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Crushed Hopes and Hopeful Beginnings (Light in the Empire)

By Carol Ashby

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Alexandria, Egypt, AD 126

With a satisfied smile that was almost a grin, Lusario set down the stylus and leaned back in the desk chair. A wax tablet lay open on the desk before him, and pride he would never let anyone see grew as he scanned what he’d just written. It was a masterful summary of the argument after the lecture that his young master, Diokles of Cyrene, was supposed to attend that day.

In the hall just west of the Great Library of Alexandria, a less-than-brilliant presentation by a visiting Epicurean philosopher had triggered a sarcastic attack from one of the Stoic philosophers who regularly lectured there. The verbal sparring match that followed had energized the whole room and led to heated discussions outside the hall, where even a slave like himself could take part.

Male laughter drew closer outside the large second-story room that Diokles’s father had rented close to the library and lecture halls. Several young men from wealthy families across the Empire shared the elite town house. Too much money, no one in charge whose authority they respected—that was a recipe for trouble, and at nineteen, Diokles didn’t even try to resist.

The slightly slurred tenor voice of Diokles was answered by the baritone of his Carthaginian friend, Marcus Helvidius Florus. More nights than not, Florus found some entertainment for them that Diokles’s father would not approve.

Each time that happened, Lusario failed in his duty, as defined by his young master’s father.

When Diokles turned fourteen, Master Philandros changed Lusario’s duties from house slave to his son’s personal valet. At eighteen, Lusario found that boring, but it took so little time that he spent most of the day helping his father tutor students for their owner in the school fronting their town house.

An easy set of tasks in Cyrene, but before they sailed for Alexandria two years ago, Philandros had taken Lusario aside to tell him his duties included keeping Diokles from questionable activities with unsavory people in dangerous places. The old master had no idea that his son would form a close friendship with a wealthy Carthaginian who would lead Diokles to all three.

As a mere slave, Lusario could do nothing to stop it. But at least nothing too horrible had happened, and they’d be returning to Cyrene in a few weeks.
With an uneven gait, Diokles entered the room. Florus kept one hand on his friend’s upper arm to steady him.

Lusario rose. “Good evening, Master. Shall I prepare your clothes for going out tonight?”

“We’re going to a banquet.” Diokles waved one hand toward the trunks that held his ankle-length chitons of fine linen and the coordinating embroidered himations that he wore over them. “I want the green set.”

After laying the requested attire on the master’s bed, Lusario stood with hands clasped at his waist, ready to help Diokles change.

Florus picked up the wax tablet. “What’s this?”

Diokles leaned against his friend’s shoulder. “Lusario gives me what I need to keep Father thinking I’m as good a student as my brothers were.”

The Carthaginian’s frown deepened as he read what Lusario had written, and Lusario’s heart rate ramped up.

Florus closed the tablet and held it out to Diokles. “Do you understand what he’s talking about?”

Diokles opened the tablet and scrunched his face as his eyes tried to focus. “Not really.”

“So, what will you do if your father asks you about it when you go home?” Florus crossed his arms.

From everything Lusario had seen, that was never a good sign.

Diokles scratched his head. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

Florus’s finger tapped the tablet frame. “Is everything he writes for you like this?”

“I think so, but I haven’t paid much attention.” Diokles shrugged.

“Hmph. You’d better start paying attention. You’d be a fool to send something so scholarly to your father. He’d know you didn’t write it.” Florus handed the tablet back to Diokles.

Diokles whacked the side of Lusario’s head with the edge of the wooden frame. “You’re supposed to be writing something like what I’d write. Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

Lusario clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, but only for a moment. He managed to keep from reaching to see if he was bleeding where Diokles hit him. That would invite a second strike.

“No, Master. It was what everyone was talking about after the speakers left the room, so I thought—”

Diokles hit him again with the tablet, and Lusario put his hand on the desk to steady himself.

“That’s your problem. You think too much. You’re supposed to make it all sound like me, not some real philosopher.” He tossed the tablet on the desk. “Do it over, and make it simpler this time.”

“Yes, Master.”

Florus pushed Lusario aside and seized the tablet. “I can use this version. Father will find the story of two philosophers arguing over such a minor point amusing. I only need to add a little about how I would have liked to see him there to set them straight.”

He stroked his jaw. “You are lucky to own a valet who’s smart enough to write this. Famulus could never do it. Since this one can, I see an opportunity. Both our fathers expect to hear what we’re learning, and we should be going to the same lectures. He could write something like this for me.” He waved the tablet at Diokles. “Then make a second version that’s fit for your father to read.”
Florus poked Lusario’s stomach with the tablet. “Can you do that?”

Of course he could. Diokles usually had him do whatever Florus wanted. It was already like serving two masters.

“If you give me the blank tablets, I’d be pleased to do that, Master Florus.”

Florus grabbed Lusario’s chin and tipped his head back until their eyes met. “And when you go back to Cyrene, you will not tell anyone what you’ve been doing for us. A valet that can’t be trusted with his master’s secrets belongs in the galleys or the mines.” The Carthaginian’s glare reinforced the threat.

“Yes, Master Florus.” Lusario cleared his throat. “A valet always protects his master’s secrets.”

Florus shoved as he released the chin. “Help Diokles change. We’re late already.”

As Lusario helped his master out of his day clothes and into his evening wear, he glanced at Florus, who still stood by the desk. The Carthaginian was rereading the tablet, nodding as he worked his way down the well-written text. The snap of a tablet closing accompanied Florus’s self-satisfied smile.

Lusario drew a deep breath, but stopped before releasing the sigh. It wouldn’t be hard to write something to satisfy Florus each day and then simplify it for Diokles. It might even be fun.

It was less than three months until their time in Alexandria ended and they’d be returning to Cyrene. Being Diokles’s valet hadn’t been unpleasant before they came. Once Florus was no longer around to corrupt the young master, perhaps that would be true again. But valet was only a stepping stone to what he truly wanted.

His father earned a great deal of money for Master Philandros as a highly regarded tutor of elite sons. His own goal these past two years had been to learn what he needed for the same role. He’d done that and more. Once he was home, he’d find a way to convince Master Philandros that he’d have more value as a full-time assistant to his father than as a valet. Maybe someday, the master would let him lead a second school that was his alone.

One corner of his mouth lifted. Maybe even before then, the master would let him and Xenia start a family, like Philandros’s father had let Lusario’s father do many years ago.

When the two elite sons left the room, he fingered the lump where the tablet hit. It hurt to touch, but his fingers came away without blood on them.

A man could put up with a lot if it helped him reach his goal. He’d decided long ago to let the charioteers at the circus be his model. It wasn’t your position at the end of each lap that determined your future. Only where you were as you crossed the finish line mattered.

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Two weeks later

Lusario set the scissors by the wash basin on the small table. It took more skill than he had to make Diokles’s thin beard look as manly as his young master wanted. Most young men looked better clean shaven like Trajan, not bearded like Hadrian. Even when a beard grew fast and thick like his did, clean-shaven took less time.

But this morning, Diokles hadn’t uttered any of his usual complaints.

Something was wrong.

Last night, his master had left with Florus, but for the first time, they hadn’t returned together. As the last stars disappeared and the sky turned lighter gray, Lusario had dozed off in the wicker chair, waiting to help Diokles prepare for bed. He awoke when his master kicked his shin and slapped his ear to get him out of the chair.

Diokles had returned sober. That was another first since he started spending evenings with Florus.

Lusario expected his master to collapse on the bed and sleep until almost dinner time. Instead, he sank into the wicker chair and demanded the usual morning grooming.

Each set of footsteps approaching on the balcony caused Diokles’s head to jerk toward the door. Lusario had almost snipped a section of beard too close with his last jerk. As he drew the freshly sharpened razor up Diokles throat to cut away the sparse hairs, his jaw clenched. Tending a jumpy, angry master could be dangerous. The slightest nick, and Diokles might call it attempted murder.

He finished the last stroke and released the breath he’d been holding. As he swished the hairs off in the bowl of water, Florus ambled through the door.
“You should have come with me. The dancing girls were worth what they cost, in more ways than one.”

With steepled fingers, Diokles rubbed the sides of his nose. “I was a fool not to.” Eyes closed, he tipped his head back. When he turned his gaze back on Florus, a deep sigh drained Diokles’s lungs. “I should have quit when I was only a little behind, but I thought my luck would change. It did for a while, and then…”

“How much did you lose?” The smile Florus wore when he entered flipped to a frown.

“Enough that I won’t even have the money for passage home after I settle my other debts here. Speratus said he wanted the money right away since he knew I was about to go home.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

Florus rested his hand on Diokles’s shoulder. “How much do you owe, and how much do you have?”

“About 1800 drachmas. After I pay for passage home, I’ll only have a little over two thirds of that.”

Florus blew out a breath. “So, you need about six hundred more.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Father makes me send him careful accounts of what I spend here, and I have about a thousand left of what I brought with me. That’s more than I need to buy passage and cover expenses until I sail home a few days after you leave. If it were up to me, I’d just give you the money, but everything I treat as mine is really his. He’d be furious if I did that.”

“I know you’d help if you could. If I was staying here longer, I’d ask Father for help. He’d be angry, and who knows what he’d do when I get back home. But I think he’d send someone with enough to clear my debts and get me home. He’d be too embarrassed not to. He’d hate to have anyone in Cyrene learn about my money problems.”

Florus pinched his lower lip. Then his calculating eyes turned on Lusario, and the worry on his face turned into smug satisfaction.

Lusario’s stomach clenched, and he started to breathe like he’d just run a mile. He focused on slowing it down before either noticed.

“Father owns everything I treat as mine, and no Roman son can sell anything important without his paterfamilias’s approval.” Florus rubbed his jaw as he continued to contemplate Lusario. “But you’re not Roman. So, can you sell anything you have here?”

“I suppose, but I don’t have anything that valuable.”

“But you do.” Palm up, Florus extended his hand toward Lusario. “You have a valet that I’d be willing to pay 600 drachmas for. So, I wouldn’t be giving you Father’s money. I’d be adding a slave to his household. He can recover the money by selling him again after I go home.”

Diokles perked up, and Lusario’s stomach curdled. It was all he could do not to vomit.

He clenched his jaw and swallowed the desperate “no” he almost shouted. If Diokles said yes, all his plans, all his dreams of a future working with Father and raising a family with Xenia were destroyed. He’d never even see them or his sisters again. He’d end up in Carthago, never to return to Cyrene.

And belonging to Florus—he’d seen how he treated Famulus. Any spark of hope for a better life that his valet might have cherished had long since been quenched.

He fought to keep the fear and despair off his face. Both men expected their slaves to act like well-trained dogs, coming at the snap of their fingers and eager to obey.

“You’d buy him?”

As hope replaced desperation on Diokles’s face, black despair filled Lusario’s heart.

“Certainly. You’re my best friend, and friends should look out for each other, even if they aren’t going to be together all the time. He can even keep serving you until you sail.”

“Then he’s yours.” A grin split Diokles’s face before he turned his gaze on Lusario. “Find out how to draw up the sale papers and have them ready for me by this evening.”

Lusario swallowed the lump rising in his throat, then tipped his head. “Yes, Master.”

Florus slapped Diokles’s shoulder. “Let’s go get breakfast. Then I have some ideas for how to spend today that I think you’ll enjoy.”

As they headed out the door, Florus glanced back over his shoulder. “You can keep your name when you make the bill of sale.”

Lusario sank into the wicker chair as their happy voices faded away. Keep his name. It was all he had left of everything that he’d been and all that he’d hoped to become.

He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

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