Free Outcast by Rosemary Sutcliff Page B

anxiously,’ If you would allow me to attend to the matter to-morrow, sir.’

    ‘If I required anyone to choose the household slaves for me, it would be my steward’s job, not my secretary’s,’ said his master waspishly. ‘I always choose my own slaves: you should know that by now. No, I said I would replace Damon to-day, and I am a man of my word.’ Then to Ben Malachi: ‘Apart from the Syrian, is that the best you have?’
    The Jew bowed again. ‘He is a very fine boy, Excellency, worthy even of the household of Publius Lucianus Piso the Magistrate. Unbroken, yes, but intelligent; ai, ai, ai, your steward could train him to anything in half a month.’
    ‘He is sullen,’ said Publius Piso.
    ‘He is new to slavery. The British do not take easily to the arm-ring; but a few whippings will soon remedy that.’ Ben Malachi made a sign to his slave-driver, who promptly thrust a hand under Beric’s chin to force it up. The boy flung his head back from the man’s touch, and stood staring, straight enough now, into the round pink face before him.
    ‘British, is he?’ said the Magistrate.
    ‘British indeed, Excellency, and a chieftain’s son, as like as not, in his own country.’
    The Magistrate grunted. ‘Every barbarian slave is a chieftain’s son in his own country if you and your kind are to be believed. More likely he’s the son of a renegade legionary, by his build.’ He hesitated. ‘Still, I like the look of him. He is healthy?’
    ‘Oh, he is indeed, Excellency; you would not find a healthier boy.’
    ‘Hmm,’ said Publius Piso, and reached out to feel the boy’s arm. Beric started as though he had been stung, then stood rigid, frowning from the plump pink hand on his arm to the plump pink face of its owner, and back again. ‘Good muscle,’ said the Magistrate approvingly. ‘Breathe in.’
    Beric stared at him between bewilderment and outrage, but a cuff from the slave-driver pointed the demand, and he breathed in; breathed in until he felt his chest must burst. His hands had become quivering fists, but no one seemed aware of that. ‘Hmm,’ said the Magistrate again. ‘Open your mouth.’
    And so it went on.
    ‘He seems sound enough,’ the round pink man admitted at last. ‘I still say he is sullen, though. He didn’t like it when I looked him over. You will have to take something off the price for that.’
    The Jew spread his hands. ‘Does one lower the price of a colt for the fire there is in him?’
    ‘I want a slave, not a colt,’ Publius Piso said shortly. ‘How much do you want for him?’
    ‘Two thousand six hundred sesterces, Excellency.’
    ‘Fifteen hundred.’
    The bargaining began again. But this time it ended with agreement reached. Beric’s papers changed hands, and at a word from his master the secretary paid over the purchase money into the eager palms of Aaron Ben Malachi, who received it bowing again and again. ‘The noble Publius Piso will never regret his bargain, and when next he has need to buy a slave, it may be that he will remember——’
    ‘Yes, yes, I daresay.’ The Magistrate was already turning away. ‘Send him up some time this evening. You know the house.’
    ‘Who does not know the house of Publius Lucianus Piso the Magistrate?’
     
     
    So a little later, having been given a large bowl of lentil porridge, lest he should seem unduly hungry when he arrived, Beric was following one of Ben Malachi’s own slaves through the streets of Rome on the way to the home of his new owner. Lest he should try to break away, there was a running noose round his neck, and the slave in charge of him held the other end of it. ‘You don’t turn difficult, and I don’t jerk this rope, see?’ said the man.
    But Beric was beyond turning difficult, anyway.
    They climbed steadily out of the lower city, with its ceaseless, shifting crowds and the faint, sickly smell that Beric knew by now for the smell of the summer plague, into quieter streets and fresher air.