Luke's Story Page 2

  “I want to stay and help,” Loukon said. “But the master—”

  “Do as he says, Luke,” the physician said. “Nothing can be done for any of us. We will all be gone by tomorrow at this time.”

  “I must say goodbye to them,” Loukon said. “How can I leave without—”

  “Luke, hear me. I do not expect them to survive, but I do anticipate that they will regain consciousness before their final crisis. I will tell them whatever you wish.”

  “Forgive me, doctor, but you are older and frail="3">Loukon immediately sat and began to scratch with a quill at a small roll of papyrus. He was desperate to communicate love and gratitude and assurances that he would make them proud. A lump invaded his throat and his eyes filled. Meanwhile a messenger appeared in the doorway with word that the master demanded his immediate presence at the gate.

  With tears streaming, Loukon reached the message in to the physician, who was looking worse by the minute. Loukon’s last view of his parents was of them lying side by side. And still.

  His father and mother, like the rest of the adult slaves, could not read. Who but the dying physician himself could be entrusted with reading his message to them?

  “SIT WITH ME, LUKE,” Theophilus said. The lad hesitated, but the master patted the seat and he reluctantly climbed in and plopped down. “You don’t have to speak. I know you’re angry with me, and grieving. I pledge we will memorialize all we have lost, your parents and my physician primarily. Trust me, while you will find it difficult to believe, this is also an ordeal for me. I do not want to leave any more than you do, but when you realize you have been spared for a reason, we’ll look back on this as the right thing.”

  Loukon sat shaking his head. “Logic tells me you are right, but I cannot stand the thought that I am so powerless to help. And that I have abandoned my parents on their deathbed, something neither would ever have done to me.”

  “If the worst happens, son, and you will allow me, I would be honored to serve as your surrogate father.”

  Loukon knew Theophilus meant well, but that was the last thing he wanted to hear. The man was strangely clumsy in his attempts to encourage and console. Loukon decided to remain silent and deal with his master only as events dictated. He just hoped he would not be expected to jump right into his studies as soon as they settled in at the seaside retreat.

  Loukon attempted to keep his mind off the impending tragedy of his losses by trying to anticipate the compound he had never seen. He had heard other slaves tell of the place, all wishing they could be assigned there permanently. But visits to the Mediterranean by the master and his family were rare, and the privilege of accompanying them was passed around.

  It was little consolation to the distressed young scholar that he would be at a beautiful spot when the awful news reached him.

  “You must not allow this to make you fall behind in your academic pursuits, Luke,” Theophilus said.

  The poor man was trying so hard. Loukon again wanted to lash back at him, to tell him he would be entirely unable to concentrate on anything for some time.

  Despite all, when—late in the day—Theophilus’s home away from home finally came into view, Loukon was stunned. The setting sun shone off the sea, and the beautiful landscaping made the setting idyllic. The property was much smaller than the Daphne estate, but the house was every bit as large.

  Loukon was grateful for something to do and immediately inserted himself into the cadre of slaves unloading the family’s goods and moving them into the house. It made no sense, h xp1d himsele knew, but he told himself that if he kept busy, that would somehow keep bad tidings at bay.

  Such hope was dashed within an hour when a courier, who had to have left Daphne not long after the family did, arrived with a report. Several crowded around the master, hoping to hear when he did. But Theophilus took the man into a private room, emerging moments later, looking sad.

  “Luke,” he said, and the boy found himself deeply grateful to be summoned. He followed the master into the room. “Would you care to sit?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The master looked as if he wanted to touch Loukon, but the boy was glad he refrained. He simply wanted the news and to then be left alone.

  “We have lost eleven already, Luke. Your mother, the physician, and Lippio are among them.” He reached for papyrus on a desktop. “A list of the others.”

  Loukon was surprised he was able to find his voice. “My father remains?”

  Theophilus nodded. “But there is little hope. I was not aware Lippio had even been affected, were you?”

  It seemed a strange question in light of Loukon’s having just been informed of his mother’s death. He shook his head.

  “Would you like some time for yourself?”

  He nodded, and Theophilus excused him to his quarters. Loukon felt guilty as soon as he entered and sat on the bed, his meager belongings piled in a corner. No slave quarters for him here; these were the nicest accommodations he had ever enjoyed. His parents had never even seen such a comfortable place, let alone been allowed to use it.

  Loukon lay on his stomach and hid his face in his hands. He was full of questions. Was his father conscious, aware he had lost his wife? Had either been read Loukon’s farewell? Was his father suffering? It was not unlikely he was gone already.

  Some of the names of the dead had included people of faith, those who believe in whom they referred to as the one true God. So where was He now?

  Memories flooded the boy’s mind. Now that he knew how most slave children were raised, he realized how good his own childhood had been. He had long been aware who he and his parents were and who they were not, but he had never suffered.

  Until now.

  As Loukon’s breathing became steady and deep, he realized how bone-weary he was. His sleep had been fitful and, as his father had said, the night short. Then his day had been as strenuous as he could remember. And the very idea of arguing with his master—especially in front of his family and advisers and even other slaves—humiliated the boy. He would have to apologize when the time was right.

  WHEN LOUKON AWOKE three hours later, he was aware of voices in the great room. He quietly made haster should remain where he was until authorities had determined that the estate was safe for return. That could have been weeks. No one knew how many more might be affected or how long it would take to bury the dead and cleanse the place. It was unlikely that the cause of the killing plague would be determined or that it could be contained. But until experts believed the hazard had been eliminated, no one believed Theophilus should risk a return.

  “And when,” one asked, “will you tell the boy about his father?”

  “I’ll not be able to keep it from him, nor would I choose to. He’ll want to know as soon as he wakes. I just hope he gets a little rest.”

  “I’m awake,” Loukon said, stepping into view.

  Theophilus immediately rose and approached him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you. Of course I knew it was inevitable.”

  “Don’t worry about any duties for the time being. Let my people know if you need anything.”

  “I am your people, sir.”

  “Consider yourself part of my family now. And as I promised, we will honor your parents, and all we have lost. I can’t say when that will be, but I guarantee it will be appropriate and meaningful. I very much respected your parents, Luke. I will miss them.”

  SIX

  The estimates of how long it would take for Theophilus and his family to return to Daphne proved woefully inaccurate. The master seemed out of sorts for weeks as he directed—from the Mediterranean retreat—mass burials and the torching of the slaves’ quarters. Frequent visits from provincial authorities and even representatives from Rome resulted in heated meetings and much turmoil.

  Theophilus dispatched trusted aides to Antioch and Tarsus to procure more slaves, but even this effort was stalled when he was informed that he would have to house these p
eople elsewhere until the rebuilding at Daphne had been completed. There was not enough room, or work for the slaves, on the Mediterranean.

  At first grateful to take the master up on his offer of no study until he was ready, after weeks of moping about, Loukon found himself eager for anything to occupy his mind. He hated to bother Theophilus, with all that had to be on his agenda, but when he got a moment’s audience with him, Loukon said, “I believe I am ready to take up my studies again.”

  Theophilus seemed to weigh him with his eyes. “I have a task for you first.”

  “Anything, sir. Thank you.”

  “I pledged an appropriate memorial to your parents and the others. I would like you to take charge of that.”

  “Take charge? I would be unable to host it or to speak.”

  “Oh, no,” Theophilus said. “I myself would be expected to serve as host and eulogizer. What I require of you is to gather all pertinent information on the deceased: names, birth records, duties, any personal stories Iight be able to relate. And then I would like you to suggest an appropriate memorial, something that would remain after we have orally honored these.”

  “When will this be, sir?”

  “Upon our return to Daphne. I considered doing it here, but that seems so impersonal. It strikes me that we should do this within a respectable distance of where they have been entombed.”

  Grieved and hurting as he was, Loukon found himself desperate for just this sort of exercise, and he threw himself into it. He spent an entire evening reminiscing on papyrus about his own parents. Then the next morning he shortened it to its essence so Theophilus would have time to include a few sentences about each of the dead.

  Loukon spent several days carefully interviewing several at the retreat about anyone they had lost. He wept with them and shared his own memories, finding it all quite melancholy and yet satisfying and healing.

  To his abject dismay, however, Loukon sensed pride creeping into him for the very fact that the master had asked him to take charge of this. His parents had been in the ground only a short time, and his wound remained sharp and deep. And yet the baser part of his nature was looking forward to the day when Theophilus would thank him publicly for his efforts in staging the memorial. What was wrong with him?

  Finally the day came when he was allowed to visit Daphne for the first time. Many of the surviving slaves had been working on the rebuilding of their quarters and purging the rest of the estate in anticipation of the master’s return, and only they could relate stories of their lost family members.

  In all, more than thirty had perished and twice that many had endured long recoveries from whatever it was that had swept the place.

  “I get daily reports, of course,” Theophilus had told him, “but bring me back a detailed account. Consider it part of your studies, an assignment in constructing a thorough evaluation. I want to know how the new place is shaping up, and I’d like an honest forecast of when you think we might be able to return.”

  “Master, I want to thank you for this task. I can’t say that I’m enjoying it actually, but I am grateful for the activity.”

  “Do you still regret having left?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “I try not to dwell on it,” Theophilus said. “The guilt for selfishness crouches at the door of my mind, but I try to combat it with logic. I remind myself that there was nothing I could have done, and that I have been spared to continue to do right by my fellow man. Now, where is your thinking on a permanent memorial?”

  “It might prove costly.”

  “Let me worry about that that, Luke.”

  “What would you think of a sculpture or some sort of depiction that would honor the dead?”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I feel fortunate. The master noticed my interest in such things, is all I can say. I am as surprised as anyone else that he has allowed this.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Would you like to do what I do?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Why not tell him?”

  “Theophilus? He would laugh me out the door. I can’t read and wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “But you’re interested in science, mathematics, rhetoric, art, history, medicine?”

  Diabolos laughed aloud. “Hardly! I am interested in remaining inside all day and doing nothing, like you.”

  “If you think what I do is nothing, you are mistaken.”

  “Well, just in case you’re unaware of it, the rest of us resent your privileges.”

  “And what am I to do about that? Refuse the master’s kindnesses so I don’t separate myself from my people?”

  “That’s what I would have done.”

  Loukan found himself not only offended and resentful, but also angry. He wished he were bigger so he could challenge Diabolos to a fight. He imagined bloodying the man’s face, knocking him to the ground, and kicking him to within an inch of his life. And here he had be

  en trying to convince the man that he was just a fortunate, humble servant.

  What am I really?

  LOUKON SPENT NEARLY the entire day interviewing survivors of the plague about their loved ones. He found it strange to wander where he and his parents had lived and to see nothing but dirt. The new quarters were in the same area but several yards away. And they were nice, roomier, and Theophilus had apparently approved an engineering project that directed a stream of water through the complex that would greatly aid with sanitation.

  Just before it was time to head back to the Mediterranean, Loukon made his way to the rough-hewn tombs where his parents and the others had been interred. He repeated aloud from memory what he had written his parents weeks before. When he got back to the estate, Diabolos was standing by the wagon and horses.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “I need to gather my things,” Loukon said. “But I would like to ask you about your family first, if you’re up to it. Come inside where I can write.”

  “Can’t we do it back at the retreat?”

  “We might not have as much time. What if you are assiwed him. “You know, of course, that I know what you’re going through. Don’t forget that my parents were among the first to die. I even understand the guilt of being the only survivor.”

  “But you had a reason!” Diabolos said, sitting across from Loukon. “I was out in the workplace with everyone else. I wasn’t lounging inside doing nothing!”

  “I am sorry, Diabolos. I truly am. Now, would you tell me about them?”

  All the while Loukon was taking notes, he was resenting Diabolos and wanted to strike back at his meanness. He somehow forced himself to dredge up some compassion for this sad, sad man. If Loukon felt the slave was being unfair, he could only imagine how Diabolos felt about him. But of course he didn’t have to imagine it; Diabolos was nothing if not forthright.

  LOUKON ALLOWED HIMSELF to hope that by the time he and Diabolos had reached the Mediterranean retreat again, they might have forged some sort of a relationship, if not an uneasy friendship. Even a truce would have been better than the distance he felt from the man.

  But no. While he thanked Diabolos effusively, Loukon got only a nod, and when he came upon him around the grounds during the ensuing days, his greetings were barely acknowledged. It was as if they had not spent the better part of a day together.

  Loukon spent most of the next two weeks daily working on the eulogy for Theophilus to read at the memorial. A target date had been set for the return to Daphne, and Loukon found himself eager to get back. Would he be assigned his own chambers in the servants’ quarters, or would he have a place in the main house? After the encounter with Diabolos, he wasn’t sure which he would rather have. Slave quarters would be fine with him. In truth, he’d rather stay in relative luxury, but he wanted his peers to think he was required to stay in the main house.

  It was time to endure the memorial. Endure was the right word, for as sweet and meaningful as Theophilus would make it
, it would be an ordeal for the grieving. Maddeningly, part of him still hoped the master would acknowledge his part in the preparations.

  Once it was over, Loukon could get back to his studies. He hoped he hadn’t fallen hopelessly behind. With university looming on the horizon, he believed he could focus and find within himself renewed enthusiasm for the task of conducting the memorial. He desperately wanted to honor the memory of his parents while also proving himself worthy of his master’s trust.