Chapter 3 The Price of a Man

The stink hit Marcus long before the full, soul crushing horror of the market assailed his gaze. It was a suffocating, putrid symphony the sharp, metallic tang of unwashed bodies pressed too close; the acrid, cloying scent of stale fear clinging to every garment and skin; the exotic, clashing sweetness of unfamiliar spices wafting from distant stalls, sickening in their incongruity; the raw, undeniable stink of human waste baking under the merciless sun; and, most disturbingly, the sickly sweet, almost metallic smell of impending doom, a unique odor of commerce steeped in misery.

The hard route, a harsh march through dust and anguish, had been simply the preparation. This, this big, open air cage, was the abyss.

They were driven through tiny, winding city streets, each turn revealing more of the Empire's exotic grandeur and the crushing indifference of its inhabitants. The unceasing clamor of the city, a deafening boom of cartwheels, distant cries, and ceaseless chatter, vibrated through the very soles of his boots. Citizens, their expressions a jumble of disinterested curiosity or blatant disgust, parted for the chained procession, their casual cruelty a fresh pain.

Merchants, their voices loud and demanding, haggled over shimmering silks and amphorae of exquisite wine, their lives going in blissful ignorance, while only yards away, human beings, living, breathing souls, were being inspected, prodded, and poked like ordinary animals.

The market square itself was a vast, chaotic arena of human agony, an open wound on the heart of the Empire. A cacophony of shouting from auctioneers, the heart wrenching wails of separated families, the sharp, whistling crack of whips cutting through the humid air, and the monotonous drone of unending bids filled the suffocating, sun baked atmosphere.

Slaves, stripped naked or dressed in ragged, filthy rags that barely covered their shame, were displayed on high wooden platforms, their bodies exposed to the leering gazes of possible buyers. Their muscles were poked, their teeth scrutinized, and their limbs flexed on command by grim faced personnel.

Children, their small frames quivering, clung frantically to their mothers, their faces tear streaked and disoriented, their innocent eyes reflecting the dread of their new existence. Old men, their spirits already broken by the voyage and the loss of everything they knew, knelt in mute, excruciating sorrow, their heads bowed, awaiting a fate they had no power to affect.

Marcus saw fellow Ashani warriors, their proud bearing now shattered, their eyes blank, bereft of the ferocious spark he recalled. A knot of scorching wrath twisted in his core, a hot, rebellious fire, but it was a chilly rage, neatly banked, methodically controlled.

This was not the moment for defiance, not yet; it was the time for observation, for absorption, for calculated tolerance. Survival, he knew with a sickening surety, demanded it. Every breath he drew, every beat of his tortured heart, was for Kael.

He stood among the crowd of fresh arrivals, his powerful, raw muscular form exposed to the callous, evaluating gazes of possible purchasers. The brand scorched onto his shoulder,The Dog, felt like a fresh burn, a constant, searing reminder of his utter dehumanization, a mark of ownership that proclaimed his new, degraded position to the world.

He watched the buyers circulate the fat, jaded merchants with rings on every finger, their faces perpetually bored; the stern, assessing military officers, their gazes sharp and cold, always looking for strength; the effeminate nobles with delicate, pampered hands, seeking exotic pleasure or status symbols; and the grim faced trainers from the Ludus, easily identifiable by their scarred faces, their brutally efficient movements, and the hungry, calculating glint in their eyes as they examined the merchandise.

Each glance was a fresh humiliation, a violation of his spirit, each pushing finger a burning reminder that he was no longer a man, but property. He felt his warrior's soul wanting to recoil, to strike out, to rip out the necks of these arrogant, casual tormentors, but Kael's desperate eyes, etched into his mind, held him still, a silent anchor in the tempest of his anger.

He had to endure this.

He had to be strong.

For Kael.

Then, a person distanced himself from the whispering, jostling mass. He wasn't physically imposing like the harsh, scarred Harvester, nor did he possess the raw, crude swagger of the other arena trainers. This man was thin, almost exquisitely slender, clad in robes of dark, rich material that spoke of great, understated riches and formidable influence.

His face was sharp, intelligent, almost hawk like, with eyes the color of icy flint that seemed to miss nothing, evaluating every detail. He moved with a calm, almost predatory ease, examining, not with overt lust or vulgar, physical appraisal, but with the careful, dispassionate examination of a skilled craftsman analyzing raw, promising material.

This was Dominus Lucius.

His arrival was a slight shift in the stuffy air, a tremor in the very aura of the market.

Lucius approached Marcus's group, his gaze sweeping over everyone, eliminating most with a simple, almost unnoticeable flick of his wrist. His eyes seemed to glide over the weak, the aged, the diseased, focusing only on the potential.

But when his eyes finally settled on Marcus, it stopped.

There was no quick trace of emotion, no flare of overt curiosity, no tell tale narrowing of the eyes. It was a analytical glance, dissecting him, laying him bare not just physically, but spiritually.

He took in Marcus's formidable frame, the taut cords of muscle that screamed of raw, indisputable strength, but also, Marcus instinctively understood, the way he held himself despite the chainsa flare of untamed spirit, a deep reservoir of resilience that Lucius, singularly, seemed to understand.

Lucius circled him carefully, methodically, his gaze lingering on the still healing brand on Marcus's shoulder. He didn't prod or poke like the others; he didn't need to. Instead, he merely observed, his thin lips pulled into a pensive, almost scholarly line.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost smooth, a stark, sophisticated whisper amidst the market's unceasing roar.

What's this one's history? A wild caught, I presume? He has the look of the plains.

His Latin was immaculate, cutting through the clamor with effortless authority.

The slaver escorting Marcus's party, a greasy, obsequious man whose smile never quite reached his eyes, immediately raced forward, bowing slightly.

Yes, Dominus. Straight from the wild plains. An Ashani warrior. Fought like a demon, he did. Took three of my best men to bring him down. Untamed. Strong as an ox, this one. We call him 'The Dog' because of his ferocity, Dominus.

Lucius's eyes flickered to Marcus's face, a glimmer of something inscrutable in their depths, possibly a spark of intrigue, perhaps only a cold calculation.

The Dog, he repeated, almost a whisper, testing the term, letting it slide off his tongue.

He took a single, determined step closer, his gaze locked with Marcus's. For the first time since his abduction, Marcus sensed a different type of test, not one of overwhelming force or physical suffering, but of intellect, a cold, probing examination of his will, his spirit, his raw, unyielding essence.

He didn't flinch.

He met Lucius's look head on, his own eyes burning with defiance that was tightly controlled, barely visible beneath the layers of tiredness, shame, and boiling wrath.

He would not give this man the satisfaction of witnessing him break.

A slight, almost imperceptible nod from Lucius.

A tiny, almost unnoticeable inclination of his head.

His spirit is unbroken, despite the journey, despite the branding. That is promising. A rare find, perhaps. What is your price for this 'Dog'?

The negotiation was a tortuous, drawn out affair, loaded with the usual theatrical flourishes and exaggerated gestures of the slave trade. The slaver, eyes glittering with avarice, lauded Marcus's raw force, his unbridled savagery, and his exotic roots that would appeal to the jaded populace.

Lucius, ever the shrewd buyer, reacted with fake concerns about his untamed character, his potential for persistent rebellion, his lack of discipline, and the immense cost of educating such a wild beast.

It was a cynical masquerade, a meticulously organized dance of power and wealth, played out over Marcus's very existence.

He stood there, a quiet, seething statue of hatred and humiliation, forced to listen to men haggle over his flesh, his own life, and his destiny.

He heard statistics hurled back and forth, figures that meant nothing to him beyond the increasingly clear realization that his existence, his misery, his suffering, his very breath, was now a mere commodity, a ledger entry.

Finally, a crisp, definitive handclap reverberated, piercing through the market's din like a blade.

A final, conclusive agreement.

Done, Lucius replied, his voice bland, devoid of passion, sealing Marcus's doom.

He's mine.

The words struck Marcus with the force of a physical blow, a startling, gut wrenching finality.

He was no longer just a hostage, a victim of circumstance; he was owned.

The deal was complete, a cold, formal exchange of monies that sealed his destiny.

A hulking guard, wearing the distinctive uniform of the Ludus, stepped forward, roughly pushing him from the general holding area towards a small, roped off section where other newly acquired gladiatorial slaves stood, their faces grim, their eyes hollow, their bodies already bearing the subtle marks of their new profession.

Marcus snuck one more glance back at Dominus Lucius.

The man was already turning, his focus moving, his flinty eyes coldly surveying another group of captives, another potential champion, another piece of human property to be molded, used, and eventually, discarded.

Marcus was simply a valuable acquisition, a raw material to be refined and broken and eventually, if he survived, eaten.

The name The Dog seemed weighty, a signal of utter obedience, a chain around his whole soul.

But even as the chains clanked, and the market's cacophony engulfed him whole, a new, tougher understanding settled in his center.

This was not the end.

This was a new beginning, created in the crucible of humiliation.

He was The Dog, branded, bought, and shackled, yet his mission remained, a bright beacon amid the gathering darkness.

For Kael.

And now, he had a new master, a guy who saw not just muscle, but something deeper, something he believed he could influence, something he could bend to his whim.

This Dominus Lucius, Marcus thought with frightening clarity, would be his inadvertent entrance into the very core of the serpent.

He would learn.

He would endure.

He would survive.

The price of a man, Marcus recognized in that moment of terrible sadness, was not simply gold, but the loss of self, the stripping away of dignity.

He would get it back.

All of it.