– chapter ix –

Saturnalia

 

My escape bid had taught me something important – I must try to learn the Roman language. Without it, I would get nowhere.

Until now, I hadn’t even attempted to learn Latin – I had closed my ears to the sound of it all around me. But now I started listening, and I was surprised to find that I could understand quite a bit of what people were saying. Even if I only knew some of the words, I could often make a guess at the rest.

But actually speaking Latin . . . that was harder. I didn’t want to say something totally stupid and have people laugh at me.

The first person I spoke to in Latin was Tiro. I knew he would never laugh at my accent or make fun of my mistakes. By now, I was in the habit of visiting the stable every afternoon during the hour of sleep. If Tiro was asleep, I didn’t wake him. But quite often he was awake and willing to talk.

When I asked him, he told me about his life before he became a slave. ‘You and me, we’re not like the rest of the slaves,’ he said. ‘They were born to it – their mothers were slaves. They don’t know any other way of life, and even though they grumble, they don’t mind it too much.’

Tiro had been born in a southern land far across the sea, so distant that his people had not heard of the Romans. He had never seen a white-skinned man, just as I, in Britain, had never seen a dark-skinned one. His tribe lived by hunting the animals that grazed on the hot, dusty plains.

I asked him what kind of animals they were, and he tried to describe them. Some sounded rather like the deer we used to hunt in the forests, but others seemed very strange. Creatures that looked like oxen but could run like horses; animals with necks as long as a spear; huge, heavy creatures with tails attached to their heads.

Was he making this up? Or was my shaky grasp of Latin getting me confused? He must have seen the look of doubt on my face.

‘It’s all true,’ he said. ‘If you go to the Games, you’ll see them for yourself.’

I asked him how he came to be in Rome.

‘When I was a young man, with a wife and baby son, there came a time without any rain. All the rivers dried up. The animal herds roamed far across the land, looking for water, and we followed them. We went into the lands of a different tribe, our enemies. But what else could we do? If we had stayed in our own land, we would have died of hunger and thirst.’

There was a war between the tribes. In the fierce fighting, most of Tiro’s friends were killed and the rest were captured.

‘I was sold to a tribe further north. Then I was sold again to a slave dealer. I don’t know what happened to my wife and baby. Probably they are dead. But if he’s still alive, my son must be about the same age as you.’

I understood the look of longing in his eyes. He had lost his family, and I had lost mine.

Tiro was taken to Rome – a long journey through deserts, down a river valley and over the sea. By then, he knew there was no way he could ever find his home again. He was sold in the slave market. His new master was big and fat, needing strong slaves to carry him on his couch whenever he went out.

‘What was he like?’ I asked.

‘He was a bad master,’ said Tiro, scowling at the memory. ‘If you stumbled while you were carrying his couch, he would have you whipped. If you got old or sick, he would sell you. If you tried to escape, you’d be branded for life.’

He touched a mark on his forehead. It was an old scar which I’d noticed before, three lines making a shape like this:

 

F

‘Fugitatus,’ Tiro said.

I asked him what it meant. He never got annoyed by my endless questions. If I didn’t understand a new word, he would try to explain it, helping me to learn the language.

‘It means a slave who keeps running away. So take care, Bryn. Next time, this could happen to you.’

‘Not me,’ I said.

‘You mean, next time they won’t catch you? That’s what everyone thinks. I ran away twice. They caught me both times. My old master said that if I did it again, he’d sell me to an ergastulum.’

Another word I didn’t know. ‘A prison farm,’ Tiro explained. ‘They keep slaves in chains and treat them like animals. Terrible places.’

‘But you did get away,’ I said.

‘Not by escaping. The old master died, and all his slaves were sold. I was lucky to be bought by Lucius, our master. He looks after his slaves. He only punishes them when they deserve it.’

Maybe. But even a good master didn’t make me content to be a slave. I was still determined to run away.

Hesitating, stumbling over words I didn’t know, I told Tiro of my plans. Somehow I knew I could trust him. He wasn’t at all like Theon – he was a friend.

‘I need money,’ I said. ‘Some of the other slaves have got some. How do they get it?’

‘Oh, different ways. If I take the master’s guests home in the carriage, they often give me a tip. And we all get gifts at Saturnalia.’

There wasn’t time to ask him what Saturnalia was. The cook was shouting for me – I had to go back to work.

* * *

As the months passed and my Latin slowly improved, I started to get to know the people around me. Closest to me in age were Rufus and Clemens, the two serving boys. They were quite friendly once they realized I could begin to understand their talk. I liked the two of them because they were funny. They were forever playing tricks on the cook, stealing food or hiding his favourite kitchen knife. They could each put on an innocent look, as blank as the face of a statue.

Neither of them liked Theon. He looked down on them because he thought his job was more important than theirs. Rufus could do a good imitation of Theon, giving orders as if he were the master himself.

I learned what Saturnalia meant – it was the next big feast. Everyone was looking forward to it. One of the women told her young son, ‘At Saturnalia, the slaves become masters and the masters become slaves.’ What did she mean by that?

I learned that the cook had a name – Quintus – and I began to understand his instructions better. He didn’t shout at me quite so much. This was fortunate, for in the days leading up to Saturnalia, we were extra busy in the kitchen. We prepared special food – rich sauces, pastries, roast hare and duck, and the head of a boar. According to Rufus, this was all for the slaves to eat, not the master. I thought he was joking.

At last, the day arrived. Just like on other feast days, no one had to do much work. But Saturnalia wasn’t like the other festivals. For a start, there were presents for everyone, including the household gods, who were crowned with garlands. The master gave each slave some money. I decided not to spend mine – I would save it for the day of my escape.

Rufus gave me a little cake, painted gold. ‘I nicked it from a baker’s shop,’ he said proudly.

Clemens handed me three small cubes with dots on each side. I wondered what they were for. ‘A game,’ said Clemens, promising to teach me it later. Best of all, Tiro gave me some more money. I felt bad because I had nothing to give in return.

Until now, I hadn’t owned anything, not even the clothes I wore. Where could I keep my money safe? In the shared dormitory, there was no place to hide valuable things. The best place I could think of was the stable, where the old walls had a hundred cracks and holes in the plaster. I wrapped the money in a piece of cloth and pushed it deep into the wall.

Everyone got dressed up ready for the evening meal. The master’s wife had loaned her maid some of her own clothes and jewels to wear. The master’s attendant looked very grand in a borrowed toga. All of us were given special hats to wear.

‘These hats are what slaves wear on the day they’re set free,’ said Clemens. ‘During Saturnalia, we’re free. We can do as we like.’

‘But only for a couple of days, remember. Don’t do anything stupid,’ Rufus warned me.

We all went into the master’s dining room. Feeling rather nervous, I copied the other slaves and lay down on a couch beside a low table. I looked around. All the slaves were here, so who was going to bring in the food?

The answer was – the master and his wife. It was funny to see that haughty woman acting as a servant. Her children helped her, bringing in dish after dish of food. There was more than anyone could eat, and plenty of wine to drink.

I saw the master’s son looking at me. By now, I knew that his name was Manius. He was only a couple of years younger than me. The slaves didn’t like him much – he was spoilt and hard to please, not at all like his little sister, Lucia.

‘Are you a Celt?’ Manius asked me. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘From the Iceni tribe,’ I told him.

‘That’s not what I asked you. Do you come from Britain?’

I nodded.

‘I think I will have you as my attendant,’ he said. ‘It’s quite fashionable to have a British slave. Father, may I—’

‘Silence, boy!’ the cook yelled at him. ‘Servants should not speak in front of their betters. Don’t you know anything?’

I wondered how he dared talk to the master’s son like that. But everyone laughed. It seemed that anything was allowed during Saturnalia.

One person, though, wasn’t even smiling. Theon glared at me from across the room. He looked as if he would like to kill me.

I wanted to tell him not to worry – I had no desire to take over his job. But then, it wasn’t up to me. I was just a slave; I had to do whatever job I was given, even if Theon hated me for ever after.

Oh well . . . by tomorrow, Manius would probably forget the idea. I really hoped he would.