4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
T hrax
The strange room swims in and out of focus as I fight to stay awake. Varro’s presence is reassuring, but everything else… everything else fills me with a depth of terror I’ve never known.
I’ve faced lions in the arena, their hot breath on my face as we grappled in the sand. I’ve stood against men equipped with shields and swords when I’ve had nothing but my wits and strength. But this? This world of gleaming surfaces and baffling silver boxes? It chills me to my very core.
Is this some circle of Infernum I never learned about? A realm where nothing makes sense, where even the air feels wrong in my lungs?
Varro speaks softly, his words a lifeline in this sea of confusion. He calms me, telling me I’ll feel stronger in a day or two, that my new life will be sweeter than honey. But my mind struggles to believe him when nothing feels right.
My gaze darts around the room, taking in sights I can’t begin to understand. Glowing boxes with moving pictures. Smells burn my nose like the most potent tanner’s workshop and an entire temple’s worth of herbs, but without the tang of urine and sulfur. Lights that burn with no smoke or flame. And the strange sounds. Do the walls sing, or is it the gods speaking ?
The woman, Laura, returns, telling me little, but promising safety and peace. Her kindness reminds me of Caecilia, the old slave woman who raised me until I was eight. The thought brings a lump to my throat.
Exhaustion tugs at me, and despite my fear, I find myself slipping into darkness once more. But this time, it’s not the icy grip of the sea that claims me. It’s memory.
I’m small, so small. A rough blanket scratches my skin as I’m put to bed on a mound of straw. Caecilia, her face lined with years of hardship, tells me the story of my beginning.
“You were left in the woods, little one,” she murmurs, her calloused hand smoothing my hair. “Unwanted, cast aside like so many others. But the Gods had plans for you.”
In my childish mind, her tale helps me imagine the forest, dark and foreboding. A tiny bundle—me—left to the mercy of wild beasts or the elements. Then a cloaked figure emerges from between the trees. My first dominus , a poor farmer with more bills to pay than coins in his purse.
“He could have left you there,” Caecilia continues. “Many would have. But he saw something in you, something worth saving.”
Worth saving. The words echo in my mind, but even at a young age I knew the truth. I wasn’t saved out of kindness, but out of greed. Another body to work the fields, another slave to add to the household’s meager wealth.
The scene shifts, and I’m older now, perhaps five or six. My hands are raw from threshing wheat, my stomach aching with constant hunger. The farmer’s wife boxes my ear again for some small transgression, and I bite back a cry of pain.
“Stupid boy,” she hisses. “Can’t you do anything right?”
The words cut deeper than any blow. I pull back into myself, learning the value of silence. If I don’t speak, I can’t say the wrong thing. If I don’t try, I can’t fail .
At night, I lie under my scratchy blanket in my corner of the barn, listening to the soft breathing of the animals. Sometimes, I imagine they understand me better than humans do. The old donkey lets me rest against his flank, offering comfort and warmth.
But then comes the day when everything changes. I’m eight, and seemingly overnight, my body begins to stretch and grow. The farmer eyes me like he does the fattened hogs ready for market, seeing not a child, but a possession, something to sell.
“He’ll fetch a good price at the slave market,” he tells his wife, not bothering to whisper. “Might even be ludus material. All that work in the fields made him strong.”
I don’t fully understand the full meaning of his words, but I feel the shift in the air. Something is ending, something else beginning. Fear grips me, but also a tiny spark of… what? Excitement? Hope? For the first time, I dare to imagine a life beyond these fields.
The night before I’m to be sold, Caecilia sneaks to my side. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears as she presses something into my hand—a small wooden charm, a carved phallus. It represents a symbol of my inner strength and fidelity to the gods. It hangs on a leather cord and has been worn smooth by years of the good woman’s worry.
“For protection and good luck,” she whispers, closing my fingers around it. “May the Gods watch over you, my boy. May the Goddess Fortuna herself smile upon you.”
It’s the only gift I’ve ever received. Pressing it to my chest, I feel its warmth against my skin. I make a silent vow. I will survive. I will become strong. And someday, somehow, I will find a way to repay this kindness.
The memory fades, and I’m back in this strange room, what Varro calls machines beeping softly around me. My hand instinctively moves to my chest, searching for the charm that’s long since been lost. But instead of smooth wood, my fingers touch a thin tube—some sort of necklace I don’t recognize .
Varro is still here, his presence a constant in this sea of change. He notices my confusion and gently explains, “It’s to help you breathe and get better. Don’t worry. Rest, my friend,” he says softly. “You’re safe now.”
Safe. The word sounds foreign to my ears, a concept I’ve never truly known. The wooden charm may be gone, lost to time and tide. But maybe Fortuna’s still watching over me after all.