The Writers' Circle

What seemed like hours later, Rachamim heard the bar being lifted from the door. Verus entered the small room holding a sharp kitchen knife. Rachamim eyed the tool anxiously.
"Please, just be quick about it."
Verus looked confused.
"You know, a quick thrust under the breastbone will pierce the heart. Nearly painless."
Verus threw back his head and guffawed. "That's funny! Quite the jester, aren't you."
He crouched to slit the slave's bonds, then grasped him by the forearm and helped him stand.
"Good one, wasn't it?" said Rachamim weakly, trying to keep the relief from his voice. He followed the vilicus out of the storage room, into the vast, cavernous kitchen.
"The master said to feed you and then bring you to see him. So sit down, I'll bring you something."
Rachamim sat on a long wooden bench in front of a long wooden table. Verus brought him a hunk of dark bread and a bowl of steaming barley soup.
"Not roast pheasant, but it's got some carrot and onion and meat in. Don't know what you're used to."
Rachamim took a taste, and closed his eyes. A smile of pure bliss spread across his face. "Compared to what I'm used to," he said, "this is ambrosia."
Verus grunted. "That's what they all say. Have more; it'll put some flesh on you."
Rachamim gratefully accepted, gulping it down like the starving man he was.
The vilicus dipped him some water from a basin and leaned across the table.
"For someone who killed a lion, you seemed very afraid of the mistress' pet dog - why?"
Rachamim looked down at his bowl. "Vespa kept dogs," he said quietly. "Vicious, bloodthirsty creatures. They would eat men alive - slaves who had displeased him - and the rest of us were forced to watch." He shuddered.
Verus shook his head in sympathy. "Isis is a pet, not a killer," he reassured the younger man. "You'll get used to her."
"If I must."
Rachamim pushed his bowl away, for the first time in a long while, sated.
"Well, if you're done, then, let's not keep the master waiting."


What the villa lacked in luxury on the outside, it more than made up for in the interior. Frescoes of people engaging in day-to-day activities splashed the walls with light and color, and the floors were tiled with intricate mosaic patterns. Bronze sconces flared with orange flames in which incense burned, lightly scenting the house with a pleasant aroma.
Newly garbed in a short light blue tunic without decoration, Rachamim followed Verus from the kitchen into the triclinium, where the senator and his family took their meals. The triclinium opened into the atrium, where a rectangular pool, shining with reflected moonlight under a corresponding opening in the roof, dominated the room. It was surrounded by cushioned chairs and benches that made for a comfortable place to receive visitors, or just to relax with family.
But Rachamim caught only a glimpse of this grandeur, as their destination was Antonius' library, which was situated next to the triclinium.
The door was closed; Verus knocked.
"Enter!" called the senator from inside.
The vilicus opened the door into a room covered wall to wall in scrolls, tagged and tidily stored in little cubbyholes according to author. In the center of the room, Antonius sat at a large desk decorated with carvings of laurel wreaths and strewn with open scrolls and wax tablets.
Rachamim followed Verus into the library.
"Thank you, Verus," the senator said. "Leave us."
Verus inclined his head respectfully, turned, and left, closing the door behind him. Rachamim assumed a submissive posture. Antonius rested his chin on clasped hands and studied him for a moment before speaking.
"This is rather awkward."
Rachamim glanced up at him briefly, but made no reply.
"I mean," he continued, "I've none too seldom been in a position to admit error, but this is the first time I have had to do so to, ahem, a slave."
Rachamim could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
"I ought to ask myself why it should be so difficult, considering that a slave is, after all, a man like unto any other man, but for his station."
The senator paused thoughtfully.
"There's a great gulf between a senator and a slave, isn't there? Society makes it so. Thus, it's difficult for me to do this." Antonius shook his head and cleared his throat.
"But here I go philosophizing again. It is my most cherished vice - or virtue, depending on who one asks. To the point: I've done you a grievous wrong, and I'm sorry."
At this, Rachamim stopped trying to hide his incredulity.
"I...I don't understand," he said, his voice cracking.
That the senator had let him live was unremarkable, for once he knew the truth, an honorable man could do no less. That he apologized - that astounded Rachamim. It simply was not done.
The senator raised an eyebrow. "I merely ask that you don't hold my...eh, zeal...against me. I love my daughter very much. I...I couldn't bear it if I'd lost her."
"As you wish, master," he murmured.
Antonius smiled. "Good. By the way, I think we can consider your little...unauthorized excursion...forgotten. So long as it doesn't happen again." He winked.
"It won't, master."
"Excellent," he said; then, with a wave of his hand, "You may go." He turned back to the tablet he had been writing on. Rachamim bowed himself out of the room.