not make them any less true. Coin was coin for a slave
trader.
A tub of unheated water was brought. I was given a
cake of soap and made to strip in the rear yard, with Cyrus leering at me all
the while. My skin grew pink both from shame and the frigid water. By the time
I’d finished bathing, there was no part of me that Cyrus, or anyone else who
happened by, did not see. I dressed quickly in a simple coarse chiton that was
too large for me by a hand span. The draped neckline was so loose; it persisted
in slipping off one or the other of my shoulders. I cringed when Cyrus’ eyes
took on a very keen shine.
The woman came out and helped me rinse and dress
my hair. Her eyes flickered at my tattooed hands and she darted a glance at
Cyrus. When she picked up an oil ewer, he nodded and she rubbed olive oil
through my hair. Then she jerked my gleaming tresses into a sloppy braid. My
scalp stung from her ungentle ministrations, but at least I was clean.
Cyrus tossed a coin to the woman who caught it
with a quick hand. She harrumphed her way back into the dwelling and I was led
once more towards the slave stocks, with the Samothraki and the two silent boys
creeping along behind us.
*** ***
My first impression of the slave stocks was
riotous noise. The clamor of the morning crowds was deafening, even more
overwhelming than the stench of humanity pressed together in a sweating,
perfumed throng.
Cyrus slipped the shards over our necks and led us
to a large wooden platform. Slaves of every race imaginable were led in a
single file line across the platform. Buyers shouted, inspected, and threw down
coins before the most desirable of candidates.
I thought I might vomit.
My knees shook like willow limbs as I was led to
the foot of the stairs. I glanced down the line at the black Nubians, the
almond-eyed Persians captured during their last unsuccessful campaign, and the
more familiar Greeks, Spartans, and Moesians on display. Most were men,
although there were a handful of tired women and even a few children.
The children made my heart even heavier.
A trader with a thick wooden staff sauntered
behind his stock. He positioned their bodies for best display, even going so
far as to prod between the shoulder blades of an aged, worn man so his
shoulders might square and thus make him appear fit.
“He’ll be sent to toil in the silver mines,”
whispered the old Samothraki.
“How do you know?” I asked, in spite of my fear.
“The mine owners buy those that no other master
will keep. They work them to death in the tunnels.” He whistled through the gap
in his bottom teeth.
I thought he might be afraid for his own fate, but
didn’t ask.
“You are a pretty thing,” he said. “My daughter
was pretty like you. She went to a good household. Do you know Greek law claims
a slave can earn enough coin to buy back their freedom? But not in the mines.” He
gave me a meaningful look. “Never in the mines.”
Coin was coin, for a slave trader. I could not
help but think that if anyone knew of my crimes, I, too, might be sent to the
mines. I hated the thought of working in the deep, silent tunnels under the
mountains. Halls so much like the cursed temple that stole my mother and
brother from me.
I could not die unloved and forgotten under the
earth. I would not. Whatever it took, I swore, I would not.
Live free, my father had wished.
His words echoed in my head. I saw my mother’s
face and I swore I could smell the sweet scent of her skin. I don’t know
exactly how my thoughts turned from death to regaining my life. But with that
thought planted firmly in my mind, I was led onto the platform.
As soon as my sandaled feet hit the rough timber
planks, I thrust my shoulders back, as Lukra had taught me. I swayed across the
wooden stage, tipped my chin and stared unabashedly at the crowd before me.
There were so many in the marketplace. Wealthy
Greek men, with their curled hair. Some scarce out of boyhood with the smooth
cheeks of
trader.
A tub of unheated water was brought. I was given a
cake of soap and made to strip in the rear yard, with Cyrus leering at me all
the while. My skin grew pink both from shame and the frigid water. By the time
I’d finished bathing, there was no part of me that Cyrus, or anyone else who
happened by, did not see. I dressed quickly in a simple coarse chiton that was
too large for me by a hand span. The draped neckline was so loose; it persisted
in slipping off one or the other of my shoulders. I cringed when Cyrus’ eyes
took on a very keen shine.
The woman came out and helped me rinse and dress
my hair. Her eyes flickered at my tattooed hands and she darted a glance at
Cyrus. When she picked up an oil ewer, he nodded and she rubbed olive oil
through my hair. Then she jerked my gleaming tresses into a sloppy braid. My
scalp stung from her ungentle ministrations, but at least I was clean.
Cyrus tossed a coin to the woman who caught it
with a quick hand. She harrumphed her way back into the dwelling and I was led
once more towards the slave stocks, with the Samothraki and the two silent boys
creeping along behind us.
*** ***
My first impression of the slave stocks was
riotous noise. The clamor of the morning crowds was deafening, even more
overwhelming than the stench of humanity pressed together in a sweating,
perfumed throng.
Cyrus slipped the shards over our necks and led us
to a large wooden platform. Slaves of every race imaginable were led in a
single file line across the platform. Buyers shouted, inspected, and threw down
coins before the most desirable of candidates.
I thought I might vomit.
My knees shook like willow limbs as I was led to
the foot of the stairs. I glanced down the line at the black Nubians, the
almond-eyed Persians captured during their last unsuccessful campaign, and the
more familiar Greeks, Spartans, and Moesians on display. Most were men,
although there were a handful of tired women and even a few children.
The children made my heart even heavier.
A trader with a thick wooden staff sauntered
behind his stock. He positioned their bodies for best display, even going so
far as to prod between the shoulder blades of an aged, worn man so his
shoulders might square and thus make him appear fit.
“He’ll be sent to toil in the silver mines,”
whispered the old Samothraki.
“How do you know?” I asked, in spite of my fear.
“The mine owners buy those that no other master
will keep. They work them to death in the tunnels.” He whistled through the gap
in his bottom teeth.
I thought he might be afraid for his own fate, but
didn’t ask.
“You are a pretty thing,” he said. “My daughter
was pretty like you. She went to a good household. Do you know Greek law claims
a slave can earn enough coin to buy back their freedom? But not in the mines.” He
gave me a meaningful look. “Never in the mines.”
Coin was coin, for a slave trader. I could not
help but think that if anyone knew of my crimes, I, too, might be sent to the
mines. I hated the thought of working in the deep, silent tunnels under the
mountains. Halls so much like the cursed temple that stole my mother and
brother from me.
I could not die unloved and forgotten under the
earth. I would not. Whatever it took, I swore, I would not.
Live free, my father had wished.
His words echoed in my head. I saw my mother’s
face and I swore I could smell the sweet scent of her skin. I don’t know
exactly how my thoughts turned from death to regaining my life. But with that
thought planted firmly in my mind, I was led onto the platform.
As soon as my sandaled feet hit the rough timber
planks, I thrust my shoulders back, as Lukra had taught me. I swayed across the
wooden stage, tipped my chin and stared unabashedly at the crowd before me.
There were so many in the marketplace. Wealthy
Greek men, with their curled hair. Some scarce out of boyhood with the smooth
cheeks of
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