Dragon's Tale 40

As we traveled back to the camp while being dragged down, I was listening to the excited chatter of the slavers, who were far too happy about capturing just another slave, making me think that there might be another reason for it. Unfortunately, none of them mentioned it, and I didn’t want to receive another hit, afraid that they would hit my face —not that I couldn’t cure them, but I really didn’t want to go all the trouble of faking a face wound, controlling my magic from healing the wound. 

Since I had nothing else to do, I examined my surroundings. My observations of the slave traders didn’t yield as much as I had hoped, other than the fact that their weapons and equipment hadn’t been maintained for a while, and their clothes were showing the signs of wear and tear. They didn’t seem to be making big money recently… 

Then, I turned my attention to the unlucky woman that inadvertently resulted in my temporary imprisonment. The first thing that really caught my attention was her skin color, a bit too dark to be living close by. Her hands were smooth and lacking callouses, suggesting she belonged to at least minor nobility like an Equestrian house or higher, not to mention her accent carried hints of Greek as well as Latin, but both with a high-brow accent, making it likely that she was Illyria or Dalmatia, as those border regions had the best interaction with the territories of the Eastern Roman Empire, which predominantly used Greek rather than Latin in their daily lives. 

It also explained her complexion and the smooth facial lines. Illyria had a rather complicated lineage, a mixture of Italic, Celtic, Thracian, and Hellenistic tribes, some that still maintained their cultural identity, which was helped by the occasional border wars between the Roman Republic and Eastern Roman Empire, changing the ownership of the region about every hundred years or so, allowing the cities in the border to maintain their distinct identity. 

Such a great contrast to Britanium, which was filled with wannabe little noble houses that only dreamed to copy the great Patrician Houses in Rome itself, like little children aspiring to be as brave and strong as their father… 

Still, with a complicated region like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if she belonged to one of the noble houses on the borderlands, which meant there was definitely a story behind her capture. 

But whatever the story was, the slavers wouldn’t care, as for them, she was nothing more than a pleasure slave that would be sold to the highest bidder. Which, admittedly, made great sense from a merciless commercial perspective. Not only she was spectacularly beautiful with her dark olive skin and strikingly elegant face of hers, but she also had the loveliest brown hair I had ever seen, somehow looking great even after a desperate escape. 

The slavers would have made a great amount of money if they sold her successfully in Rome, as she was just beautiful and high-blood enough to get the attention of the younger scions looking for a permanent concubine —or a temporary plaything if they were both wasteful and cruel. It also explained why she didn’t have a slave stamp on her skin. It would have greatly devalued her as a pleasure slave. The slave marks were magical, and once settled, they were nigh-impossible to remove without killing the bearer. Only the mages with particular expertise on both healing and curse removal could do that, which was a difficult specialty to find, especially for a runaway slave. It was a rare service that was only afforded by a few elite slaves —like the trusted household scribes of some of the biggest generals and other officials, and even then, those slaves had to spend the majority of their savings on it rather than buying a villa in the countryside. 

Of course, it went without saying that any Sorcerer was capable of removing such a mark, but considering their importance and rarity, it wasn’t exactly top of their list. 

Since I didn’t share the same protection with my fellow female slave, the moment we arrived at the slaver camp —temporarily established to avoid midday heat— four men dragged me toward the fire they were cooking lunch, while the leader went to the biggest tent, and get out with a menacing piece of iron, which radiated oppressing, ugly energy in waves, as well as many links that traced from it to other destinations, ready to track any escaped slave.  The oppressive evilness intensified when the stamp was buried in the burning flames. 

“Where should we stamp this animal, boss,” shouted the one I had wounded enthusiastically. “Let’s put it on his cheek, and ruin his fucking face forever,” he added, gleefully. 

The leader’s response was a backhanded slap. “Idiot,” he called. “First, you let that Thracian warrior die from that wound after he tried to escape, then, you let the girl escape in your watch, and now, you want to ruin the merchandise. We’re lucky to find another potential Velites by luck, and you want to damage the merchandise immediately. Do you want to ruin me completely?” 

“But-” he tried to argue, only to be silenced with another slap. 

“Enough, go see the healer for your wound,” the leader ordered, and he left, but not without throwing an ugly look to my side, like I was responsible for his stupidity. But that was the nature of such small men, lashing out against the weak while obediently taking the abuse of their betters without a complaint… Only after he disappeared, the leader pulled the iron from the fire, which radiated both heat and evil energy. 

I made a show of struggling against the men that were holding my arms and legs in place, but not enough to actually get free. The owner pressed the stamp on my hand, which was not as ugly as a face-stamp, but also very hard to hide in case of an escape. Luckily, they chose my left hand rather hand right hand, as I didn’t have to deal with a claw suddenly popping into existence. 

Meanwhile, my attention was on the way the cursed mark tried to push itself into my skin, trying to stick into my skin like the oil of expired meat, stinky and disgusting. 

While it was hard to separate the curse once it embedded into the body of the target, preventing it from embedding in was much easier. I just flared my magic, and it dispelled the ugly cloud of the curse. Of course, daring to brand me as a slave —even if the attempt was ultimately unsuccessful— couldn’t be allowed to pass without retaliation. Counterattacking to the branding iron was a simple job, as unlike a living target, I wouldn’t be trying to keep the target alive. Just a stab of mana was enough to permanently destabilize the magical matrix of it when done with my overwhelming magical strength.  It didn’t break immediately, but in a few days, it would turn into an inert piece of iron. 

The leader stood in front of me once the healer finished tending the wound, rather carefully. He even gave me some painkillers, which was a surprising expense to go for a slave. The healer wasn’t a mage, which didn’t surprise me, as healers were a valuable commodity, and a struggling slaver group couldn’t afford to have multiple mages in their group, and the priority was always on the tracker and combat mages. Even then, I would be greatly surprised if they could afford anything but bottom feeders. After all, while slavery was a part of the society, slave traders still didn’t get any respect, treated as carrions. Useful, possibly rich, but ultimately, disgusting. 

This was why, even when the famous generals enslaved thousands, they just sold them directly to the slave traders rather than auctioning those slaves on their own. Apparently, wholesaling whole villages and towns into slave traders was not a problem, it was the direct sale part that was dishonorable… 

“Look, boy,” the leader said calmly, sharp enough to push through the pain. “You’re a slave now, and the sooner you accept that, the better,” he explained, his tone taking a fatherly tone, like it was something outside his control. Not bad, I surmised. His oratory skills were not bad, certainly enough to trick innocent villagers or trick tribal warriors. His tone radiated warmth and caring, which would contrast greatly with the mercilessness of his other members, and in a few weeks, the slave would latch on the comfort he displayed. 

I said nothing, but struggled against my bindings, acting rebellious, which was only to be expected. If I calmed down immediately, it would be suspicious. He continued. “You’re really lucky, because we just lost one of the merchandise on the way, one that was promised to Ludus Dacicus, one of the greatest gladiators that ever competed in the divine land of Coliseum,” he explained, no doubt talking about the Thracian warrior that fell victim to their incompetent handling. 

“So, you have a choice. If you can act obediently until we arrive at our destination, I’ll make sure that you find a new home. And believe me, it’s not a bad life. Great food, amazing fans, and you only need to fight a few times every year. If you are successful, you can earn your freedom back in a few years, rich enough to buy whatever you want, with many noblewomen dying to taste your cock…” he continued, spinning a great tale. I had to admit, I was impressed. If he was talking to another brave boy from a Thracian tribe like he was thinking, it would have been really effective. 

“Only if I survive,” I countered rebelliously, once again following the persona I had created. 

“Oh, I’m sure that a brave warrior like you, strong enough to take one of my men down in a second, and brave enough to challenge eight of us, wouldn’t have a problem taking down a few overfed Roman slaves, would you?” he said, just patronizing enough to awaken 

“Never, not even if the gods ordered!” I answered showily. 

“Perfect,” said the leader gladly. “Now, I’m hoping that you’re smart enough not to act out. Keep your head down and follow the commands of the guards, and you eat delicious meat every day, and maybe I’ll even send one of the female slaves to keep you company for the night,” he said before departing. 

Then, one of the burlier guards dragged me toward a cage that was pulled by two horses. There were six cages in total, and four of them were filled with many slaves, split between genders. The fifth one, which was for me, was dedicated just for me, no doubt trying to avoid whatever that happened to the earlier warrior that they had promised to the gladiator school. No doubt they were that happy finding me. Not fulfilling an order from an important client from a gladiator school, even if it was an ancillary order, would have ruined them completely. 

The sixth cage was dedicated to the female slave that tried to escape, but unlike me, she was even accompanied by a female attendant, likely to make sure her looks wouldn’t get damaged, or a horny guard wouldn’t damage her purity. 

She looked at my bounded hand sadly, looking at the edge of tears. I smiled at her gently. “Don’t worry, it’s not the worst thing that happened to me,” I said to her gently, using a simple spell to keep her attendant from hearing it, a spell that was easily missed by any observer thanks to my smooth casting. It was even true, as, under the bindings, the wound was already cured, and ultimately, the slave caravan was going to Rome, which was my ultimate destination. 

“Still, it’s my fault,” she cried, showing a gentle heart. It was rare for nobles to care about slaves, but no doubt her perspective was gentler after whatever misfortune that caused her to end up as a slave. 

“No help crying after spilled milk,” I said. “And since we’re going to travel together, we should properly meet,” I added. “My name is Mikkos, what’s yours,” I said, just to deepen my fake identity while not getting too far away from Markus, which would give me a credible excuse if I answer someone using my real name. 

“Theodora,” she answered, her tear-streaked face showing a gentle smile for the first time…