Douleia - Servitude

Paris, Summer 2000

I met MacLeod some weeks later at Joe's bar. I had no difficulty to recognize him, his presence strong like that of a real warrior, and his face all the beauty a dark Celt can hold. Moreover, he was well clad, and his movements had a natural elegance. I knew in an instant that he was all Mateo could ask for, and I was in no doubt that my trustful slave had made him his own already. He rose from his chair when I entered, but sat down again after having exchanged a glance with Dawson. So I knew they had talked about me. The better!

I talked to him about Mateo, but he only learned that Adam Pierson, the name he called him, was an old friend of mine. I made the talk as pleasant as possible, and at the end we had a glass of ouzo together, with Dawson shaking his head behind his bar.

Then I came to my point. I pretended nervousness, and as predicted, MacLeod asked me about the reason for that. I told him a madman was hunting me, and he believed me. He even offered his help! He said, if I were a friend of Adam, it would be his highest interest to see after my well-being. However. He could not fight my fights. To this I agreed.

When I felt the presence of another one of us, I pretended I wanted to flee, although I soon felt that it was Mateo. MacLeod, being all clan-chief, bade me stay. Mateo entered the scene, and seeing me together with his lover, he apparently did not really know whether he should blush or run away. He decided to play dead face and came to sit between us. I had not yet told them the name of my pursuer. I told them now, knowing that he was a friend of MacLeod. The proud Highlander was concerned, but not as much as before. I had reckoned on that, knowing that Mateo would not leave me alone. I did not tell them, though, why I was being pursued.

Mateo offered me to stay with him at his place. MacLeod did not seem to approve of that, and I am sure they both had some interesting things to talk about later. Nevertheless, I followed my friend and slave to his apartment.

There I told him the whole story.

I also told him that MacLeod would sooner or later get a visit from Corioli, and I pledged Mateo to talk him into helping me. How could that be? I pretended to be utterly out of practice, and knowing MacLeod, I was sure he could find a way to convince Benedetto I was worth living. When Mateo finally called MacLeod, the Highlander was not alone any more. From the way they were talking, I had the impression that Benedetto had already found my clues and was now staying at MacLeod's place. What a wonderful turn!


As I said before, I am one of the takers. I have always been so, ever since I killed my first slave master. The only thing I give is illusions.

This is why I could survive on my island for as much as three millennia. The people who are living there don't know me. They don't even know my house. The less do they have an idea about the fact that I own them, every single one. The few who would not stand my manipulations did not survive for long.

I have told in the very beginning of my nice little story that I started to make people do things I wanted them to do. This is only the half-truth. I also learned soon enough to make people believe things that never happened. You see, this is how politics work, too, this is how the whole world is functioning: You make the mob believe things, and so very soon they take it for reality, although it might never have happened.

When I went to the market and lacked the money to buy one thing or the other, I made the dealer believe I had given him the money, and I had never difficulties in this. You will say, this is hypnotizing, and yes, it is, but I did not know the word then. If I look into your eyes and tell you that you feel coins in your hand, you will feel them. If I make you believe that the horse you are holding is mine, you will hand it to me. If the inhabitants of my island believe they are free, so be it.


Mateo

Private Journal, covering the first few centuries of my life. I'm leaving this for you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, to find, if you ever care enough for me to want to get to know me.

Kyklades, circa 3000 B.C.E. (Well, that's as precise as I can get it)


This happened before my first death, before I was known by the name you have come to call me by. Back then, I was Mateos, or Matiou, depending on where I was.

It was a pleasant life, warm for most of the year, even during the nights, and when it rained, it always stopped soon after. Ephesus was a market town, so there was market held twice during the week and on all religious holidays, and where there were markets, there was food. Sometimes, I actually was not hungry anymore when I had eaten.

I slept at the beach, buried in the warm sand with only my head sticking out. Come morning, I would wash the sand and dirt off my body by taking a quick swim in the sea and drying myself off with my tunic. Being the only garment I possessed, it was in a sorry condition, but I had no reputation to maintain. I owned nothing but the tunic, a loincloth, a bit of rope pressed into service as a belt, and a leather pouch I had stolen from a nobleman at some point. It contained a few coins, a few odds and ends I had collected over the last months, and my most valuable possession: a large coin of foreign denomination, sharpened at one side so it served as a knife. I can still remember the care I took to maintain the edge. Given enough time and incentive, you might even have taken a head with it.

I did not use it as a weapon, though. It was my stock-in-trade, a tool used for cutting open money pouches. Well, hidden talents and all that.

It was a simple life. When I was hungry, I tried my hand at theft. I had learned that, if caught, I always got away with it by making myself appear frightened and harmless. Most of the time, if I had stolen from one of the fat market women, I would not only be not punished, but they would even take pity on me by gifting me with a squashed fruit or the cut-off crusts from cakes or other delicacies. You might say I was aware of my charms and used them mercilessly. A slightly dirty face, a shock of unruly dark hair and big eyes will get women to do anything you want - if you're seven years old.

It had taken me a while to resign myself to this life, pleasant and simple though it was. You see, I did not live the life of a street urchin because I liked it. Well, okay, I did like it, but I had not chosen it. In fact, I was as noble a nobleman as the fat, well-dressed men who graced the market with their presence, chasing servants and slaves this way and that to get them whatever things they deemed necessary to maintain their life of overabundance. Only a few years previously (I am somewhat hazy as to precise dates), I had myself owned slaves. Okay, my father had owned them, but I had ordered them around.
Then something had happened. I have completely forgotten what it was, even to this day there is only a confused memory of my mother ordering me to hide in a trunk and to only come out again when called or when there was silence around me. So I waited, I think, and no one called me. Eventually I must have come out again, and the next memory I have is of trying to steal a loaf of bread from a market stall in Ephesus. I neither remember how I ended up there, nor where I had come from. It's almost as if I was born on that Market Place in Ephesus, except for a distinct feeling of superiority and the nagging suspicion that the world owed me something.

Life is a bitch. Whenever something good has happened to you, you'll end up without it sooner or later.

I had learned to survive without a nail to hang my hat (not that I owned one), or even a wall to hammer the nail into. I had learned to haggle whenever I happened to have enough money to buy something, not steal it, and I had learned to tell when I was being cheated. I could count, I could judge the quality of fruit by their smell, the quality of fabric by its sheen, and I could calculate sufficiently to discourage merchants from not handing me enough change.

There were, however, quite I few things I had yet to learn. For instance, if there is an obviously wealthy man who wants to see the slave market (held once a month), paying special interest to young boys, then it is an amazingly bad idea for a young boy, who (even if I flatter myself here) is quite pleasant to look at, to try to steal said rich man's purse.

What can I say? You live and learn from your mistakes. Especially if you spend centuries regretting them first.

I did not expect to be punished. Instead, I pulled off my innocent little urchin routine which almost always earned me some reward instead of having my hands cut off. This happened regularly, because markets and thieves go together like shit and flies, but it always happened to someone else.

They were two, the rich man I had tried to steal from and a younger man, also dressed expensively. They did not punish me. Instead, they invited me to their ship and set sail for the islands. And, being so naive it is almost laughable, I did not think there was anything wrong about that.

The ship was amazing. To my young eyes, it looked enormous, although, with hindsight, it probably was not larger than the usual warships that travelled the Agaean during that time. It was, however, as richly furnished as Evranos and Kallíos, the men who had accosted me, were dressed.

I liked Kallíos, the younger-looking of the two. He had an open face, an easygoing manner, and he talked to me as to an adult. I liked the way he looked, the way he smelled, I liked his voice. I trusted him on sight. Amazing, isn't it? Needless to say, this was a mistake I never repeated again.

I don't remember what we talked about during the passage to Samos. Most likely, I boasted as young boys do with what I could do, how fast I could run, how strong I was and how far I could piss. It doesn't matter. I do remember being sick the latter half of the journey, after we had left the calm coastal waters. And I remember seeing dolphins.

If Evranos' ship was impressive, his mansion on Samos was even more intimidating. He owned the island. He owned a gigantic household with dozens of slaves and servants. And he invited me into his house. I was flattered and proud. Well, isn't it great to be young? You never think bad about anyone.

Kallíos had briefed me as to what I would have to do to earn my stay there. It did not seem much, and it certainly did not strain me. Happy that my fate was turning for the better, I put myself to my duties with enthusiasm.

Had I been just a little more experienced, I might have wondered about a few things that were required of me. Bathing and drying Kallíos, for one thing. Sleeping in his bed, for another. And under no circumstances was I to injure myself. My unblemished skin, Kallíos told me, was what made me valuable. Also, I was not to spend too much time in the sun. I was to keep fit and to learn to dance. Back home, what little I remember of it, only women were required to dance, but this was another country, so I did not question it. I spent my time with Kallíos, and he was very nice to me. Very very nice.

Yes, I know. When he touched me the first time, I should have suspected something. I did not. So sue me. I liked what he did, how it made me feel, and when he asked me to return the favor, I did that, too, because I liked him. It was a culture totally different from the Christian one that predominates now, and there was nothing wrong with men touching each other. As far as that part of it is concerned, I still don't think there is anything wrong with it. It would probably shock a few people who claim to know me, but I've always taken my pleasure where I found it. And if he's intelligent and good-looking, I'll fall for him as easily as for a woman.

But this is not meant to be a discourse on the morals of the ages, or even my personal morals.

I was also required to serve Evranos, the master of the house. He was awe-inspiring, and I was very much awed by him. He looked even less Greek than I did, and he was so handsome that I am tempted to use the word beautiful. If I served Kallíos because I liked him, I served Evranos because I wanted him to like me. If a man like him likes you, you can't be totally worthless.

That probably sounds self-deprecating, which it is not meant to. I was very much aware of my worth. After all, I was of noble birth. I had survived alone in the street for a few years. I certainly did not consider myself anything other than a free man. The fact that I was serving in Evranos' household was my own decision, and I thought I could leave any time I liked. I just didn't want to, and so this state of affairs continued for almost a year.

A few weeks later, Evranos left with his fleet to fight some enemy in the north. He was not expected to come back for at least a year. And during that time, because nothing ever remains the same, Kallíos mentioned in the course of one of our numerous talks that I was a slave, and had been since I was brought here.

I still remember the feeling that revelation inspired in me, which was precisely like being punched in the gut.
That same day, I tried to flee. But it is not easy to find transportation from an island if that entire island belongs to the man you're fleeing from. Even the fishermen were Evranos' property. And Kallíos, with his status as Evranos' adopted son, had as much pull as the master himself. So my brief bid for freedom ended hanging from a brawny fisherman's arm, dangling in front of Kallíos, who could look quite menacing if he chose to. And it was all downhill from there.

Actually, Kallíos was lenient, downright soft with his punishment. He talked to me. He tried to make me see that I had no choice but to accept what had happened to me. He said that Evranos would punish him if I didn't cooperate. He said that Evranos would punish me as well. And if I did manage to flee, Evranos would kill Kallíos.

That was the only thing that kept me from trying to kill myself. I know, it sounds extreme. But I simply could not accept that I was a slave. It was inconceivable. I was a free man, a nobleman, in fact. I would rather be dead. Dead, but free. Well, I've come a long way since then, when I was still too young to realize that when it comes to survival, pride usually is the first thing you have to sacrifice.

So I resigned myself to going on serving Kallíos, but now there was always the matter of slave serving master in everything I did for him. Where I used to dance for Kallíos or guests to the house because I enjoyed it, I now did it grudgingly and badly, and I did it only because I had to. I would do nothing without a direct order. Fortunately, Kallíos did not order me to smile.

When Evranos came back, I was required, among other things, to kneel, or better yet, to prostrate myself on the ground. And, being a stiff-necked proud little bastard, I flatly refused.

Punishment consisted of transferring me to kitchen duty. Again, I was let off more easily than I deserved, but of course I did not appreciate it. Kitchen duty was almost as much an insult as dancing like a girl had been. And the fact that mine were the most menial duties did not help.

They left me alone, and I spent years in the kitchen feeling sorry for myself and entertaining dark thoughts of revenge. No one asked me to be their catamite, but then, no one invited me to cuddle up with them for sleep anymore either. I was, basically, an unperson. Not fit to be looked at. Before, I could pride myself on the admiring glances I received, and now, because of pride, no one spared me a glance anymore.

I spent my days being stubborn. They would not get me down, I promised myself. I followed my orders in sullen silence, contemplating escape with every waking thought. Of course, no opportunity presented itself. There simply was no way I could get off the accursed island. And, with time, I grew resigned to my ignoble fate. Well, nothing much I could do about it.
Then, literally years later, Evranos told me in an aside, that he would leave for Ephesus, and that I was to come with him. I managed to remain cool, although everything inside me brightened up. At last, escape seemed possible!

Okay, so it was a trap. Maybe even I should have realized that. As it turned out, Evranos had just waited for this opportunity to punish me, not just for the escape attempt, but for all my insubordination that had gone on for years before.
I was trussed up like a turkey, my mouth wedged open with a horse's bit, and left like that for what seemed like weeks, but probably just was for a few days. By then, I was a grown man, so I determined not to succumb to physical torture easily. But Evranos did not set out to torture me - he wanted me dead. He had waited until I was the right age to become immortal, although of course I hadn't the foggiest idea.

I was terrified. I begged him with every ounce of strength left to me after days of dehydration to spare me. I begged his forgiveness, I pleaded with him, I cried.

In the end, I was thrown into a pit, on top of a red-hot metal grid, and when my flesh stopped sizzling, I was drowned with salt water they filled on top of me. Hog-tied as I was, I could not keep my head above the water for extended lengths of time. It took me hours to die.

There is probably no really pleasant way to die, but drowning is still on top of my list of least preferred deaths.

Evranos

When Mateo had realized that the first centuries of his life were in fact totally different from what they had appeared to be, he left me. I had made him believe that I was a god, that he was only alive because I granted him the favour, his wounds only healed because I touched them. I knew I could not hold this up for very long, and I was astounded and pleased how long it lasted.

Then, I followed Mateo, because I found I could not live without him. Time passed and I heard about the four riders of the Apocalypse. I followed the rumours, too, and I always knew where they were. After so long a time as 800 years, I finally got the message that the monsters were slain and there master, too. They had put his corpse in a dried-out well, so I was told. Later on, when I came closer to my destination, the story changed. Some people had seen the heads of all four on stakes above this or that township. Some had seen their ghosts evade from their graves and ride away with the mists. Some again had seen that the earth above their graves had crumbled and turned into dust, and only one old man told me that the master, the one they called death, had been buried deep below after an earthquake.

It took me decades again to find the right place. When I finally found it, there was, of course, no life-sign. I settled beside the hill I had been appointed to, set up my tent and waited. Then, one night, I could feel, ever so softly, a presence. At last! I started digging immediately. It took me days to take away all the soil that covered my love, but I finally extracted a fragile form out of the heavy dust, which did not have the slightest similarity with the proud Mateo I had known. For some moments, I was shocked to believe I had again found a real corpse, and my love was waiting for me elsewhere. Then, again, a slight presence before he died in my arms.

I started kneading life into his thin limbs, using all the oil I had, while watching for any life-signs. When he came to one more time, I gave him some water and a mouthful of mead. He almost choked on it, but he did not die, he simply fainted. I went on with my treatment until I finally could talk to him. Then I told him the whole story.

You will understand now, why we have always stayed friends. You will find it strange, knowing about my profession and belief, but I can assure you that I am no monster. I can love, just as all the others. My philosophy, though, is a strange one, and to be bluntly honest, I am very proud of it.

XXX


Mateo had arranged to meet MacLeod again at Joe's bar. I said I would wait at his apartment, far too afraid to go outside, now that Benedetto was in Paris. As soon as he had left the apartment, though, I called Jacques. He picked me up short time later, and we both drove to MacLeod's barge.

Benedetto was caught off guard, expecting his old friend MacLeod instead of his old enemy. The rest was less tactics, more deviousness and the swiftness of a vampire's throwing knife. While I indulged in the quickening, Jacques was so kind to kill both of Benedetto's men and the one guy who had watched the whole fight and was doubtlessly one of the strange cooperation called "Watchers". I did not want any witnesses. There were none.

When I saw Joe approach, though, I gestured Jacques to leave him alone. He was not part of my plan, but I guessed that he was concerned to see a quickening so close to MacLeod's barge. He would be even more concerned to see a headless corpse with one of MacLeod's coats, so I pushed the carcass into the Seine and kicked the head over the rim, too. Then I hurried to get back into Jacques's car and we went away.

I am on my way home now. I know Mateo will be furious for some time, but he will calm down again, just as he has done so many times before. Then, one day, he will come again to my place, and we will have so much to talk about; so much to do...

FINIS