The Slave Girl was sent to The Shaman’s bed. Her master, The Farmer, had sent for her especially and briefed her in private. She hated the way he looked at her, she hated him.
“Go to the Shaman’s bed.” She knew better than to balk at his words. His very presence made her stomach churn. “Find out what you can about him, learn his language, his ways the source of his magic.” Her hatred subsided a minute to allow fear to creep in. The Shaman’s magic was powerful and he hadn't been afraid to use it. She had heard the thunder from her work in the villa and the rumours of the disintegrated tree stump had quickly flown around the Farmer's household.
”Report only to me. If I hear of you talking of the Shaman to anyone else, then I'll cut out your tongue.” The Slave Girl knew the Farmer didn't like needless violence but she also knew the Housekeeper was kept around pretty much as a malicious weapon. The Farmer smiled “If you do good girl, perhaps I'll make you my next wife.” This disgusted her. His current Wife was fit and well and someone, for a long time, she had thought of as a mother. Although the difference between a slave and wife was supposed to exist the Slave Girl had often thought it negligible. The other slave's had told her it was just in this household that this was the case. She had nodded at the Farmer and bowed her head he had dismissed her with a wave.
Now she stood at the end of The Shaman’s bed, in the dimly lit room, wondering what to do. She could tell by his breathing that The Shaman was asleep. She had never had to share a bed before; the Farmer always had had her in his office.
AIt was common knowledge on the farm that she lay with the Farmer but how could she not. She had been eleven summers when he first called her to his office and until that point she had naively liked her home with the Farmer and his Wife . Until that day the Farmer's Wife had had a soft spot for her but since the Farmer sullied her, his wife had been cold to her, to say the least. She had grown up all too fast and been placed in a situation she had absolutely no control over. To make things worse the other slave's had been cold to her too. She was now the new favourite and apparently deserved their scorn. The only saving grace was that the other men if the household; the steward, the men at arms, the Freeman, farm labourers and even the cruel Housekeeper had to leave her be. All of the other slave women even some of the boys would frequently be ‘jumped’ by the men. Some women aligned themselves with certain men so as to afford some protection.The Farmer went as far as to encourage his men's behavior. She had heard him boast one night that he picked his slave women like he did his heifers; wide hips, docile nature.
It had been four summers since the veil had been lifted from her childish eye to reveal the true nature of her cruel world. In that time The Slave Girl had realised that people on the farm were more like the farm dogs than the docile Cows; the alpha roles were clear but every other role was fought over with bickering and bitching and sometimes literal blows.
She tentatively dropped her robe to the floor and climbed into the Shaman’s bed. He didn't stir although her body must of felt cold his skin seemed like embers. She wondered if it was part of his magic whether he were a godly embodiment of fire. In the Slave sheds tales, stories and legends were told of the God's and how they walked among men. LIke the slaves themselves the stories, and the Gods, came from all over the empire she loved all the tales.
The Slave Girl didn't know where she had came from. The other slave's conjectured that it was probably the north as her hair was so fair and her skin so pale but no one was really sure and no one recalled which slaver had sold her let alone any other kind of lineage.
When she had been in the Farmer's Wife's good books she had asked about her identity, at the time, the wife had looked at her full of pity and kindly said ‘my dear, what does it matter, you ought to be happy you're alive and fed and warm in my home. I hear of children on the streets of Londinium that run wild and live like rats.’ For some reason the Farmer's Wife always worried about things out of her control; the street children of Londinium the battles to wars of the empire fought a thousand miles away. Strangely she was never concerned about the uprising fifty miles to the north. Rumours had flown around the farm about the battles and brutal suppression but the Farmer's wife dismissed it all off hand as a being the work of a ‘few bad eggs’ and telling anyone who would listen about a wayward branch of her mother's family that was probably to blame.
Once The Slave Girl had plucked up the courage to ask the Farmer about her heritage. He'd looked her up and down and said ‘I expect you were sired by God's! Your beauty is so great!’ He thought he was being charming he always thought he was charming. She had soon realised that, with his sexual predatory, he wasn't trying to punish her but had deluded himself into thinking it was as good for her as for him. She had promised herself never to do anything other than lie there staring at the ceiling or the wall. He didn't seem to mind too much but she never had the courage to fight him as she had seen the punishment of the disobedient slaves handed out by the Housekeeper.
The Shaman was in a deep sleep and hadn't seemed to acknowledge her presence she thought perhaps she could slip out in the morning before he woke. She would have technically done her masters bidding but knew it would be a risk.
She turned to look at The Shaman his gaunt face illuminated by the light of the the center of the room. He was shocked to see he was quite handsome and younger than the usual travelling soothsayers the ones who had come to the farm before and slept in the chicken shed in exchange of some offerings and carved bone charms.
She was so close to him, now, she could smell the sour smell of the wine on his breath. Apart from his breath the Shaman smelled nice. After he and the Farmer had shaken hands the Farmer had insisted the Shaman bathe and swap his rancid cloak for some ‘proper Roman clothes’. The Shaman had been massaged in The Farmer's personal collection of aromatic oils.
The Slave Girl had seen him for the first time, as she attended the family at dinner. She had overheard The Farmer tell his wife that he thought The Shaman might be Greek. His wife had shrugged ‘what does it matter’ she had said ‘the man is dangerous I want him out of our home’. She had maintained a smile so the Shaman had seemed oblivious to his hosts’ simmering argument and had got quite drunk on the wine served at dinner.
In the kitchen she heard the Housekeeper tell the cook ‘There’s no way that man's a Greek, who heard of a Greek that couldn't hold his wine.’ The cook had laughed the polite laugh that all the staff reserved for the Housekeeper. The Slave Girl wondered if the Housekeeper actually thought he was funny then she surmised that he probably did as after all the Farmer thought he was a desirable lover. Men she concluded had a way of deceiving themselves so as to never lose face.
Apart from his face the only part of The Shaman which protruded the covers was his arm. In the dim light she studied his tattoos. They were like nothing she'd seen before.
The local Briton’s, the Farmer's wife's family, all had tattoos. Their tattoos were swirling and repetitive thick knots without an end or patterns with patterns. The Romans tattoos were different again. Numbers and writing marks of a legion or a date of a battle. The Shaman’s tattoos were intricate, like a spider web but in a language she'd never seen before. She fell asleep musing on the tattoos meanings and power her long days work outweighing the nervousness of sharing a bed.
The Slave Girl awoke abruptly to find The Shaman on top of her kissing her face. She braced herself for the inevitable discomfort. Instead the man maneuvered himself down her body. What followed was sloppy and on the edge of being pleasant for the first time she wondered if rutting could be pleasurable like some of the older slave women had joked in the dormitory. She felt guilty betrayed by her body’s basest instincts like she were a bitch on heat. The deep emotion welled up and she couldn't help but sob; she understood sex as a punishment or discomfort she must bare. The Shaman must have mistook her sobbing as an affirmation of what he was doing was good. She felt the tears roll down her face. The Shaman re-emerge from under the covers, smirking, as his face drew parallel with hers his grin disappeared. ‘How old are you?’
She didn't understand his question. She pulled at his penis thinking that's what he wanted but he rolled off of her. ‘No.’ She understood that the sentiment was universal. She began to panic. If she didn't please the Shaman then her master would be angry. She moved over to him so she could pleasure him but he pushed her off.
She started to beg him. He didn't understand her words but the meaning was clear he slipped out the covers and wrapped her in them and and held her tightly. Hushing her soothing her with a low tone. ‘It's alright, there there.’ He stroked her hair. She felt her body relax. It was a small thing but being held and having her hair stroked was the kindest thing anyone had done to her. She felt protected. ‘Maybe he's put a spell on me’ she thought as they just lay there.