I, Lyssa

Untitled Part 3

Dear Diary                                                                                                   April 7th

I am sorry for not finishing my last entry. I was called by Miss Drusilla- wait, you don’t know who Miss Drusilla even is! And look at me; writing in a diary like it can understand what is between its pages. I think that there is something wrong with me!

       I guess I should start where I left off.

       This roman fellow was dragging me along with him, and had just told me that I was going to be a slave. A slave? I thought. Not me! I tried to run away. Emphasis on tried. Mr. Roman-Face had such a tough grip on my arm, the only thing I could do was move my legs like I was running, but still move in the direction he was dragging, like some kind of dust generating plowing machine. I must have looked ridiculous. Anyway, he spent the whole time trying to convince me that being a slave was not that bad.

       “It won’t be that bad! Slaves are treated fantastically back in Rome!”

       “Shut up! I’m trying to escape!”

       “Now, please stop trying to run, you are putting a great strain on my arm.”

       “Good!”

       “Anyway, the weather is magnificent-“

       “I don’t give a &#@$!”

       “Please don’t use such foul language. We are trying to be civilized, aren’t we?”

       “Civilized? You’re trying to sell me as a slave!”

       “It is what civilized people do in Rome.”

       “Well, that is NOT what we do in Greece. Don’t they say When in Rome, do as the Romans Do?  Well, we’re not in Rome. And please. Let. Go. Of. My. ARM.

       “Miss, If I let you go, I will be executed. Everyone in my group has to capture at least one slave each. It is the rule.”

       “Seriously?”

       “Seriously.”

       It was at that point that we reached the top of the hill, and I learned that a lot can happen in the 15 minutes it takes to buy wine. An entire Roman camp had been set up. A bronze eagle on a stick had been placed in the center. Flags whipped in the wind, and I heard yells from soldiers. The man dragged me through the camp, until we reached what looked like a crate on wheels. He opened up a door on the back, and threw me in.

       “I deeply apologize for any trouble I may have caused you. “ He said as he slammed the door shut.

       24 hours later I was in Rome.

       Nothing worth mentioning happened in the crate; there were other slaves in there with me, but none of them wanted to talk. Then the floor began to shake. I suppose at that time we were being driven by horse to Italy. At some point, I fell asleep, and when I woke up I was in Rome. With my feet chalked white. Being poked by a boy who looked like he had last eaten 3 years ago.

       “Hey! Hey! You have to wake up, lady.”

       “@#$% off.”

       “You have to get up right now! The market is open, and you have to be there!”

       “No I don’t.” I said sleepily.

       “Yes you do! It is very important!”

       “Screw the market.”

       “That isn’t very nice. Come on.” He lifted me by my arm. It surprised me how strong he was, compared to how thin. He then led me outside of the crate. I looked down, and noticed that the chalk on my feet was leaving white footprints in the dirt. Then I looked up, and saw the grand Coliseum, in all its glory. I scowled, angry at how exited I was to see it. I was in Rome! I was being sold as a slave, but I was in ROME! ROME! Land of glamour and fashion and gladiatorial battles and lions and gods and Emperor Caligula and I submitted to the fact that I would not survive a week here.

Zeus, Caligula has a terrible reputation. He is the kind of emperor who would have a man killed for sneezing in the same room as him. He would put a guy in a bath of electric eels for looking at him funny. Hades, I once heard that he ordered everyone in the kingdom who had more hair than him to be shaved.  The guy is a lunatic. I mean, Imagine! Thinking one’s self a god! It is beyond my comprehension where he got the idea. I pray to all the gods in Olympus that none of his spies finds this diary.

       Anyway, I stood on a platform for 15 minutes with a sign around my neck. I didn’t even know what the sign said until later. After 15 minutes, I met Miss Drusilla.

       Miss Drusilla walked up to the platform like a large snobbish bird. When I say bird, I mean bird. Her nose is set low on her face, and her mouth is just as low. Her eyes are extremely wide set, and inky black. The girl is only a little older than me, (I am 16) and yet she seemed like a middle aged woman. Her blonde hair was set in a complex hairdo that seemed to be almost a foot high. One could keep a small cat in her hair. Anyway, she started looking at the all the slaves like she was trying to burn us with her eyes. I do not doubt that she could. She stopped in front of me.

“You.” She said in Greek, and half decent Greek at that.

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you. With the eyebrows.”

My eyebrows are a touchy subject for me. They are ridiculously thick and bushy, and tend to invade the space between them. For five yearsI have been using beeswax and other implements to remove the hairs, but to no avail. They keep returning to mar my otherwise lovely face. Ok, lovely is pushing it. Nice is not accurate either. I suppose the term normal comes to mind when describing my face.

But enough on my appearance. Lets get back to the story.

As I have stated previously, I do not appreciate jabs at my eyebrows. I scowled.

“Yes, what about my eyebrows?”

“Nothing, you fool. Can you read?”

“Yes, what kind of illiterate do you take me for?”

She ignored this statement. “Can you do hair?”

“Hair?”

“Yes. I need a new hairdresser. One of mine is… not available.”

“Ah. I guess I could do hair, if I got some lessons.

“Right then.” She waved at a man standing next to the platform, who I thought must have been her father, or something similar. She yelled something at him in Latin. He then walked up to another man who must have been the slave dealer. The spoke to each other, and then shook hands.

Nothing remarkable happened after that. Well, nothing remarkable other than finding out that I was working for the frigging emperor.

Ok, I was not working for the frigging emperor technically speaking. I was working for the frigging emperor’s very distant cousin Athenobarbus, who was the father of the young lady who had now decided I was her possession. However, Caligula payed for all the family’s expenses, so for all intents and purposes, I belonged to him.
Ok. I REALLY wasn’t going to survive here.

Well, to wrap things up for today, I found out that a Roman slave could buy his or her freedom if he or she saved up enough money. Challenge accepted.