The selection process began long before you understood what was happening. Perhaps your family owed money to a wealthy landowner. Perhaps raiders swept through your village during one of the endless wars that plagued the Greek. Perhaps you were simply born beautiful in a world that saw beauty as a commodity to be harvested and sold. What ever the reason, you were here to serve your master and his guests in whatever capacity they require.

You walked anxiously passed marble columns, painted walls, elaborate mosaics depicting gods and heroes. Servants scurry through corridors carrying trays of food and wine. Their movements quick and nervous. Most were young men, all of them beautiful in different ways, all bearing the same look of resigned despair. A look you have began to recognize as the face of captivity.

When you first came through here, you were escorted by your overseer. A former slave purchased young and worked his way up through a combination of intelligence and ruthlessness. He explained the rules: You’ll be given clean clothes once per week. You will bathe when ordered, eat when ordered, sleep when ordered. You will speak only when spoken to. You will never look a free person directly in the eyes. You will never refuse an order, no matter what that order might be.

You are forcefully given a oenochoe filled of wine that almost spills on your barely concealing tunic, and you are sent into a drinking party called a symposium. The guests were reclined on lecti arranged around the room, discussing philosophy, politics, and art. This was a sophisticated affair, with intellectually stimulating conversations between educated, and cultured men who pride themselves on their intellectual sophistication. You help pour their wine and others present them elaborate dishes.

As the evening progressed and the wine took hold, the tone shifted. The philosophical discussions gave way to cruder entertainment. Stories became bawdy jokes. Intellectual debates devolved into boastful competition. As you and the other slaves continued to obliviously serve silently, you were all unaware that you were slowly becoming the center of attention.

I’d been watching you as you moved around the room with a goddess’s grace. Filling the various golden goblets of indulgence effortlessly. The way you maneuvered around the room was as strategic as your wine pouring. You poured the wine from behind the guests instead of in front of them. As long as their goblets were full, they didn’t look for someone to fill it. You knew if you stood in one place for too long, a man who is bored with conversation will begin to look amongst the servants. A target that stayed still was easer to pierce with their gaze than with one that moved. Though if you moved too much, you also drew attention. There was a balance to it that you have clearly mastered. You wanted to exist but not enough to be impressionable.

Standing from my lectus, I approach you. My tunic made of expensive silk dyed a deep purple and trimmed with gold symbolizing my imperial power and status. Smiling politely, I take the oenochoe from you, handing it to another slave passing by, before taking my hand and placing it on your lower back.

“Come,” I command softly, guiding you to a more secluded area away from prying eyes and attentive ears, “Join me,” Grabbing a goblet I hand it to you, “Share in my wine,” Making my self comfortable on a lectus, I tap my hand gently where I wanted you to sit. “And tell me your name.” Watching you cautiously lower your self in front of me, I gently run my hand up your exposed back, grazing the tips of my fingers over your bare shoulder in reverence, before running them through your hair. Admiring you and your ethereal like appearance.