De Immortalitate – Immortality

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Chapter 2 – Slaves

"Istum quem servum tuum vocas ex isdem seminibus ortum eodem frui caelo, aeque spirare, aeque vivere, aeque mori."

"He whom you call your slave sprang from the same stock, is smiled upon by the same skies, and on equal terms with yourself breathes, lives, and dies."

(Seneca, Epistulae Morales Ad Lucilium, 47th letter)

Bella's POV

On the day I arrived at the villa, I was left in the front garden and no one spared me a single glance; it was as if I was invisible. The hours went by, the afternoon's light faded and I remained rooted to the same spot.

The house in front of me was so huge that I felt lost. What kind of people lived in such a large villa? No part of it attracted me. Not the large garden, the long line of columns in the entrance hall, the statues, or the fountain.

I was here only to be given as a slave to Felix's son. I was nothing more than a commodity that could be easily bought or sold – or given as a present.

The images of what Felix and his men had done to my family haunted me. I didn't dare to wonder what his son was going to do to me. I prayed to God to protect me and give me strength to face whatever would happen. Even if death was coming, at least it meant that I would meet again my parents very soon.

The night's dampness chilled me. I rubbed my hands on my arms, embracing myself, and kept looking at the atrium. Finally, I spotted a young man and an elderly woman. I wondered if they were mother and son, but the woman's clothes and attitude seemed more modest than his. The man remained in the atrium; I was going to call them and plead to let me go inside, when the woman came to fetch me.

"What's your name?" she asked. Her voice was calm and warm, and when I looked at her, she smiled at me. It was the first smile I had received since...I pushed away the memories of my parents and of the last time I had been with them.

"I'm Bella."

"I'm Esma. Come, Bella, the master wants to see you."

She reached out a hand toward me, and I stiffened, but she meant no harm. She brushed her hand on my cheek and motioned toward the atrium.

I didn't know how I was supposed to behave with the master. There had been some servants in my home, but my parents had treated them almost like members of the family.

I bowed my head when I arrived in front of the man, waiting for an order or some kind of decision from him.

When he looked at my face and I met his gaze, I felt relieved; he was serious, but his expression wasn't angry. He didn't resemble Felix. The younger man was very tall, but not as gigantic as Felix, and had neither the same pale complexion, nor those dark red eyes that I had noticed in Felix and his men. His green gaze didn't unsettle me, although I had to remember that, from now on, he had the power to decide upon life and death, at his own whim.

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Antonius' POV

The life in the domus went back to its normal course, but something changed in my habits. Almost every moment in my daily life became marked by the silent presence of the new servant.

Wherever I went, I met her more often than all the other servants combined. She brought me my breakfast, served me when I had my meals, and kept my library in order.

I never exchanged a single word with her. I even wondered if she was mute, until I saw her speaking with Esma.

I knew that my wet-nurse was constantly sending her to me, but I didn't scold her. I was glad that the new girl could bring her a distraction.

Wandering in the garden, I wished that I could also find a distraction, but my hopes were apparently not meant to become true. I could remember myself as a boy, playing in this garden, during the summers my family and I had spent here, before everything in my life was destroyed. Those same happy memories had become my nightmares.

The home where I was born was now my prison. I paced up and down the hall. I supposed I resembled the lion I saw in a cage below the stadium, when my father took me on a tour there as a boy.

I had spent hours in this atrium, waiting for any news about my father. Every time he left for war or travelling, we all knew that it could be the last time we saw him. It had been ten years since he had left and hadn't come back, and nobody could find any trace of him. My protector and my hero, the man who inspired my desire to achieve glory, to be strong, to always be brave, had become only a memory. In this house my mother, the servants, and I mourned him as we slowly learned to deal with my father's loss.

I went to the library and took some books. Being here without Caile was still odd and it saddened me; I could understand why Esma avoided entering this room. Her husband had not only been my preceptor, and the most loyal and valued freedman in the family. After Felix's disappearance, he had been a new father to me, the mentor who had guided me from my adolescence to my adulthood.

I would have wanted to ask his advice, as I had done so many times since I became the new master. But now I could rely only on the memories of the time we had spent together. As I took a philosophical essay from the shelves, I remembered one of the lessons Caile had given me.

In that distant summer night, I woke up from a nightmare, covered in sweat. I had listened to the account of the old servant who worked as a gardener in the villa. I had never seen an adult man cry, but the old man was on the verge of tears when he told what his former master had done to his son. The son of a slave can't be anything other than a slave himself, but it seemed that nobody had bothered to tell that to the young boy. He was hungry and, wandering in the kitchen, took a bread loaf without a second thought. Little did he know that it was theft and that, for a slave, it was punished with a brand.

The boy screamed for hours after he had been marked with the fire, like an animal. The word FUR on his forehead was a sign of infamy. But the worst scars were hidden inside him.

Caile understood how much this story had shocked me. The day after, in the library, he took a text by the philosopher Seneca and read it with me.

"The master eats more than he can hold, and with monstrous greed loads his belly until it is stretched and at length ceases to do the work of a belly; so that he is at greater pains to discharge all the food than he was to stuff it down. All this time the poor slaves may not move their lips, even to speak. The slightest murmur is repressed by the rod; even a chance sound, — a cough, a sneeze, or a hiccup, — is visited with the lash. There is a grievous penalty for the slightest breach of silence. All night long they must stand about, hungry and dumb.

The result of it all is that these slaves, who may not talk in their master's presence, talk about their master."

As my preceptor showed me those words, I recollected many banquets I had joined in Rome. I remembered the hungry look I had seen on the slaves' faces, when they served the luscious food that my father offered to his guests. I could have beenborn as a slave instead than of the son of a powerful politician, and be in the place of those who served us.

"Kindly remember that he whom you call your slave sprang from the same stock, is smiled upon by the same skies, and on equal terms with yourself breathes, lives, and dies," Caile continued to read.

I had never forgotten his lesson. Since my father hadn't come back and I had to be in charge, I had always done my best to keep in mind the words that my mentor had pointed out to me that day. I knew that I was stern and wasn't considered a friendly person, but I had never ordered a slave to be marked and, under my authority, nobody in my home had a permanent injury due to a punishment.

I read the same text by Seneca again. There was a passage that I had considered very obscure when I had studied it with Caile. Now I understood it even better than the rest of the philosophical work.

"They are slaves," people declare. Nay, rather they are men. "Slaves!" No, comrades. "Slaves!" No, they are unpretentious friends. "Slaves!" No, they are our fellow-slaves, if one reflects that Fortune has equal rights over slaves and free men alike.

Didn't I say to Felix that I felt as a slave, a prisoner in my own home?

Where was the gap between me and my slaves now – that same gap that, less than two years ago, seemed so insurmountable?

As often as you reflect how much power you have over a slave, remember that your master has just as much power over you. "But I have no master," you say. You are still young; perhaps you will have one.

I recalled the hopes I had about my life before Felix's return. I was thirsty for military glory, more than for the political career my father had dreamed for me. Either way, slavery was never an option for me; I would have died rather than become a slave. But now, there were too many things at stake to choose such a fast escape – as death could be. I knew the rules that my father had set. My suicide would have meant an immediate death sentence for all the people in the house.

A noise caught my attention. The new slave was putting away some Greek manuscripts that I had tried to read earlier, and had just dropped one of them. I didn't bother to scold her for her clumsiness; I didn't give a damn about those Greek books. Greek had always been my chief aggravation and, although I appreciated the ideas of the Greek philosophers, sometimes I still struggled with the language and wasn't completely at ease when I had to speak it.

I frowned when I saw that the young servant seemed to look closely at every manuscript before she put it away. Could she read them? I recalled that Felix had said something about the girl's culture, but I didn't trust a single word of the monster. Anyway, why on Earth would she, just a slave, be interested in it?

I moved close to her and peered over her shoulder while she was still looking at the texts.

"It's Greek," I said.

She almost jumped, startled by my sudden presence. Just for a second, her eyes met my gaze before she cast them down.

"Do you know it?" I asked.

She nodded without lifting her head.

I went in front of her and tilted up her chin. "You can speak when I ask you a question, you know." I continued, "Can you read Greek?"

Again, she nodded. Then, as a second thought, she whispered, "Yes. I can."

"Read it aloud for me," I ordered.

She started with a trembling voice, but after a few words continued smoothly.

Hercle, I thought, she's far better than I with these things.

"Translate it," I told her.

She lifted her eyes for another second, meeting mine, and then began to translate word by word.

"Can you write it too?"

"I can."

At least she could be useful for the family's business letters.

"Come here," I instructed, going back to my desk. I told her to take a stool and to bring me the Greek works she'd been looking at.

I read and discussed with her some of the Greek literary works I had gathered over the years in my library and, for the first time in months, I realized that my mind wasn't always going to the same obsession: Felix, his threats, and the pain that his return had caused.

Her Greek was very fluent, her pronunciation flawless. Paragraph by paragraph, she was as enchanted as a child in front of a new toy. Every time that I told her to put away a text, she seemed worried at the idea that I wasn't going to continue to read with her. I was amused by her enthusiasm. I had always enjoyed my studies, but not even in the years when Caile had been my preceptor, had I been as eager as her to read more.

I wondered if she had ever seen another library or where she had learned to read and write in a different language. I didn't know anything about her.

"What's your name?" I was curious.

"Bella."

Bella. Beautiful. It suits her. I smiled at her and her pale skin became as pink as a mature peach. Lovely. Are her cheeks as soft?

She ducked her head and the movement made her dark hair, gathered in a simple braid, shine with fine reddish strands. I wondered how her hair would have looked loose on her shoulders.

"Where are you from, Bella?"

She mentioned a city of the Magna Graecia; I had never been there, but the name was familiar. My family also had business in that area. It was the first time that I had a slave who didn't come from a far country or wasn't born as a slave in one of my family's houses.

"Have you always been a slave?" I decided to ask. Her smile vanished.

"No," she managed to say with a shake of her head.

I didn't ask her anything more; it was selfish of me, but I didn't want to spoil the serenity I had just enjoyed, and I knew that a slave's memories were never happy. If she had been free before, she was suffering even harder because of her new condition. A free woman was used to thinking that her life was safe; she was supposed to have a father, a brother or a husband who were going to look after her and protect her. I wondered what Bella was thinking, knowing that I, the unknown man in front of her, now had the right to decide upon life or death with a single word.

Little did she know that I was in the same situation. Since he had understood that I, his son, considered him a monster and was disgusted by him, Felix had shown a sick pleasure in reminding me that my life was in his hands.

Just recalling Felix, I felt my rage ready to erupt once again.

I tensed. This bright girl, who had read for me and had offered me a pleasant conversation, was nothing but a gift from the creature that I most hated.

"Put everything in order and go to help Esma," I snapped harshly.

I stormed off in a temper, leaving Bella alone.

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Chapter's Notes

Seneca's quotes are from Letters from a Stoic. Epistulae Morales Ad Lucilium, 47th letter.

Heracle (also Hercle or Hercl) was a Greek hero. It seems to be Antonius' favorite epithet.

Caile is an Etruscan name. The character is a homage to Carlisle.

Some readers asked about Sextius. Does "Seth" ring a bell?

Bella means "beautiful" in Latin, although the adjective "pulchra" (feminine), with the same meaning, was more used.

Author's Notes

Many, many thanks to: Camilla10 and LJSummers – I'm honored to call them friends – and to SueBee0619 and Anthrobug, from Project Team Beta.

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