Fronto turned and looked at the dark-haired Greek who followed at a respectful distance. Behind him, Masgava and Aurelius watched the crowd carefully. Masgava had decided that following the ‘incident’ at the warehouse, Fronto would have an armed guard whenever possible, and the former officer had not the strength to argue. Consequently, while Biorix and Arcadios watched over the warehouse, the big ex-Gladiator and the superstitious former legionary accompanied he and Lucilia, both wearing nondescript local-style clothing but with a long dagger and a short one at their belt beneath the cloaks they all wore against the Januarius chill. The temperature had finally risen last month and the skies had been blue for weeks. At least it never snowed or froze down here like it did in the north, but there was still a chilling wind from the sea.
Glykon was clearly doing his best for the business. He had managed to secure a few small deals, to help alleviate the pressure, with the contacts he had in the city. And he worked all hours, despite a lack of bonus in pay. And, of course, he had saved Fronto’s skin in the warehouse. Lucilia had wanted to give him a gift for his timely interruption there, but Glykon had refused, labelling it his duty. He was a good man. But…
Far from the agora, close to the huge pottery warehouses and the kiln buildings pouring their pungent smoke into the sky, the slave market was strangely – given the general chaos of the Greek city-state – a much more ordered and solid affair than the sprawling mass of the graecostadium in Rome. Enclosed by a wide boundary wall, the place consisted largely of three large blocks of pens, each subdivided into rooms labelled with the traders’ signs, the central yard with a block for the display of wares, a set of wooden seating stands that could easily double as a theatre, and a separate building that housed the market’s staff and guards.
The small group approached the gate to the complex, Lucilia almost buzzing with the anticipation of the trade, Masgava and Aurelius watching their surroundings carefully, and Fronto gazing longingly at the Artemis tavern across the road. As they neared the pair of guards, Glykon stepped ahead and opened the purse of business funds he carried on behalf of his employer.
‘We’re here for a private visit.’
The two men looked at the purse and watched as Glykon counted out two small coins apiece, before nodding and gesturing inside. It was the way of things. Those with influence or money or both could arrange such a visit instead of having to sit in the crowd at the public sale in an hour or so and argue with the rest of the buyers. For a small gratuity to the gate guard and a small donation to the market funds, they would be permitted to peruse the indoor pens, select any goods they wished to purchase, and then speak to the merchants who would be here gearing up for the main event. If a deal could be reached early, that slave would be withdrawn from the lists for a private transaction.
Passing through the gate, Glykon deposited a few more obols with a minor functionary, who led them to the first of the three buildings. ‘Apologies, Kupios, but only the one building is available. We are awaiting a large shipment, but winter is a thin time for supplies, and the other two buildings remain empty at this time.’
‘Maybe we should come back another day?’ Fronto murmured, but Lucilia smiled at the man. ‘I have confidence we will find what we need, sir.’
The man bowed and opened the door so they could enter. The interior was sweaty and warm even from the entrance, and Fronto passed his cloak to the functionary along with the others, to hang on the pegs and await their return.
The next quarter of an hour ranked highly on Fronto’s list of experiences not to repeat. The conditions of the slave quarters naturally led to the entire building reeking of faeces, urine, vomit and filth. The inhabitants, familiar with the routine, rushed over to the bars and clamoured to be purchased, desperate to get out of this place. As Lucilia perused them, staying carefully out of reach of the flailing arms, Glykon checked them over. Masgava looked positively ill, and Fronto found himself wondering how long the big Numidian had lived in a place like this before he’d been given a blade and sent out onto the sands. Aurelius looked nervous but then, for such a big fellow, Aurelius always looked nervous.
Fronto watched as Lucilia selected a short, narrow-hipped Spaniard with a face like a fighting dog and the build of a wrestler. Glykon quizzed the man and discovered that the strange figure spoke not only his own tongue, but Latin and Greek, and knew his numbers and letters too. The company in that particular cell suggested that his owner was not aware of his talents, having naturally lumped him in with the other muscle. Lucilia was ever sharp. A bargain had been found already.
He’d tried to argue against her choosing a Gaul at all, though the vast majority of the stock seemed to be Gauls. In the end, he’d had to back down and let her have the delicate red-haired Parisi girl who had been so nervous that Lucilia had had to coax her to the bars. Fronto had his own suspicions as to how reticent the girl might be when she was up at the villa and made a mental note to have her kept well away from blades or other pointy things.
Lucilia and Glykon together then began to set upon the task of finding Fronto some new workers. As they discussed the property on offer, moving from cell to cell, Fronto started to look at the markers on the walls. The script was in a particularly jagged form of Greek and he had to concentrate to translate the words. The names of the various traders were universally Greek: Anatolios. Nikomachos. Tychon. His eyes widened as he read the text on the signs below the merchants’ names. The traders themselves may be Greek, but the supplier name was also given for transparency of business, and Kaísaras appeared on four of every five cells. It seemed too much of a coincidence for there to be more than one man of that name supplying slaves.
‘Lucilia, these slaves are almost all from Caesar. They’ve come down from the fights last year. I probably saw a bunch of these faces at Alesia.’
‘Do stop worrying, Marcus. It is only natural that many of Caesar’s slaves would end up here. He has to spread the captives about. Sending them all to Rome would simply ruin the market altogether. You’re supposed to have a head for business now.’
‘I don’t like it.’
He peered into Tychon’s pen at the denizens and his helpful imagination dressed them in bronze and mail and put blades in their hands. Suddenly he was right back at the desperate fight for the gate at Mons Rea. In fact, he could swear that the one currently glaring at him with wide blue eyes actually threw a spear at him back there. He shuddered and turned away from the pen, opening his mouth to speak. But as he stepped away, a stray desperate hand caught the edge of his pale green chiton and the darker green himation worn above it, and he felt his clothes ripped away as he moved. He was jerked to a halt as the material held tight around his middle, leaving him naked to the waist. Turning, he yanked on his clothing, jerking it out of the slave’s hands. The functionary, who had been following them around at a respectful distance, rushed over with a thin wand of wood, smacking the errant slave on the hands and eliciting a howl.
‘Many apologies, Kupios, but I must really advise you not to get too close to the goods. If you wish a closer viewing, we have guards to keep things under control.’
Fronto grunted as he struggled to separate the two tangled garments.
‘Roman!’
The five of them turned at the call and Fronto frowned.
‘Roman officer,’ added the husky female voice. ‘From Bellovaci war, yes?’
‘What in the name of Juno…?’
A solitary figure stood in an otherwise empty cell, gripping the bars. She was dirty, but her stance was not one of a broken slave. Straight-backed, she laughed.