accordingly.Contributing to his dismay was the knowledge that he had been sold cheaply because, in slave-market parlance, he was ‘unsound’. And, as with pack animals, the way in which a slave was treated was in direct relationship with value. There was also the question of Latin; his, picked up by use in the streets and the counting house, was not of the kind that a Roman gentleman would require or expect.
He wondered once more, as he had wondered many times before, what Cleo had seen in the obsidian to make death preferable. And how reliable was information from such a dubious source? The black ball, like the gods, like the widow, had let him down.
There was nothing to be done, however, and on the appointed day he took his little bundle of possessions and moved across the city to the residential suburbs where fine villas stood, remote from the noise and bustle of the quays and the business quarters. It was with a certain amount of relief that he noticed that the slave who admitted him looked well fed, well clad and cheerful.
Metellus was a lawyer who had enjoyed a considerable reputation, both as a scholar and an orator; he was old now, and on account of his eyesight, virtually retired, though still active in a consultant capacity. His great dread was that he should become dependent upon his slave secretary—he had seen that happen with other ageing men—and for a long time he resisted Balthazar’s well-meant attempts to make himself indispensable.
“I am still capable of doing that,” he would say; or “Don’t take too much upon yourself, Balthazar.” And long after he had ceased to see at all he would reach out blindly for a paper and say, “Let me look.” In the end, however, he succumbed to his new slave’s genuine ability, desire to please and gentle manner. As much friendship as could exist between master and slave existed between them; Balthazar was made free of Metellus’ considerable library, and they spent hours together in talk.
Metellus was a Stoic, and without in any way aiming to convert Balthazar—for how can a man be persuaded into an intellectual state—he introduced him to that stark, impersonal creed, the reverence of natural principles, the respect for reason, the uncomplaining acceptance of one’s fate. They talked of Zeno, of Cleanthes and Chrysippus and of Posidonius whom Metellus tended to decry as being ‘too mystical’. It was a far cry indeed from the doves of Venus, the groves of Baal, but after all, Balthazar would reflect, they had failed him. Stoicism could not do that. It had one fault, however; it underestimated the importance of a man’s emotional life; it was a creed, Balthazar realised, for whole men, for aristocrats, for men whose emotional needs had been satisfied elsewhere. Nevertheless, adherence to it gave a man dignity; see how uncomplainingly Metellus accepted his blindness! In such company Balthazar found it easier to disregard his contracting hand. Also, the widow, greedy, false and selfish as she had been, had also been right in one thing. With less writing to cram into constricted spaces his hand suffered less from cramp.
This leisurely, comfortable, peaceful life lasted for five years; towards the end of that time Metellus had become entirely dependent upon Balthazar whom he called ‘my amanuensis’. Fewer visitors came to the secluded house; every year there were new young lawyers appointed, men to whom Metellus was merely a name, a man whose books could be consulted in any library.
One young man, however, was a regular caller. He was a lawyer named Marcus, born of a Roman father and a Syrian mother. Partly because of his mixed blood—for though in a multi-racial Empire racial equality was paid some lip service, truly Roman Romans regarded themselves as superior to all others—and partly because he had indulged in practices not considered strictly ethical in legal circles, he enjoyed small esteem amongst his fellows and it pleased him to be received in the house of a man, who, though old and blind, was of unblemished reputation.
He was fond of saying, “I must ask Metellus’ opinion on that.”
Then his hearer would say, “Metellus? Is he still alive?”
And Marcus would say, “Very much so; I dined with him yesterday.” To Balthazar Marcus always behaved with arrogance.
“I have something to ask you, but that can wait until we are alone,” he said more than once.
Most often Metellus would say, “If you ask me something and I need to refer to a book, Balthazar can find it quickly.” Or, “You can speak freely before my amanuensis, I like to have him near in case I need something.”
Balthazar regarded the young lawyer with a dislike somewhat out of place in a true Stoic and occasionally showed it, murmuring a correction of a date or a name, sometimes even going so far as to say, when asked to fetch a book, “There is no need, sir. I have that passage by heart.”
Metellus would smile and say, “You see, Marcus; he is my eyes and my memory, and, I suspect, a better lawyer than either of us.”
But the evening came when, on Marcus’ arrival, Metellus himself sent Balthazar out of the room on a reasonable excuse: and as soon as he had gone, he said:
“I want you to do something for me. Write that man a paper of manumission and I can sign it now. Then you can hold it until I die.”
“I trust, sir, that that day will be far distant,” Marcus said politely, and truly, since his friendship with Metellus lent him status.
“I think not,” Metellus said calmly.
“I am older now than most men live to be; and I have had warnings.” A Stoic did not waste time describing symptoms, except to a doctor from whom he hoped for relief; nor did he invite sympathy.
“You know what to write,” he said; then, as he felt for the edge of the paper, fumbled it into position and signed it, he added.
“I am reasonably sure that if Balthazar knew of this it would not affect his behaviour one iota except to make him grateful and more doggedly devoted. And that would irk me. So you keep it and regard it as part of my will. The contents of a will should never be divulged.”
“I will hold it safe, and trust that it may prove an ineffective instrument, sir.”
“And what may that mean?”
“Only that you may outlive him.”
“Then you wish me ill. To replace him I should need a nurse and a scribe, and still be at a loss for a companion.”
A bare three months later Metellus died, in his sleep. The young man, Marcus, remembered his mother’s sister, a woman of great wealth who lived in Edessa and from whom he had expectations. She was always in trouble with her stewards; free men, freedmen, slaves, she’d tried all and never been satisfied. So he destroyed the paper of manumission, and at the sale of Metellus’ effects bought Balthazar very cheaply, having ostentatiously drawn attention to his afflicted hand. Then he personally conducted Balthazar to Edessa so that his aunt might thank him, face to face, for his thoughtfulness and consideration.
Knowing nothing of how nearly he had missed being set free, Balthazar could hardly be said to be disappointed. Now and again he thought that if Metellus had not died so suddenly, had he had time to realise that he might die, things might have been different. On the other hand his Stoic creed might very well have influenced him to think that Balthazar was a slave as naturally as he himself was blind; unpleasant states both, and to be borne without complaint.
He was glad to learn that although Marcus had bought him, he was not taking him into his service. Stoutly he braced himself to learn new ways, to fit into a new household, to be obliged, probably, to learn another dialect, to please, if possible, his new mistress. He was thirty-four now, the extreme adaptability, the resilience of youth had gone.
Within a week he realised that he had fallen into the clutches of a woman not entirely sane. The Lady, as everyone called her, had been so corrupted by great wealth and almost absolute power that she did not know her own mind from one hour to another and her rages were frightful to see. In a rage she had no respect for anything, not even for herself. Balthazar had seen her, in a stamping temper, pull out her own hair and throw it away from her as though it were obscene. And Marcus must have been disappointed by the reception of his present.
“I don’t like eunuchs!” the Lady had said.
“They’re alwayseating.” She rapped out, in gross terms, the reason for their thinking food so important. Then she said:
“What’s wrong with his hand? What use to me is a steward who can’t write?”