Free Sons of Taranis by S. J. A. Turney Page A

finally managed to line up another buyer, though for considerably less profit. And now it sounded like he’d have to speak to the buyer and apologise for being at least one amphora short.
    ‘You need more men,’ Lucilia said quietly. ‘And not ex-soldiers or surly Greeks. You need to get down to the slave market and get some bargains. Go early on the morning three days after market day, when the leftover stock has gone but the new slaves have come in.’
    ‘I don’t like buying slaves. I don’t really like owning slaves. Father always said a man who works for a wage you can trust, but a man you have to keep at the end of a stick will beat you with it the moment you turn your back.’
    ‘Your father, gods forgive me for saying it, was a hopeless drunk with less sense than a Scythian.’
    ‘Lucilia…’
    ‘Don’t snap at me. I’m quoting your sister. I’ve noted your aversion to owning them, and I know that there are those who won’t do it for fear of another slave war. I didn’t even argue when you emancipated Amelgo after only a week of being back. But those slaves who are treated well are happy with their lot, Marcus. Slaves are the norm . Good grief, even the Greeks keep slaves, and they consider themselves the masters of equality. Daddy has slaves. Everyone has slaves. And slaves will be careful with your stock out of respect, or at least fear.’
    ‘Listen Lucilia…’
    He was interrupted by another muffled crash of pottery and further bellowing in two languages.
    ‘Alright,’ he sighed. ‘I take your point. I don’t like spending money we haven’t really got, but I suppose I could maybe buy three or four, if I can find them cheap enough.’
    ‘And another two for the house, Marcus. We’re woefully undermanned here.’
    He winced, but nodded.
    ‘If money’s too much of an issue, talk to Father. I’m sure he would happily lend you a few sesterces.’
    Fronto winced again and coughed to cover his nerves. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll take your advice on timing though. Five more days until the old stock’s gone and the new are in.’
    Lucilia smiled reassuringly. ‘If it makes you feel better, just keep the slaves long enough to know that they’re good at the job and trustworthy, then give them their freedom along with room and board. But at least then they’ll be bound to you and more careful than those hirelings out there.’
    ‘I tell you what: five days, and you can come with me and help me choose.’
    As the shouting intensified outside, he sighed, kissed his wife on the cheek and strolled off to find his fine Greek clothes to face the day as best he could.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Fronto lurched to the side as a burly Greek with a two-week beard, reeking of sour wine, pushed past him into the throng of the agora and on into the crowd, muttering something angrily. His grumbling was soon lost in the general chaos and din of arguing amateur philosophers, fishmongers, salesmen, beggars and madmen, though Masgava turned and shot the man the darkest of looks on principle.
    The entrance and solid, otherwise-featureless rear wall of the theatre loomed on their right, seated at the foot of the green, rocky hill upon which sat one of the city’s three great temples. To the left, the narrow, disorganised tangle of streets cobwebbed off into the heart of the city, for Massilia’s agora was oddly offset at one end of the wide bay. Behind them the pandemonium of that public space raged and surged like a stormy sea of humanity, but the way ahead was little better. The wide thoroughfare from the agora to the northernmost jetties of the port was packed with life as merchants and teamsters hurried this way and that, carts bouncing and jolting on the cobbled ground, stray dogs winding in and out of the unheeding legs. Men haggled and argued, and the masts of ships were visible over their heads a tantalisingly short distance away. All this, and the sun was still barely over the horizon. On a busy day