The farmer paid 7 cents for the slave’s “23 cm”… and what happened that night shocked Vassouras.

In 1883, thirty years after the scandal that set Vassouras ablaze, a man with gray hair entered a registry office in São Paulo and placed a decaying wooden chest on the desk. Inside were dozens of journals written by four hands, a torn, blood-stained letter of manumission, and an iron ring forged in secret.

The notary paled upon reading the first page: “This can never be published.” The old man smiled sadly, “I know, but it needs to be kept, because this story cost everything, and someone needs to know that we existed.” When asked his name, he simply said, “I am what survived.”

But what no one in Vassouras ever imagined was what truly happened every night in that locked barn between the indebted farmer and the giant enslaved man he bought for seven cents.

The auction took place on a suffocating February morning in 1857 in the central square of Vassouras, in the interior of Rio de Janeiro. The Paraíba Valley was boiling with the smell of ripe coffee and human sweat. Dozens of farmers circulated around the wooden platform where men, women, and children were exhibited like cattle. The auctioneer, a fat man with a twisted mustache and a piercing voice, announced each lot with the excitement of someone selling thoroughbred horses.

When it was his turn, the silence was immediate, not from admiration, but from discomfort. The man was 6 feet 5 inches tall, maybe more. His shoulders were broad like a bull’s, his hands enormous, his bare feet leaving deep marks on the wooden platform. The crude cotton garment barely covered his angular body, all muscle defined by hunger and forced labor. His black hair was shaved close to his scalp, and his deep, dark eyes looked at no one; they fixed on the horizon, as if he were somewhere else.

“His name is Cipriano,” the auctioneer announced, his voice losing some enthusiasm. “Twenty-three years old, from Recôncavo Baiano, strong as an ox.” He paused, embarrassed. “But no overseer has managed to tame him. He has been through four farms; he doesn’t obey orders, he’s no good for the fields, he’s no good for the main house. He only serves to cause trouble. Does anyone offer five réis?”

The square remained silent. No one raised a hand. “Three réis,” the auctioneer pleaded, lowering the price. Nothing. “Two réis.” Silence. “One réis.” The farmers began to disperse, losing interest. That’s when a deep voice from the back of the square cut through the hot air: “Seven cents.”

Everyone turned. It was Joaquim Lacerda, owner of Santo Antônio farm, a medium-sized property with 320 hectares of coffee and about 80 forced laborers. A man in his early fifties, gray hair, trimmed beard, simple but clean clothes. He was not one of the rich or the powerful; he was a farmer surviving on the edge, always owing the bank, always calculating every penny. The other buyers laughed, “Cents for that useless giant? Joaquim is going senile.”

The auctioneer, relieved not to have to return the “merchandise” to the trafficker, hammered the gavel. “Sold for seven cents to Senhor Lacerda. May God bless him, because he’ll need it.” More laughter. Joaquim did not react. He climbed onto the platform, took the chain that bound Cipriano’s ankle, and descended. The enslaved man followed him silently, his expression blank.

But when their eyes met for the first time, something happened. It wasn’t visible to anyone; it was internal, visceral, disturbing. Joaquim felt as if he had looked into an abyss, and the abyss had looked back.

They walked three kilometers to the farm. Joaquim in front, mounted on an old bay horse; Cipriano behind, chained, his feet bleeding on the dirt road. The farmer said nothing during the journey, he didn’t look back, but he felt it. He felt the weight of those eyes on his back, felt something he couldn’t name, but that made him grip the horse’s reins harder than necessary.

When they arrived, it was late afternoon. The sky was stained orange and purple. Joaquim dismounted, tied the horse, and led Cipriano directly to the barn—a large wooden structure where he kept tools, bags of coffee, and some animals. He locked the door. Cipriano stood still in the center of the space, his eyes still distant. Joaquim lit an oil lamp, the weak light dancing on the wooden walls. He pulled up a small stool, sat down, and watched the enslaved man for a long minute.

Finally, he spoke: “Can you read?” Cipriano did not answer, did not move a muscle. “Can you fight?”

This time, something trembled in the corner of his eyes, almost imperceptible, but Joaquim saw it. He got up, went to a corner of the barn, and returned with a hunting knife, a wide blade and a worn wooden handle. He held it by the blade and extended the handle to Cipriano. “Take it.” Cipriano did not take it. He looked at the knife, then at Joaquim, suspicious.

Joaquim sighed. “I won’t hurt you, and I won’t use you for the fields. I have a different plan, but I need you to trust me. Just a little. Just for tonight.” Cipriano remained motionless.

Joaquim placed the knife on the ground between them and took two steps back. “If you want to kill me, go ahead. I won’t defend myself. But if you want to hear what I have to say, sit there.” He pointed to a pile of dry straw in the corner. Cipriano looked at the knife, looked at him, then slowly ignored the weapon and went to the straw. He sat down, his knees bent against his chest, his posture defensive.

Joaquim smiled faintly. “Good. That’s a start.” He returned to the stool. “Let me tell you something no one else knows.”

And then Joaquim told his story. He spoke about his only son, Vicente, whom he had lost ten years earlier, about the stab wound to the chest, the blood on his arms, the death on the way back home. He spoke about his wife who left three years later due to fever, about the loneliness that had turned the farm into an unbearable burden. “I owe twelve contos de réis to the Baron of Araújo,” he said, his voice choked. “If I don’t pay by the end of the year, he’ll take the farm. It’s all I have left.”

Cipriano watched him now, his expression still neutral, but his eyes focused. Joaquim continued: “The Baron has a daughter, Eduarda. Every year she organizes a tournament at her father’s farm. Fighters from all over the region go there to compete—boxing, wrestling, whatever. The winner takes one hundred contos de réis.”

He leaned forward. “One hundred contos. Cipriano, enough to pay my debt, renovate the farm, and survive for ten more years. But I don’t know how to fight. I’m old, weak, I don’t stand a chance.”

Cipriano frowned, confused. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice hoarse, like someone who had gone days without water.

Joaquim looked him directly in the eyes. “Because I saw you at the auction. I saw the way you move, the strength in your shoulders, the fire hidden in your eyes. You are not useless. You are a weapon. You always have been, but no one has given you the chance to use that to your advantage.” He paused. “I want to train you. I want to prepare you to enter that tournament. If you win, I’ll split the prize with you. Half. Fifty contos. Enough to buy your freedom and still have some left over for you to start a new life anywhere.”

Cipriano remained silent, processing. Then he asked, “And if I lose?”

Joaquim shrugged. “Then we lose together. I lose the farm, you get sold again. But at least we tried.”

Cipriano stared at him for a long moment. “Why should I trust you?”

Joaquim laughed without humor. “You shouldn’t. But do you have another choice?”

Cipriano looked at his own enormous, calloused hands, marked by scars. He thought of the four farms he had been through, of the overseers who tried to break him with whips, hunger, and humiliation, of the nights he spent chained, dreaming of freedom. He didn’t trust Joaquim, but the farmer was right—he had no choice. Something in his voice, an honest weariness, a recognizable pain, made Cipriano believe that maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll fight. But if you betray me, I’ll kill you.”

Joaquim nodded. “Fair enough.”

They began the next day. Joaquim woke Cipriano before dawn and took him to a hidden clearing in the woods, away from the eyes of the other workers. He improvised a ring with ropes tied between trees, brought sandbags for him to punch, and pieces of wood for him to break with his hands.

For the first few weeks, Joaquim only watched, studying Cipriano’s movements, the way he punched with accumulated hatred, the way he dodged by instinct. He was raw, but he had potential. Joaquim brought old books on pugilism that he had kept since his youth—drawings of stances, blows, techniques. He didn’t know how to apply them, but he taught the theory. Cipriano absorbed everything like a dry sponge finally receiving water. He trained five hours a day, then returned to the farm and helped with the harvest to maintain appearances.

But it was the nights that changed everything. Every night, after the others were asleep, Joaquim locked Cipriano in the barn. He said it was to prevent escape, but the truth was different. He couldn’t stay away. He started bringing better food: meat, fresh bread, wine. Cipriano found it strange but accepted it. Then Joaquim started bringing books—philosophy, poetry, and history. He taught Cipriano to read by the light of the lamp. In six weeks, Cipriano was reading alone.

Joaquim sat on the stool, watching the way his lips moved as he pronounced the words, the way his forehead furrowed when he didn’t understand something, the way his eyes lit up when he comprehended. And something inside Joaquim began to change. It wasn’t gratitude; it wasn’t admiration. It was something he had never felt before.

One night, Cipriano looked up from the book and caught Joaquim staring at him. “What is it?” he asked.

Joaquim looked away, embarrassed. “Nothing. You just learn fast.”

“You teach well.” Silence.

Joaquim got up, nervous. “I’m going. I’ll let you rest.” But when he reached the door, Cipriano’s voice stopped him. “Sir, speak for yourself. You do this for real, don’t you? It’s not just for the tournament.”

Joaquim stood with his back to him, his hand on the doorknob. “No. It’s not just for the tournament.”

“Then why?”

Joaquim closed his eyes. “Why? Because for ten years, I haven’t felt anything. And when I look at you, I feel.” He opened the door and left before Cipriano could reply.

But from that night on, something changed between them.

The months passed. Cipriano became stronger, faster, more lethal. But the transformation wasn’t just physical. He started looking forward to the nights. He started to smile when Joaquim entered the barn. He started asking questions that had nothing to do with fighting: “What was your son like?” “Did you love your wife?” “Are you happy?”

And Joaquim answered with an honesty he had never shown anyone. “Vicente was everything I wasn’t: courageous, free, fearless. I respected my wife, but I never loved her. Not the way they say you should love. No, I am not happy. I never was.”

One night, Joaquim brought a bottle of cachaça. They drank together, sitting on the ground with their backs against the wall. “Have you ever loved anyone?” Joaquim asked, his tongue loosened by the alcohol.

“I don’t know. I never had the chance.”

“Do you want to?”

Cipriano turned his head to him. “Depends on who.”

The air grew heavy. Joaquim swallowed hard. “I… I think…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Cipriano finished it for him. “You feel something for me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

Joaquim closed his eyes, ashamed. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t.”

“I feel it too.” Joaquim opened his eyes, incredulous. Cipriano stared at him with an intensity that took his breath away. “I feel it too,” he repeated. “Since the first day. Since you offered me that knife and didn’t treat me like an animal.”

Joaquim felt his chest tighten. “This… this can’t happen, Cipriano. Do you understand? If anyone finds out, they’ll kill us both.”

“I know.”

“Then we need to stop. We need to forget this conversation happened.”

Cipriano offered a sad smile. “Can you forget?”

Joaquim didn’t answer, because he knew he couldn’t. And when Cipriano reached out and touched his face, Joaquim didn’t pull away. He closed his eyes and let it happen.

That night, the line was crossed. It wasn’t violent, it wasn’t domination; it was recognition. Two men who, for different reasons, had never been allowed to be who they were.

When it ended, they lay on the straw, side by side, in silence.

“We’re going to die for this,” Cipriano said.

“I know. But do you regret it?”

Joaquim turned his head and looked at him. “No. For the first time in my life, I don’t regret anything.”

Cipriano smiled. “Me neither.”

And from that night on, the barn ceased to be a prison and became a sanctuary. Joaquim began spending more and more time there. He neglected the farm, canceled appointments, invented excuses. The other workers began to suspect, but they said nothing, because questioning a boss was dangerous.

But there was someone who watched everything closely: Sebastião, the farm overseer, a cruel, devout man of forty who hated everything that deviated from order. He noticed Joaquim’s nightly trips to the barn, noticed the way he looked at Cipriano, noticed the change. And one night, he decided to find out the truth.

He waited until Joaquim entered the barn, waited half an hour, then silently approached the door and pressed his ear to the wood. And he heard. He heard the voices, he heard the sighs, he heard the unmistakable sound. Sebastião recoiled, horrified, and in that moment, he knew he held the secret that would destroy Joaquim Lacerda.

Sebastião did not act immediately. He was intelligent; he knew an accusation without proof would be ignored. So he waited, observed, gathered evidence. He saw Joaquim giving Cipriano better clothes, saw the books, saw the way they talked. He saw everything. And when he was absolutely certain, he went to the Baron of Araújo.

The Baron was the most powerful man in the region, owner of lands, of enslaved people, of lives, and he was deeply religious. For him, the sin of sodomy was worse than murder.

When Sebastião told him what he had seen, the Baron was silent for a long minute. Then he said, “Are you absolutely certain, sir?” The Baron stood up, his eyes cold. “I will give him a chance. One last chance to redeem himself. If he confesses and hands over the enslaved man to be executed, I will forgive the debt and forget the matter. And if he refuses? Then I will destroy him, and I will burn the enslaved man alive in the public square.”

Sebastião smiled. “When would you like to speak with him?”

“Tomorrow. At the tournament.”

The tournament took place in the first week of December. The Baron of Araújo’s farm was decorated like a court festival, but at the center was a wooden ring surrounded by crowded stands. When Joaquim arrived with Cipriano, everyone stared at the strange giant he had bought for seven cents.

The first fight was against a 265-pound butcher. Cipriano knocked him down in forty seconds. The crowd fell silent, shocked. The second fight was against a capoeirista. Cipriano won in less than a minute. The third fight was against a former soldier; it lasted four minutes, and Cipriano broke three of his ribs.

When he reached the final, his opponent was an even bigger giant—6 feet 11 inches, 330 pounds, a monster. But Cipriano fought as if he had something to prove. He took hits, he bled, but he didn’t fall. In the third round, he landed an uppercut that felled the giant like a mountain. The crowd exploded. Joaquim entered the ring and hugged Cipriano without thinking, without hiding.

And it was at that moment that he noticed the Baron of Araújo watching them from the box with an expression of absolute disgust.

After the fight, Eduarda descended with a leather bag of one hundred contos de réis. But before Joaquim could take it, the Baron stood up. “Senhor Lacerda, I need to speak with you now.”

Joaquim felt his blood run cold. They entered a private room. The Baron closed the door. “I know,” he said bluntly. “I know what you do with that enslaved man.”

Joaquim paled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult me. Sebastião saw everything, heard everything.” Silence. “I will give you a choice,” the Baron continued. “Hand over the enslaved man to be publicly executed. Confess your sin before God, and I will forgive your debt.”

Joaquim felt his legs tremble. “And if I refuse?”

“Then tomorrow morning, I will send a letter to the police chief accusing both of you of sodomy. You will be imprisoned, your farm will be confiscated, and the enslaved man will be burned alive in the square.”

Joaquim closed his eyes. “No. No, I will not hand him over.”

The Baron gave a cruel smile. “Then you have signed both your death warrants.”

Joaquim left the room, trembling. Cipriano was waiting outside. “What happened?”

Joaquim grabbed his arm. “We need to run. Now.”

They rushed back to the farm. Joaquim gathered money, food, and clothes. He took out the letter of manumission he had prepared months ago, wrote Cipriano’s name, signed, and sealed it. “This makes you free,” he said, handing him the document. “If anyone stops you, show them this.”

Cipriano looked at the paper with tears in his eyes. “You’re giving up everything for me?”

“I gave up everything months ago. Since the first night.”

They took two horses and fled at nightfall. The plan was to reach Rio de Janeiro and from there take a ship north, to the provinces where slavery was being questioned, where two men might, perhaps, live in peace. But Sebastião had warned the Baron, and the Baron had sent armed men after them.

They rode all night, stopping before dawn in a thick wooded area to rest the horses. That’s when they heard the shouts. “They’re here!”

Joaquim and Cipriano mounted their horses and galloped away, but the pursuers were many—six armed men with shotguns. The shooting began. Joaquim felt a bullet graze past him. Cipriano shouted for him to keep going, “Don’t stop! Keep going!” But then a shot hit Joaquim’s horse. The animal collapsed, and Joaquim was thrown to the ground.

Cipriano slammed his horse to a halt and returned. “Get on! Quick!” Joaquim climbed onto the back. They rode together, but the horse couldn’t bear the weight of both; it was slowing down. The pursuers were getting closer.

“They’re going to catch us!” Joaquim yelled.

Cipriano looked back, saw the men, saw the guns, and made a decision. He stopped the horse. “What are you doing?” Joaquim shouted. Cipriano dismounted, took the letter of manumission from his pocket, and thrust it into Joaquim’s hand.

“You’re going alone?”

“No, I won’t leave you, Joaquim!” Cipriano held his face. “If we stay together, they kill us both. But if I stay, you escape. No! I’m faster, stronger. I can handle it. But you need to live. You need to tell this story. You need to keep our diaries. You need to make it worthwhile.”

Tears streamed down Joaquim’s face. “I don’t want to live without you.”

Cipriano smiled. “You won’t live without me. I’ll be here.” He touched Joaquim’s chest. “Always.” And then he slapped the horse’s flank. “Go!”

The horse galloped away. Joaquim looked back and saw Cipriano running in the opposite direction, dodging the shots, leading the pursuers away. And when the last shot echoed through the woods, Joaquim knew. He knew he had lost the only person he had ever truly loved.

Joaquim reached Rio de Janeiro three days later. He hid in a tenement, waited weeks for news. When he finally learned the truth, it was through an old newspaper: “Fugitive slave shot dead on the Vassouras road. Joaquim Lacerda, local farmer, wanted for the crime of sodomy.”

Joaquim burned the newspaper, burned his name, burned his identity, and fled to São Paulo. He lived for thirty years under another name, worked as a scribe, and kept the diaries. He never loved anyone again.

In 1888, when the abolition was signed, he was 78 years old and dying. He decided it was time. He went to a registry office and deposited the diaries. “This can never be published,” the notary said. “I know,” Joaquim replied, “but it needs to be kept, because this story cost everything, and someone needs to know that we existed.” When asked his name, he said, “I am what survived.”

He died a week later. The diaries remained stored in the registry office for more than 100 years, until a historian found them in 1995, and the story of Joaquim and Cipriano finally came to light.

On the last page of the last diary, Joaquim had written: “I bought you for seven cents, but you bought me completely. And I lived thirty years without you, but not a single day without loving you. Wherever you are, Cipriano, I hope you know: it was worth it. Every night, every risk, every heartbeat. You gave me freedom when I was the Master, and I died being yours forever.”

“And would you have the courage to love against all the rules? Because sometimes, surviving is the greatest courage of all.”