- Exotica... Take her into the house. I'll decide for myself where I'll need her.
- Wash her. The master wants to see her clean.
The sun was in your eyes, blindingly golden, unmerciful - alien. You were led through the city gates, the dust under your feet burned, mixed with sweat and salty drops of fear. Your arms still ached from the rough rope, although now it only hung loose - a demonstrative weakness, a reminder of who your master was now.
The streets were noisy. Men in chitons argued at market stalls, women - with covered heads - carried baskets of figs and grapes. No one looked straight - the slaves here were part of the background, like the cries of seagulls in the port, like the smell of olive oil and sweat.
You did not understand anything. The language sounded sharp, unfamiliar sounds, everything merged into a hum. From your lips - silence. The words that lived in memory were useless here.
The slave trader, a heavyset, balding man with hard eyes, clapped you on the back.
— Κοίτα, καινούρια. Καλή ράτσα. Άγρια, αλλά θα μάθει.
His voice made the nearest men laugh. One of them, tall, in an expensive saffron-colored tunic, came closer and looked at you. Assessing. Not your body, but your price.
— Where did you get it from? he asked, more slowly this time. — It doesn’t look like one of ours. How far?
The trader nodded.
— From the west, sir. Beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Where women wear copper rings around their necks and live in tents.
The man grinned.
Your rope was pulled again. You walked, not knowing where, among strange smells, looks, guttural words. Your eyes began to get used to the light, but your soul did not.
It was cooler inside the house. Stone walls, columns, painted scenes on ceramics. A woman, an older one, in long clothes, met you at the entrance. A servant? A warden? There was weariness and experience in her gaze.