Free The Songs of Slaves by David Rodgers Page B

he had tried to speak to her, to comfort her with a familiar voice and a familiar language, but it had been weeks since Connor had heard her say a word. Now as he looked at her she did not stir. The iron chains hung limply in the stifling air.
                  It was then that Connor noticed three youths amidst the crowd. They were too old to be boys, but too young to be counted as men. Their plain clothes showed them to be of families of modest means – perhaps merchants’ sons. Almost as one they approached Dania, coming close enough almost to touch her. They stopped and leered. Dania took no notice. She stood still as an artist’s sculpture, as if able to send her mind far away. Then one of the boys moved forward, his hand outstretched to touch her.
                  “Stop!” Connor shouted, his voice full of powerless anger.
                  It was as if the boys did not even hear him. They did not stop, or even look his way. But the wealthy woman immediately turned and marched away from Andopaxtes, indignant that he would try to sell her a slave given to demonstrations of will and temper. Andopaxtes called after her.
                  Sejius grabbed the hand of the groping boy and pushed him down. A hail of insults and obscenities from the big Germani followed the youths as they made their retreat back into the crowd. He was not protecting Dania; he was protecting their property against those who would not pay.
                  Andopaxtes turned on his heels and rushed at Connor, his fist raised.
                  “How dare you frighten off my customer? You will be beaten tonight!”
                  A month or two before and Connor would have spat in his face. But instead he just glared and said nothing. A beating would mean nothing to him, and it was an empty threat because no trader wanted to bring a slave to market with bruises that would prove its recalcitrance.
                  “I will sell you to the mines, for all the trouble you cause me!” Andopaxtes raved on. But he turned his back and looked into the throng of people, searching for his next prospect.
                  Two priests walked past, engaged in conversation. Connor followed them with his eyes, but his memory was transported to the first Christian priests he had seen in the slave markets of Amorica. He had recognized their bright robes and gold crosses, and a rush of hope had filled him. But when he called out to them in Latin they ignored him and passed on by. He called out to other priests as they drew near, but even as he was moved on to other cities it was always the same. The ears of most were deaf to him, but one had even looked at him and smiled in apparent amusement. Another had stopped to extol him to accept the place that God had given him, and not to be such a disobedient and rebellious servant. Soon this hope of rescue died in him, and he wondered how Titus could have come from such a group as these.
                  A woman screamed. Connor turned towards the commotion. A dealer was placing silver in his purse as a buyer collected two Gallic children. The children’s mother wailed inconsolably. The young children’s hands were tethered as they wept at their mother’s feet. The woman could not reach them to take them in her arms. The dealer handed the leashes to the bald slave who accompanied the rich man.
                  “Do not worry,” the slave said to the bound woman. “My master is a good man. They will have bread. They will not be treated badly.”
                  His words were lost on the woman. Her grief became louder as the slave pulled the children to their feet and turned to follow his master through the crowd.
                  Connor turned his gaze away.
                  A young man, about twenty, was standing very close to Dania. He was tall, with soft brown