhat run-down in comparison. All were embossed by grand reliefs and solemn inscriptions and were supported by smooth, fat pillars. Passing the rotund, gigantic structure I later came to know as the Flavian Ampitheatre, I gasped audibly, prompting the driver to hiss, "Silence!" Everywhere there were statues of important looking people; armoured Gods and rulers with fists clenched and swords held aloft in universal gestures of triumphalism, half-clad Goddesses radiating sensual power. The blazing sun penetrated my vision, causing white spots to dance before my eyes.
If Romes' buildings projected a sense of divinity and austerity, it was her people who helped to add the splashes of colour to her neutral palette. Some were elegantly attired, others shabbily. The clothing ranged from austere to gaudy to the downright outrageous. Shopkeepers and stall-holders shouted and haggled; men and women of innumerable nationalities gathered and gossiped; prostitutes reclined in doorways, proffering their fleshy wares. It seemed that the whole of humanity lived and laughed and loved within the parameters of this hot, bustling, reckless city.
Soon our little cart ground to a halt before a vast Forum bedecked with stalls and scurrying, noisy people. The driver dismounted and beckoned to us to get out. Almost on cue a second man appeared, brandishing a clinking bag of coins. The driver glanced at the bags' contents disapprovingly, tipped them into his palm, counted them and re-mounted the cart, grumbling all the while. He drove off without saying goodbye to us. The second man gestured at us to follow him. We were led to a large platform located at the other end of the Forum, I keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my feet to avoid the inquisitive stares of the curious throng.
On the platform stood a rag-tag group of individuals shuffling nervously from one foot to the other, their eyes filled with shame. I scanned them all, looking for the distinctive flash of my mothers' red hair. There was, in fact, a red-haired female on the platform, but she couldn't have been a day older than fifteen; besides which, she resembled my mother in no other way whatsoever. A plump man with a beard, receding hair and a purple-and blue robe stood at a lectern, gesturing frantically, chattering away with rapid ease, his comments provoking occasional waves of laughter from the swarming mob at the foot of the stage. A tall, Herculean-looking man with long blond hair and a simple tunic was brought forward to the appreciative gasps of the female - and some of the male -audience members. The plump man began to describe the man's multifarious qualities, demonstrating size by flinging his arms wide, and great strength by flexing his bicep. The crowd responded wildly, whooping and hollering, the word "sesterces," the Roman system of coinage, figuring prominently. "What is this place? I whispered to the woman standing next to me, a fellow Briton. "I think its a slave market, my dear," she replied, without a trace of humour in her voice. Finally a "sale" was made, the plump "auctioneer" striking the top of the lectern with a tiny hammer, and the hulking blond man was led to greet his new owners, an elegantly-dressed, middle-aged couple.
We were instructed to mount the platform. The heat was stifling, and the crowd was becoming restless. I found myself positioned next to a tiny, mouselike girl about my age or possibly younger, with hair the colour of a sparrow's wing, round dark eyes resembling twin moons in her starved little face, and skin so pale it was almost transparent. She was frail, and quite explicitly 1terrified. Wondering whether she, like I, was a Briton, I spoke a few words to her, hoping to ease her fears. She simply stared at me in reply, uncomprehending, blinking her enormous eyes. The plump man beckoned to her to move forward, which she did, albeit tentatively.....very tentetively. The crowd audibly groaned, having registered her tininess and apparent frailty. The girl stared at her feet, then looked back at me in a sudden, desperate burst of communion. I thought I saw tears flicker in her large, dark eyes.
The auctioneer did his best to "sell" the girl, but the crowd respnded feebly, put off, apparently, by her physical frailty and naked display of fear. Shaking his head, the man abandoned his lectern and then, taking my wrist, led me to the front of the stage. The crowd resumed their bidding...I was taller and fuller-figured than the little mouse- girl and therefore, in their eyes, stronger. Eventually, a sale was made! Two for the price of one. Our purchaser, a tall man clad in a robe of pale yellow silk, with close-cropped dark hair and ears which seemed unduly prominent, ascended the steps to meet us, his newest acquisitions. Astonishing me by addressing me in Briton, my native tongue, he informed me that "you and your friend are extremely privileged little girls, indeed." I was curious to know why, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned to the mouse-girl and addressed her in what appeared to be her native language. She simply nodded in reply and bit her fingernail. I thought the man sounded very clever. "Where's she from?" I asked the man. "She didn't understand me when I spoke to her." "Gallia" he replied, simply. I'd heard of Gaul, a land across the sea from Britannia. I was eager to ask him how he'd managed to learn so many languages, but my courage failed me at the last.
He asked us to follow him. We got into another cart, this one mercifully covered by an awning that helped shield us from the blazing heat. A little while later the cart pulled into the courtyard of the most auspicious-looking building I had yet encountered during my brief view of Rome. Jumping out of the cart, I took in the awe-inspiring view of the vast, sweeping steps leading up to its grand entrance. A tall, stony-faced man in a dark-crested helmet strode over.. Our large-eared purchaser immediately struck his chest with his fist and bowed his head, the crestedman responding in kind. Our purchaser spoke. "Ah, Quintus, good to see you, my friend. I don't suppose we could use the front entrance this time, could we?" he said, his voice twinkling mischievously. The dark-crested man, obviously a guard of some description, didn't even flinch.
"The servant's entrance is at the rear of the building, something you should be aware of by now, Laurentius" he replied.
"Good to see old Quintus hasn't lost his cutting sense of humour" grumbled the man, once the guard was out of earshot.
We were led down a walled, winding staircase at the rear of the building, leading to the steamy enclaves of a large kitchen complex. A rangy, angular woman with coal- black hair piled atop her graceful head was waiting to greet us. "Laurentius!" she said warmly, embracing him with affection. "At last you've arrived! These two the new workers?" she enquired, acknowledging our presence with a cursory glance. Laurentius and the woman seemed somewhat fond of each other, I noticed. Her sharp eyes analysed our presence, her smile faltering a little as she registered the little Gaul girl's birdlike proportions. "Not so sure about this one, Laurentius. She seems a little frail and, in my opinion, ill. It's not easy down here, you know..." The little Gaul girl bit her lip and shifted nervously.
"She'll grow. All she needs is some solid Roman food and a few months' graft and she'll be fine. You do fuss so, Trincula." he replied. "In any case, I got them both, including the Briton, for the price of one."
"Good. I can tell this one's strong," she said, coming over to me. "Goodness me, look at all that hair! We'll have to check you for lice, my dear..." she said, her voice trailing off as Laurentius turned to leave.
"Surely you don't have to leave yet, Laurentius?" she said, her disappointment barely concealed.
"Got to finish my accounts, Trincula. I'll be here next week, same time, same place" He shrugged and left. The woman sighed and turned to us.
"Ah well, to business. You two might not be aware of this yet, or indeed appreciate it, but you are extremely privileged young ladies. You are standing in the kitchens of the Imperial Palace, residence of the Emperor himself. We have to maintain the highest standards here, and both of you will be instrumental in upholding them. I hope..." she murmured, glancing at the Gaul.
"You will work here in a domestic capacity, and we expect nothing less than exemplary performance and behaviour from both of you. Your hands will be cracked and sore, your limbs will ache all over, you'll never get a good nights' sleep again, but you will be consoled by the knowledge that your toil is for the glory of the Emperor and of the Empire itself." I got the distinct impression that she loved the sound of her own voice.
"And then, one day," she went on, "If you work hard, then your freedom will be yours for the taking. "Although," she continued, descending her verbal Mount Olympus, "I wouldn't bet on it if I were you. I've been here for nigh-on twenty years, since I was a nipper, and I'm still no closer to being manumitted. Ah well, such is life. From now on, both of you will speak in Latin only. We have quite a few Britons and Gauls here, most of them are fluent now, they will instruct you where necessary. Tell me, what are your names? We will have to change them..."
Thereafter, I was known as Vinca, and the little Gaul, whose real name was unpronouncable to me (and to Trincula-it amused me to hear her try to repeat it) was subsequently renamed Hestia. She would become one of my closest friends over the next ten years. Incidentally, the name "Vinca" means "winner," It's a name which carries more than its fair share of irony, since I lost everything, namely my freedom and any chance of ever being returned to my parents, the day I received it.