The Conversation, A Sketch of A Dream

 

 

            Marcus sat alone at table. The Mediterranean morning light flooded the large quiet room. There was a second chair at the table, empty now. Until a moment before his wife, Julia, had been seated there. This was not a breakfast seating; it had been a difficult conversation.
            He sighed.
            Julia had gone to sit in the garden, out of the direct sunlight, with some of her women. He could hear women’s voices like birdcalls through the open window.
            He was no longer young. His hair was graying, and he bore the scars of battle. If authority wore a face, it might have looked much like Marcus.
            Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and thought about the slave. He had purchased her when she was a middling child. She came with some outlandish foreign name. Marcus called her Melum, a small sweet thing.
            Melum had grown up under his roof, serving Julia and himself in the house. If one of them wanted something from the kitchen, she ran for it. Her work was the many small things required in a great house, the little jobs of running and fetching. She waited at their table evenings, and brought things to the bedroom if one of them woke and was thirsty, or the light had gone out. Melum was always about like a pet bird. She was beautiful, adding to the dignity of the house she served.
            Marcus was fond of Melum. Now she had a child. He had watched her as her body changed and said nothing. Julia watched her too, and said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.
            He had no other children. But he hadn’t made his mind up about the fate of this one. A boy. A son. It rang in his mind like thunder.
            He had sent one of the house boys to her room. He wanted to see the infant before he decided whether to acknowledge his paternity, or to merely raise the child as a slave among many slaves.
            Silently, on small bare feet, carrying her son, Melum entered the brightly lit room, such a rich and beautiful room, with colorful frescoes on the walls, and mosaics exhibiting exotic marine motifs under her little feet. Her hair was a light wheaten color, her eyes were blue, and she wore the simple gown of a female slave. She wore no adornments.
            She walked to her usual spot beside the table and stood waiting, silently.
            “No. Sit down, Melum,” he said.
            Carefully she lowered herself into Julia’s chair.
            “Is he well? Is he strong?” said Marcus. “Are you well?”
            “He is well, as am I,” said Melum in a voice like the embodiment of fragrance.
            “If I say he is mine, he will become a great man in my name,” said Marcus.
            “Yes,” and she trembled.
            “Bring him to me,” he said finally.
            Carefully, she rose and walked around to the other side of the table. Marcus held out his hands to receive the newborn boy.
            Melum passed her son over. Marcus took him in his hands, as a man does who is not accustomed to infants. His left hand was under the child’s head, and his right hand supported the body.
            “Does he wake and cry out much?” he asked her.
            “Not much, Sir, only when he is hungry,” she said.
            “Well, he is a manchild,” said Marcus.
            Then the child opened his eyes and focused on his father’s eyes. A long moment passed between them. Marcus began thinking of a name for this child.
            “Melum, take my son, go and raise him well! Be at peace,” said Marcus.
            She left him then, on lighter steps, carrying the newborn son of the house back to her own room.
            Marcus had a lot of things to arrange, and he needed his lawyer for all of that.

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