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The first thing she noticed about the city was it's smell. Fouler than all the corpses in the world. This city was built on corpses; hundreds-of-thousands of them. The chains bit into her as she walked, each step carrying her closer to the thing she feared most. The high pulpit and the slaver's auction. One-by-one her fellow captives had been lead or in some cases dragged up onto the pedestal for all to see. There a large man would read from a scroll the name of the person, where they were from, and who they had been in there past life. Then the bidding would begin. Most of the crowd weren't actually there to buy a slave. They were peasants, Plebians the Roman's called them. The urban poor who had turned out to see the parade of victor's spoils, clamoring to see the exotic wares on store and distract themselves from their meaningless lives. But they could still jeer and throw insults at the poor defeated Greeks. They weren't who she feared. No, it was the wealthy that she had to worry about. The Patricians. Rome's ruling elite, the sons of Senators and ancient houses. Pompous, arrogant, and bestowed with the power to back up their demeanor. Her People. She remembered being on the other side of this arrangement, sitting with her father and watching as flesh was sold with the same ease as cattle. The way the women had wept as the men were lashed into submission was the same here as it had been at home. Only now she was the one to be sold. Her eyes scanned the raised booths the prospective buyers occupied. Their smiling faces made her stomach turn. One of them would soon own her. She had heard stories of what some Roman men did to their freshly bought female slaves. Using their bodies to satisfy their lust before handing them over to friends so they could do the same. After that they would be forced to whore themselves in Rome's many brothels until they were deemed too be of no worth and replaced. “Hera, grant me mercy,” she whispered in prayer. Hopefully the Gods would protect her from such a fate. “Silence girl!” the burly man next to her ordered in his broken Greek, swiping her with his whip. The biting, painful mark was added to the many others she had gotten since her capture. Never once had she cried out when they struck her. No, she only gave them the same hateful stare she had given the soldiers as they dragged her from her home. A great tumult came over the crowd as the next captive was lead up the steps. A girl, perhaps a few years younger than herself was pulled out in front of the roaring masses. Her clothes were stripped from her by the auctioneer as tears pored down her face. A plaquard was hung from her neck and she was pushed forward. The girl's hands hurried to give her what little modesty they could and many of the men closest to the stand started to boo and hiss. Soon, small stones and bits of trash were being thrown at her, tokens of the mob's displeasure. She winced as she saw the whip being raised to strike. Thankfully, the blow was aimed at one of the members of the crowd who had taken to trying to grab the girl's legs. The ruffian cried out in pain and ran off, pushing his way through the throng to escape further punishment. Soon, now, she thought as the weeping girl was lead away into bondage. Four people in front of her, now three, now two. Then the Greek noted a disturbance in the crowd. People were parting with some haste as someone made their way towards the line she now stood in. As the split grew closer she began to hear the protests of the plebs as they were forced to move aside. Curses and harsh words were hurled at the disruptor as they continued their advance Then, as the next man was taken up to the podium, the crowd next to her parted. In the gap stood a tall man with dark hair and beard. A stern look was plastered on his face as he looked directly at the Greek and then at the whip wielding man behind her. He pointed at the slave-driver and beckoned him over. Once he had gained the man's attention the dark-haired man stepped aside to reveal a woman, dressed in the finest clothes the Greek had seen since her abduction. The pristine white of the under-layer was accented by a shawl of crimson red. Her hair was long and golden matched by her bejeweled necklace. For a moment she was sure this woman was Aphrodite or Artemis, come to save her from her fate. “Ibi: ego volo emere hac puella.” her voice crushed that hope. Latin, language of the conqueror. The man who had struck her shoved her aside to approach the newcomer. As he passed she nearly gagged on his foul musky odor. The stench of exertion and dung clung to the man as tightly as his sweat covered clothes. The Patrician appeared to have the same revulsion of the man as her nose curled and eyes narrowed at his approach. Despite her lack of knowledge of the language she quickly gathered the purpose of the conversation. The slaver spoke loudly and brusquely, as he always did. He pointed with the handle of his whip towards the stage where a man was now being given the same treatment as the weeping girl before him. This woman wanted to purchase her before she went on display and the driver was clearly incensed. She heard her name among the foreign as the man gestured towards her and then back to the stage again. That name that had once been such a blessing for her in her youth now was as much a curse as the iron biting into her skin. With it she promised a high price to this man and his fellows, as Rome's elite would no doubt trip over each other in the scramble to take such a prize for themselves. But this woman was having none of it and dismissed the man's arguments with a roll of her eyes and a chaste remark. With a few more words she had apparently convinced the man to barter. “Come!” he ordered, spittle flying from his mouth. When she didn't comply his hand grabbed the chain between her wrists and yanked her forward. Her eyes stung as the blisters that had built up during her time bound tore and a sickening wetness started to build under the manacles. More Latin was exchanged, most likely the whip-wielder starting his sales pitch. He was cut off however, when the woman held up a hand to silence him. The woman surveyed her with cool eyes. Her face was fair, not unlike that of many of the Greek's friends back home. Despite this the Patrician had all the bearing of a woman twice her age. The same sense of wisdom and superiority that her aunts had always shown. “What is your name?” the Roman asked in perfect Achaean. The Greek was surprised by this. The only people she had heard speak her language in months were her fellow captives and the men who had taken them from their homes. Licking her lips dry lips she said, “My name is Selene.” Her voice was weak from disuse and the lack of water she had been given of late. The bearded man that had accompanied the woman took that moment to speak again, also in her tongue. “You are the daughter of Dioclese of Corinth.” “Yes,” she said, her heart aching slightly at the sound of her late father's name. The news of his his death was still fresh for her, as was the pain of not being able to grant him the rites he needed to pass on. Now his shade was doomed to wander the earth forever, because of Rome. “You have been taught to read and write in your language,” the woman said, not as a question but as fact. “Of course,” Selene responded. Her father had brought tutors to teach her every day after her mother died. Not only had she learned to read and write but she had been told of math and history, although that was mostly ignored by her. Instead she had devoted herself to poetry and art, skills that were left lacking when Legionnaires had burst down her door. The Roman gave a pleased hum in response and turned back to the slave dealer. In Latin she gave brief instructions to the bearded man who grumbled something in response. Selene's captor interjected and was again dismissed by the Patrician. The man who now seemed most likely to be the woman's servant pulled out a large coin purse and asked something of the vile man that still held tightly to her chain. The fatter man gestured for them to follow him and tugged Selene along with him. With each step the pain in her wrists and ankles grew worse. She could see little trickles of blood now, running out from under the iron and down her hands. They passed behind the raised podium and over to a set of rooms set at the back of the square. Inside were a number of tables where some other groups of patrons were already standing, bartering over prices for her countrymen. The tinkle of copper and silver on wood. Along each wall sat the huddled, humiliated Greeks including the same weeping girl from before. As she passed Selene felt a mixture of pity and disgust for the poor girl. When they reached the first empty table the bearded man opened the purse and began to count out coins. Ten, twenty, thirty, a hundred silver disks stacked neatly on another and yet still more were pulled out as the leather pouch steadily shrank until it looked almost empty. The final tally was one-hundred and fifty-four pieces of gold. An enormous sum to pay for a single slave.* The rotund salesman scoffed at the offer, his angry voice spraying a foul mist over the other three. The woman merely waved her hand and her servant reached into his bag and pulled out another pouch, smaller than the first and emptied it onto the table. Even in the dim light shining through the door and from the candles on the table it was clear how her life would be paid for. Rings of gold and silver with fine jewels; loose emeralds, amethysts, and pearls; the most catching of all a single red ruby as big as her eye and clear as water. A small fortune in jewelery now lay heaped next to the coins. Suspiciously, the man lifted the largest stone to the light and gazed through it. When next he spoke his voice was almost giddy with glee. The sound made her sick in the stomach. Such glee at her misfortune compelled the brunette to speak. “I will not serve you,” she said with as much defiance as she could muster with a sore throat and cracked lips. “You will either serve me or someone far less forgiving of disobedience, Graeci,” the Noble replied sounding distinctively unimpressed with her proclamation. “But serve you will. At least in my service you may be put to some actual use.” The woman's face was equally impassive as she watched the slaver inspect each piece of her offering with increasing enthusiasm. When he set the final crystal down she asked what Selene could only assume was the question that would decide her fate. With a nod it was decided. She had been sold. The Patrician's hand extended to take the keys to her bindings, which she then handed off to her man. “Release her, Marcus,” she said flatly, casting a sideways glance her way. The faintest hint of a smile could be seen on the blonde's face as she watched Selene's stoic reaction. “Hold out your hands,” the man apparently named Marcus instructed, moving closer and lifting the key. But the Greek merely stood unmoving. “Of course if you'd rather stay bound, that can be arranged as well,” her new owner said with a tint of superior amusement. After a moments hesitation Selene relented and held out her hands. While her pride would rather see her defy this woman and all her kind, the torn blisters on her skin seem the more immediate concern. She struggled not to sigh with relief as the cuffs are removed, fresh air soothing her torn skin and helping to stem the flow of fluid from her veins. “We'll have to have the physician look at those,” her new owner stated as she examined the open wounds from afar. After the leg irons fell away the Patrician cleared her throat to regain the attention of the disgusting brute she had just paid so handsomely. She pointed over at a naked form huddled tightly against the wall. The girl who had been sobbing so hard earlier was now reduced to short quiet whimpers that made her seem all the more pathetic. When the Domina spoke it was clear without translation what her intention was. Looking up from his new treasure the brute followed the finger to the nude girl against the wall. He gave a dismissive snort and waved his hand to accentuate his uncaring response. The wealthy woman nodded at Marcus who swiftly moved to the girl and crouched in front of her. The words he spoke were too soft for Selene to hear but soon the young woman's tears had stopped and she was nodding slightly along with what he said. Promptly he handed her his outer most layer of clothing and helped her wrap herself in it as she stood. Modesty restored, he then led her over to the table to rejoin his mistress and her other new purchase. “Domina,” she said hoarsely, eyes puffy and red from her balling. With a slight bow she expressed her subservience and shocked Selene to her core. When she had been taken from her home she had sworn to herself never to bow to any Roman. Never would she suffer the indignity of submitting to those that had taken her life and her family from her. Yet this girl did so willingly after a few sweet words from a stranger and a shall to cover herself with. Were all of her people so weak? Was she? If she had been demeaned and displayed the same way this girl had been would she have done the same? “Come,” her new mistress beckoned as she turned from her transaction and walked towards the door. Marcus and the girl followed swiftly after leaving Selene momentarily in the lurch. For a moment she debated whether to defy, plant her feet and remain unmoving. But the stories her uncle had told her haunted her mind, as did the memory of the lash. So out she went, into the light, the foul stinking streets of Rome, and a life of degradation.