Happiness
Chapter 3
Damon stopped working for a moment and stood still to take a breath and straighten his aching back. It has been three long years since his feet first touched the soil of Rome, when he was brought here on the slave ship. Since that day, all he had known were the whips and blows from the guards, the food that he was hesitant even to touch � the food that many times had caused his stomach to churn, forcing him into violent fits of vomit, and work, work, work � from early morning till late night under the sun that scorched his skin and the cruel winds and incessant rains that lashed his body through the poor remnants of his tattered clothes. And all those times when it seemed that he could not bear it any longer and would drop dead at the base of the unfinished building, he thought of Adriana, clinging to her image like to a life buoy.
Damon looked around. �It is better to get back to work,� he thought, noticing that one of the guards started threateningly in his direction. He sighed and resumed pushing the stone block forward, applying all of his remaining strength to move it from one spot to the next.
�Break time!� one of the guards yelled a few minutes (though it seemed an eternity) later, and the construction site had instantly metamorphosed. The work was halted everywhere, and the slaves dropped to the ground trying to use those few precious moments of rest as efficiently as they could. Damon leaned against a boulder, relaxing his strained, aching muscles. �They will be bringing food and water now,� he thought distractedly. The food was usually brought in by the little slaves � the children. They would give it to the guards first, naturally, and whatever was left was later given to the slaves. Damon watched absently as a young slave girl slowly made her way between the ranks of sitting guards and slaves. She brought a tray to the guard who sat next to the Sicilian and handed it to him in a somewhat defiant manner. Then she pursed her lips in a poorly masked expression of disgust and straightened herself out, ready to walk away. But the guard had a different idea in mind. He grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her toward him. �I do not like your attitude, slave!� he drawled.
�Let me go!� the girl screamed, hitting the guard on the arm.
The guard flung her forcefully to the ground and raised his whip to strike her. Something snapped inside Damon at the sight of this little ragamuffin who was sprawled helplessly at the guard�s feet, and, before he could realize the implications of what he was doing, he was back up on his feet, his right hand tightly squeezing the guard�s arm, keeping it from striking the girl. The guard roared in indignation, �Let go of my arm, slave!�
�First you let go of her,� Damon muttered through clenched teeth.
A sudden blow to the back of his head forced Damon to unclasp his hand. His vision clouded momentarily, and he fell down on the ground. The guard�s sarcastic � �You are in no position to lay down conditions, slave,� � cut through the loud pounding in his ears. And seconds later the sharp merciless blows of whips and fists poured down on his body like a swarm of angry bees, until his mind could not bear it any longer, reaching the limits of its capacity for pain, and switched off, plunging Damon into the long awaited relief of unconsciousness.
***
Something cold and wet touched his forehead, melting away the darkness. He struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids were so heavy that they seemed to be made of lead. But even as he succeeded, it still took him awhile before his vision cleared up, and he was finally able to see the face of the slave girl who sat crouching next to him.
She smiled, noticing that he was coming to. �Here,� she held something up to his mouth, and he winced slightly, as the icy cold water burned his dry cracked lips. He swallowed greedily and closed his eyes again for a moment, savoring the invigorating liquid.
�Thank you,� he managed hoarsely.
�No. Thank you,� she insisted, and Damon only now noticed a slight accent in her otherwise perfect Latin.
His own Latin was just barely improving after three years of mingling with the Romans, yet he could already distinguish the non-native speakers.
�Who are you?� he whispered, trying to sit up in a more comfortable manner (at the moment he was tied up to a pole under the burning sun � a standard punishment on that construction site for the slaves who misbehaved).
�My name is Leila,� was her response, as she reached out to loosen his ropes. Her little hands could not do much, but she did manage to ease the pressure on his wrists slightly, so that he was finally able to feel the blood start to circulate in his veins again. He nodded to her gratefully.
�Where are you from, Leila?� he asked, more to get his attention away from his pain than out of curiosity.
�Persia,� she answered quietly, and Damon noted that she seemed reluctant to say anything more on the subject.
�I should get back to work,� she said after a while, giving him another sip of water.
He nodded, and she got up to leave.
�I am Damon,� he said, as she turned to go. She looked back at him and smiled before walking away.