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June
14, 223 BCE
She stood tall, proud, strong, beautiful, wearing only heavy shackles,
in the warm sun. A bright sheen of sweat
made her olive skin glisten and sparkle.
She was almost completely devoid of hair, a point that Aeschylus, the
slave-master and auctioneer, was demonstrating even now. He ordered her to lift her arms and open her
legs so that all could inspect this fine specimen of femininity.
Damascus, Dami to his friends, didn’t know all the tricks of the slave
trade, but hair could be removed, paints and tinctures could be used to hide
scars and wash over the average. So the
features of the slave girl didn’t particularly strike him.
Still, there was something about her, something that reminded him of .
. .
Carefully and casually, so as to not draw attention, he hefted his
money pouch tied to his broad leather belt, opposite his short sword. He weighed its likely worth against the
likely worth of the girl, and knew he was already outbid.
“Aeolus,” he whispered to the man next to him. The short, stocky man didn’t turn away from
the bidding, but he did cock his curly head to one side to let Dami know he
listened. “How much have you?”
“For her?” Aeolus shrugged. “You’d
have to pay me.”
Aeolus laughed at his own joke, which to Dami always sounded like a
cross between a cough and a bark.
“Come now, how much?”
“Look at her,” Aeolus said, as he unfolded one arm from across his
broad chest and gestured with his thick-fingered hand. “She has no hips, at
least not enough for one or two babes, and her breasts are not even a half
handful. A child will starve trying to
suckle. There’s no meat on her, and what
there is looks to be field muscle. She
has nothing to give a growing child warmth.
She’s not worth a shekel for birthing.”
“I don’t want her to give children,” Dami replied.
“What good is a slave girl except for children? Oh sure, you love them at your whim, but when
they grow older, what’s the point? If
they haven’t given you daughters to marry or sell, and sons to make you
immortal, you’re just wasting your seed.”
“Pah,” Dami replied, now slightly annoyed. “You have no soul, man.”
“Sold it,” Aeolus replied, with another barking laugh. “Kept getting in the way. Got a good price for it, too.”
“And drank it on a single cup of vinegar-wine,” Dami retorted. “Come now, Aeolus, I know you won well on the
horses last night, and you’ve been lucky at the dice cups all week. You’re carrying half my profits.”
“I’d have all your profits,
if you could hold your drink,” Aeolus replied.
“But I don’t mean to part with any of them until that plump little thing
comes up; she’ll bear five or ten babes with ease, and not a one will ever
starve. And I mean to have me a horse as
well, so stop asking.”
“Fifteen shekels?” Aeschylus cried in mock exasperation. “Is that all I’m bid on the fine, the fair
Water Lily? Come now, she will keep your
bed warm at night, and during the day too.”
He turned her around and slapped her rump. “See, firm and ready for the
right man to set his plow. Now what am I
bid? Give me good bids for Water Lily!”
“Seventeen,” a voice cried out.
“Nineteen,” another replied.
