Chapter Text
I winced as I felt a ball of screwed up paper hit my forehead, and looked up. My owner was standing right in front of me, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement.
"Yes, domina?" I asked, warily.
"You were miles away" drawled Phoebe. "I said, 'get ready'."
I blinked. I honestly hadn't heard her; I've never been one for pointless acts of disobedience. I looked down at my notes, and yawned, stretching my arms.
"Get ready for what, domina?"
"Going outside" replied Phoebe, with a smirk, in that maddening way she has. She walked over and perched on the edge of my desk. "Besides, you need a break. You've been working on that for hours."
'That' was my latest offering to Loyalty, and truth be told, it had been hard going, and I had the feeling it would never be one of my better articles, no matter how much I worked on it or how many revisions I went through. I nodded, with feeling.
"Yes, domina". I looked down at the scattered papers; typewritten script underlined, crossed out, written over with my blue handwriting. "It's just...he's not an interesting person, I guess." I paused. "Well, certainly not to the average reader."
That was probably harsh to Gallius, who'd seemed, on paper, to be the ideal interview subject. He was a slave, owned by some very rich business magnate in Hispania. Gallius ran his winery, which may not sound special, until I say the vinery he ran was Rubrum Gloria.
Yes, that Rubrum Gloria. One of the largest wineries in Hispania - or indeed, the entire Republic - producing some of the most expensive and well known wines in the world . Gallius, he'd told me, managed a team of five hundred slaves and one hundred free men, over fifteen different sites totalling more than 30,000 acres , together producing over a billion denari in turnover each year...you can see why I almost jumped for joy when both he and his owner accepted.
(Sadly, and despite considerable persuasive efforts from my both Phoebe and myself, Loyalty had refused to send us there to interview him. The offer, though, was still open, and I knew Phoebe had been looking at hotels in the area...)
The problem was, though, he was just not that interesting. He'd reeled off a list of statistics and figures, which were no doubt impressive - but probably not that relevant to the half literate women who make up most of our readership. Even after putting in the usual boilerplate I always do (the part where the slave thanks his owners and urges other slaves to be obedient - whether or not they actually said it) I was struggling to make it interesting to our readers. To them, I knew, he'd seem more or less as another rich and powerful man himself, a slave only legally - which I guess, to be fair to them, he was. Certainly, from what I understood, he was almost as much a business partner of his dominus than a slave. Considering our average reader is only half literate, does fairly basic menial work and is, if I'm honest, treated more like a labour saving device than a person,
Phoebe sniffed. "Well, you'd better make it interesting, and get it published. Didn't he say there was an amphora of wine in it for you if you do?"
I nodded, suppressing a smile. Trust my domina to remember that detail.
"Yes domina. For me" I added, slightly cheekily. Phoebe snorted, and cuffed me idly around the back of the head.
"I own you, so I own anything you get" she said, grinning. "Besides, if you really think I'd let some cheeky, lazy, misleadingly named slave keep a whole amphora of Rubrum Gloria, you've got another thing coming." She leaned forward, and plucked the pen out of my hands. "Right, get on with it."
I looked Phoebe over as I stood up. She was dressed respectably - a cream, slightly pleated stola, secured by silver clasps over each shoulder, that reached down to her ankles, with a bottle green palla wrapped around her. A silver necklace and bracelets, and dark blue sandles completed the outfit.
I looked at her hair. She had it loose, secured only with a silver headband.
"Do you want me to adjust your hair, domina?" Normally, when the bottle green palla came out, she was going to the sort of function where a more ornate hairdo was needed.
She shrugged. "No. I want to look good, not like a Senator's wife.." she said. She frowned . "That might actually be a bad idea in this case." She snapped her fingers. "Just get yourself sorted."
My status, of course, meant I wasn't entitled to a palla. I looked outside, the weather was fine enough.
"The blue tunica?" I suggested. Phoebe grinned. She'd purchased it for me, after all, and I knew she liked me in it.
"Read my mind" she murmured, as I went into my room. Shrugging off the normal grey one I wore, I pulled on the blue one, before brushing my red hair and arranging it in a tight bun. I looked myself over, and, frowning, selected a bronze collar - one of the few types of jewellery is is socially acceptable for slaves to wear. I looked myself over in the mirror, and I nodded. Simply dressed, so as to not to overshadow my domina. Respectable, to show my domina doesn't have a household of sluts with low morals (and also, to avoid men from automatically assuming I'm up for anything - not that that stops a lot). Clean and decently dressed, showing my domina is a severe but kind owner and has the wealth to maintain slaves appropriately. And the bronze collar, of course, was a gift from my free sister.
For a moment, my lips quirked. My domina would never (or, rather, rarely) instruct me what to wear, but at the end of the day, I still had little choice; what I wore dictated entirely by my status and the need to please my domina. Still, I reflected, at least I was allowed some decisions of my own. And at least my clothing was clean, actually covered me and kept me warm.
"Flavia?"
"Coming, domina."
*************
Thirty minutes and two tram journeys later, we were sitting in an unremarkable cafe on the edge of an ordinary park in a non-descripte corner of Rome. Scholar's Park, as I recall. A misnomer, if I'm honest, but when I got back I did a bit of research. Back during the reign of Carolus the Exalted, apparently visiting scholars would congregate around the area. In time, of course, the academic centre of gravity shifted to the Vaticanus when Carolus formally established the Imperial Symposia there. Now, there were no more scholars in the park, but the name had stuck.
As there were no free people sitting, I'd sat down with my domina, although sadly this temporary equality hadn't extended to buying me a cup of coffee - though, that said, judging by the eye-watering prices charged, I couldn't entirely blame my domina for that.
We'd been sitting in the cafe for perhaps thirty minutes, before I plucked up my courage to ask:
"Domina" I asked. "What exactly are we doing here?"
My domina raised her eyebrows, and smiled tolerantly.
"Are you questioning me, slave? In public?"
I'd glanced around before I spoke, of course, so no one would overhear a slave questioning their owner.
"I'm just..." I tailed off. "This doesn't seem like your sort of place, domina."
"I love coffee" retorted Phoebe, taking a sip.
"Yes. Either right in the centre of Rome, or made by me. But...why here?" Frankly, I was a little offended. I like to think I make the best coffee my Domina has ever tasted
I'd never been to Scholar's Park before. A small, open grassy area, lined with iron railings, and surrounded by tall, blocky apartments - from the Hallartic Era, unless I missed my guess. Inhabited, I reckoned, by quietly respectable people - lawyers, tutors, doctors, and the like. Cheaper than anywhere closer to the Forum and, if you had the money, not a bad place to live. Close enough to benefit from being perhaps forty minutes to the centre of the Eternal City, far enough that the noise and busyness of the city itself. But despite how nice it no doubt was, I couldn't see why my domina would pick a random cafe here, miles from the centre of Rome. To the best of my knowledge, she had no friends, no contacts, no interest in this unremarkable corner of Rome.
She glanced out of the window.
"Because I want a coffee here. Honestly, you're very inquisitive for a slave." She cracked a grin. "It's almost as ifyou write for a magazine, or something."
I looked at her, steadily, sipping my water.
"I-"
Two men entered the cafe, and instantly my domina's attention was switched from me.
They were unremarkable, if I'm honest, both of them. One was perhaps in his fifties, his hair a dull, iron grey, his face lined. He looked around, coldly, an expression of slight disapproval on his face. He was dressed formally - a black, stiff collared tunic, black trousers, a light, white chlamys draped over him, secured with a silver pin. Behind him was a younger man, perhaps in his thirties - a round, pleasant faced man. He was dressed rather more simply than the other man; in a simple tunic that reached down to his knees, and carrying a leather satchel. A slave of the other man, I surmised.
The older man looked at us. I felt Phoebe's eyes on me, and I quietly stood up as the man approached.
"Citizen Vestina?" he asked, quietly - and, I noticed, with a trace of uncertainty.
Regally, my domina inclined my head.
"Your Excellency, Senator Callarius " she said
I felt my eyes go wide. A Senator! What in Hades was Phoebe up to? She wasn't a journalist, or a political writer. Indeed, I knew she stayed away from politics for a reason. Of course, this was Rome, she knew people who moved in the same circles as the great and the good of the People's Republic, but she preferred writing her articles on rather less controversial subjects.
The Senator glanced behind him. "My secretary, Claudilo" he said. Flavia gave me the same sort of dismissive, fleeting glance.
"My - ah, I don't know. Flavia"
The Senator raised his eyebrows. "'Blondie?'".
Phoebe chuckled and looked at me, winking.
"Blame a slave trader who thought a blonde would sell for more, sir". Phoebe always found that story hilarious; me rather less so. The slave trader's cheap dye job had faded after a week or so, however the name Flavia had stuck.
"Huh" said the Senator, evidently unsure what to make of that information. "I know some do dye the hair." He looked at me, though without much interest, and then indicated the seat.
"May I sit?"
"Of course, sir. And if you wish it so might your slave."
"I would prefer if this conversation was not overheard" he said, with a significant glance at yours truly.
"So would I, sir" said Phobe, quietly. "I read your letter. It sounds...interesting. But Flavia's loyal." She smiled affectionately. "And, frankly, smart enough to find out eventually."
The Senator looked as though he'd swallowed a wasp, but after a moment, relented.
"Then the slaves might as well sit" he said. "I trust Claudilo as well, mostly. Claudilo, the satchel."
The man placed it on the table, and then withdrew a single, thin paper folder, placing it on the table. Phoebe regarded it for a moment, and then spoke.
"Your Excellency, might I be frank?"
The Senator nodded.
"I'm a writer, not a journalist. I'm not sure what you have in mind. But if this is some scheme to leak some news, or-"
"It's not" said the Senator, interrupting. Phoebe bit her lip at that, but managed to hold back her doubtless pithy reaction. "I wrote that letter to you because I know you're an expert on servile law."
"You said as much. But I wouldn't say expert. If it's legal advice-"
"It'd go to a lawyer. Indeed, I have already have done. Believe me, and with no offence, you are not my first choice. But..." he cocked his head, and smiled. "You have abolitionist sympathies, do you not?"
There was a pause, and then Phoebe smiled tightly. It was, I knew, an accusation that had dogged her for a while.
"Hardly, sir. I own a slave, I write occasionally for a magazine for them. I was radical in my youth, to be sure. But one has to accept reality. But if by abolitionist you just mean someone who believes in fairer, kinder treatment, and that the powerful should not be able to do what they will to those weaker than them, then yes, I guess I am." She paused. "It is why I write for Loyalty. They need a source of helpful advice, a bit of encouragement, and who knows, maybe some amusement too."
"I believe my household reads it" smiled the Senator. "And peace. I meant no offence. I understand that no doubt our political sympathies are somewhat different."
"You're a hardline Romulust." Phoebe smirked. "I'm not the only one who has contacts, sir. I looked you up the moment I got your letter. Whilst I'm...not." She paused. "But let's not talk politics. No doubt you think its unseemly that a woman even considers some things."
"You'd be wrong" snapped the Senator. "My wife...she was interested, and I encouraged it." His gaze flickered, for a moment, before returning to my Domina. "But I agree. We are not here to debate. But you are a radical, tender hearted when it comes to slaves, and, if I might be blunt, relatively unknown outside of a small circle of writers."
"'Tender hearted', sir?"
The Senator, ignoring the question with the ease of a true politician, tapped the file in front of him. "I will be honest. I'm...nervous, about what is inside that. In it, a slave alleges she's been illegally enslaved."
"What, kidnapped?" Phoebe frowned, as well she might. That was a matter for the Vigilium.
"No. She was enslaved according to the law of the People's Republic. By a Praetor, no less, but based on false - indeed, entirely manufactured - evidence."
"Jupiter Optimus Max".
"Oh, it get worse. She alleges that her family was enslaved by this Praetor as a favour to his patron; and she ended up in this patron's household . A very wealthy, very clever, very respected man. According to her, her family was enslaved because they'd found out something about this man. He is, to read her letter, frankly a monster of the worst sort, heading...well, sheis vague on the details. But some sort of fraud, some sort of conspiracy." He shook his head. "The letter itself is...not entirely convincing. It's long, rambling, near incoherent in places, makes the wildest speculations, indulges in the strangest guesswork. It is a strange mixture of accusations, pleading and outright rant. The man she accuses is well thought of, influential. Normally I'd dismiss it out of hand."
Claudilo said nothing, but I got the impression from a fleeting expression on his face that indeed, his dominus, had dismissed it outright, and he'd convinced him otherwise. Obviously, there was more to Claudilo than an attractive errand boy.
Phoebe raised her eyebrows. "Influential enough, I guess, that if you used your normal channels to verify what this woman says, there's a chance he would get to hear of it." She paused. "And hence why you need an outsider. And one known to be 'tender hearted'. Because - oh, you bastard."
The Senator just smiled and Phoebe shook her head ruefully. "He's a rich and influential man. No doubt you worry that I'd be tempted to inform him of your interest...but that would mean revealing your informant and exposing her to who knows what punishment for writing to you in the first place."
"Exactly. You are a writer, who writes on a variety of subjects - your inquiries would be barely noticed, just a woman doing her job. You also have the knowledge of servile law to see if my informant's main allegation has any value." He looked around. "Honestly, my limited enquiries have not been as conclusive as I might have liked. Meaning I can't prove she's lying. Everything I've so far checked in that letter has turned out to be true."
"Who is it she accuses?" Phoebe asked.
"Are you interested?"asked the Senator.
I hid a grin. It was obvious to all but the blind (or, possibly, a man) that Phoebe was not so much interested as hooked. She's insatiably curious, and, despite her denials, has I know never quite lost her youthful idealism.
To tell you the truth, I was interested. Illegal conspiracies? Corruption in high places? It would certainly make a change, I reflected.
"I am" said Phoebe. "There is however the question of payment. I may be idealistic, but I need to eat, and my slave does too."
"Understood" said the Senator. "I was thinking five thousand denarii. For what should only be a few hours work. Simply your evaluation of this letter, and your suggestions as to how truthful it is."
I sniffed. That was a good sum indeed. Whoever this Senator was, he was obviously serious. Or, more likely, I reflected, unaware of just how much freelance writers generally earned.
"Done" said Phoebe, not even bothering to haggle. She looked at the file, and then, unbidden, leaned forward and clasped the Senator's hand. He raised his eyebrows, and I couldn't say I blamed him. Hardline conservatives like him probably didn't think much of woman acting as a man might in matters of business.
"It goes without saying, sir, that neither myself nor my slave will breath a word of this to anyone. On this you have my oath."
The Senator nodded.
"Thank you. I pray all it is is some deluded rambling, but-" he paused, and then continued. "But if its not, we have a problem in Belgica."