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Unfortunately, the caravan fell prey to bandits near to Mediolanum. The damned Gauls had never really come to terms with losing their own land to the Romans, and continued to unleash surprise attacks from the high ground surrounding the city in the hope of avenging their ancestors, long since torn to pieces by the Eagle and the She-wolf.
    The first to fall beneath the barbarians’ axes was the merchant himself, although not without dragging a couple of them down to Pluto with him, hacking at them with fury and the aid of his thirty-pound double-edged blade. The women were seized and raped of course, but set free in the end. Some of them even decided to follow their attackers into the mountains, giving up their freedom for the umpteenth time in exchange for an illusion.
    The boy came through it unscathed; a man with nothing to lose dies hard. He did not react to the violence nor did he understand the offers. The only thing he did was to faint after being pummeled black and blue by a couple of brutes. When he awoke, dehydrated and covered in bruises, he followed the fragrance of bread to the outskirts of the city. He did not have the chance to be amazed by the splendor of the
municipium
. Thanks to the thick chains still hanging from his wrists, he had barely left the city when he was recognized for what he was—a body for sale. He was captured once more and thrown into a cage.
    A week later the final leg of his journey began, which would take him beneath the sun of Pompeii, two steps from the sea, the air filled with completely new smells. All due to a chance meeting with a certain Demetrius, builder of villas and sub-contractor for public works of some importance, who occasionally made the return trip up the Italian Peninsula in search of laborers.
    Demetrius is no slave merchant, but he knows all about getting his hands dirty. His family made a name for itself at Vespasian’s court, but his father, when he started out, was little more than a freedman. Before he died, the old man left Demetrius with a small fortune in
sestertii
and some good advice: do not let anyone else take care of your business, even while you asleep. Otherwise one morning you will wake up alone, and there will be no more business to take care of. And so the young man of stone has never lost the habit of staying in control, even if that means spending a couple of months each year traveling up and down the Apennines in search of good workers. Demetrius is an authority in Mediolanum. He has spent good money recently greasing the right palms and knows just who to turn to when he is in need of some first-rate muscle.
    He noticed the boy immediately: even in the half-light of the cage he had been flung into by the meat merchant, a single glance was enough to see that here was some unusual merchandise. He bought him for a handful of
assarii
after having a good look down his throat and at the whites of his eyes, just like with a beast of burden.
    The boy was taken to a long line of unfortunate men much like him and tethered to the end of a chain of wrought-iron rings. The skillful crack of a whip against the ground told him it was time to get a move on.
    And that was that, from Mediolanum to Pompeii. The stops few and hurried, the food nourishing but stodgy, never quite enough water. Demetrius learned from his wise father that a good way of keeping slaves healthy is to cater to their needs without scrimping on the things that build muscle and increase endurance. But woe betide anyone who fills those servile mouths with anything tasty, even on a whim. Or, worse still, anyone who humiliates them by doling out stale or spoiled rations. Many of his competitors do it all the time: they do not take care of the men they have just bought, and end up with their workforce halved by illness and malnutrition.
Slaves are not dogs, my boy. They are lions, donkeys, or tortoises. You can tame them with force, coax them with carrot and stick, or fry an egg on their