Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [94]
Chapter Seventeen
SLAVE MARKETS WERE all much the same in smell, in noise, in procedure; only the locations changed from year to year.
Caelan E’non crouched on his haunches in one corner of his holding pen, idly gazing through the bars at the thronging crowd shopping in the marketplace while he flicked pebbles with his thumbnail. It was blazing hot, like sitting in the bottom of a brass cauldron. No breath of wind reached this corner. The only shade came from a narrow oblong cast by a tattered scrap of cloth tied over the top of the large pen next to his. Some of the occupants were huddled there, making themselves even hotter by their own proximity. But most strutted around restlessly, flexing their bulky muscles and eyeing each other with open hostility.
Grateful to be isolated, since numerous fights had broken out in the larger pens since last night, Caelan pretended to ignore everyone. But his senses were nervously alert.
Unlike a common auction in which slaves for trades and housework were sold, this was a gladiator sale—held but once a year and always subject to great interest and speculation. Dealers from near and far had come with hand- picked merchandise, hoping to reap good profit from the violent, favorite sport of Imperia.
Caelan turned his head and let his gaze wander across the pens jammed with men who were tall, men who were muscular, men who were simply heavy and out of shape. Many bore horrific scars of old combats. Ears, eyes, fingers, even noses were missing. A few were young boys, lithe and clean-muscled. Several were old and grizzled; these were usually veterans of wars who couldn’t adjust to civilian life and had been condemned to the games.
Word had already rustled through the pens: anyone not sold for the games would go cheap for hard labor. The emperor had ordered repair of the city walls, and his agents were waiting to pick up the rejects.
Caelan rose to his feet and stretched. He didn’t want to break his back hauling stone, to work until his body broke down. As a boy he’d admired the imperial roads and impressive stoneworks. As a man, he’d seen the pathetic creatures who built such edifices. He knew now that imperial stones were laid with blood and suffering.
He swallowed hard and began to pace back and forth, aware of the distant rattle of chains and slamming of gates. The handlers were fetching the first lots for sale. Already the skilled patter of the auctioneer could be heard over the noise of the crowd.
Another fight started in the common pen, and was broken up with whips.
Ubin, his current owner, appeared. Breathless and excited, Ubin reached through the bars of Caelan’s small cage and pulled off Caelan’s jerkin.
“Stand close, boy.”
Caelan obeyed, and Ubin began rubbing oil across his sun-bronzed chest and back. The stuff smelled rancid and made Caelan feel hotter than ever. His sweat beaded up through the oil, making the smell worse. Caelan shifted away, but Ubin swore at him.
“Remember,” he said, looking Caelan over critically, “to look as fierce as you can. Don’t bow your head and mince along meekly like a damned houseboy. Flex those muscles and look like you could tear someone apart barehanded. For once, would you please try not to look so bored?”
Caelan yawned, indifferent to Ubin’s dreams. The oldman had bought him two years ago, when he was starved and beaten, and paid very little for him. Ubin had fed him decent food and worked him hard, always careful to change him from one oar to another so he would develop his back and shoulder muscles evenly. From the first Caelan had been an investment, bought only for eventual resale to the gladiator market here in Imperia. Caelan had been smart enough not to mistake interest and good care for kindness. For all Ubin’s fussing now, the moment the auctioneer struck the gavel and gold was counted into Ubin’s palm, the old man wouldn’t waste any time missing the property he left behind.
Caelan’s price plus the sale of his owner’s boat was to be Ubin’s ticket to retirement.