[Hispania Ulterior, Corduba, 17th of November 64 BCE]
Corduba's slave trade wasn't as grand as Rome's, but it was just as efficient. The square was crammed with buyers, merchants, local landowners, and a smattering of well-dressed Roman officials, all circling the merchandise like vultures around a carcass.
At the center of it all stood the mangones, the slave dealers. The one commanding the most attention was a squat, broad-shouldered Iberian man with a shaved head and a voice like grinding stones.
He wore a finely tailored tunic, stained at the collar with sweat, and a heavy gold signet ring flashed on his finger every time he gesticulated wildly. "Look at this fine specimen!" the mango boomed, yanking a chain that led to the neck of a terrified young man. The captive winced. "Strong back, no marks! Perfect for the fields or a tough kitchen hand! Starting bid, four hundred denarii!"
The slaves themselves were a grim procession. They stood on raised wooden platforms, their bodies oiled to show off muscle or hide flaws. Most were stripped to the waist, exposed to the scrutiny of potential owners.
Each wore a metal tag around their neck detailing their skills, health, and origin. They were shackled loosely at the ankles and wrists, just enough to prevent a sprint but not a desperate shuffle.
The noise was a brutal symphony of negotiation, the clink of coins, the dry rattle of chains, and the low, defeated murmurs of the enslaved. A woman near the front, her eyes red-rimmed, clutched a small child to her side as a potential buyer prodded her arm muscle with a cynical thumb.
Valerian, Atticus, and Bernardus stopped at the edge of the crowd, their military cloaks and faces momentarily out of place among the civilians and dealers.
"Four hundred denarii for an average woman, that's so expensive; I better start saving money from now to own a good one," muttered Atticus, rubbing his nose
"Atticus, are you planning to marry a slave?" Bernardus asked, aghast.
Valerian's expression shifted slightly, a tinge of pity appearing briefly before he looked away.
"Maybe if I meet a nice free one, I might marry her," Atticus said with a grin, "but if not… well, I'll buy one."
Valerian muttered from the side, "I don't even think I'm worth four hundred denarii."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Valerian," Bernardus said, shaking his head. "You're worth far more than that."
Valerian raised an eyebrow. "Bernardus… Are you saying you'd pay four hundred denarii to buy me as a slave?"
Bernardus laughed softly. "No, no! I didn't say I'd actually buy you. But, well… as a comparison, you're very tall, fair-haired… I'd say, maybe two hundred as a man and four hundred as a woman."
"Well… that's good to know, I guess," said Valerian, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
A sudden commotion tore through the square. Shouts, stamping feet, and the metallic clatter of chains made Valerian, Atticus, and Bernardus turned to the source of the commotion.
A new mangones had arrived, striding confidently through the crowd. Unlike the squat Iberian, this man was taller, broad-chested, and dressed in a simple but immaculate tunic. He carried a long, polished rod in one hand, slapping it against the raised platforms as he approached.
"Step aside, all of you!" he barked. His voice carried across the square like a whip. "Behold! Tall, strong women Celtic and Germanic, fit for any task! "
The crowd parted instinctively, murmuring in excitement. The new mangones snapped a chain, and two women were dragged forward, standing on the platform.
One was tall, with pale skin and flaming red hair braided tightly against her scalp. The other had the fair skin of the north, dark hair pulled back in a knot, and her eyes glaring at the defiant crowd.
It seemed the new mango was growing desperate. With the Iberian dealer still commanding the crowd's attention, he had no choice but to parade his most untrained, wild, and defiant slaves, strong, fierce, and far less docile than the others, hoping to seize the spotlight.
The new mango, seeing the excitement of the crowd begin to wane as they assessed the untamed fury in the women's eyes, decided a more visual pitch was necessary.
He didn't bother with the oiled bodies or subtle tags "You seek strength?" he bellowed, brandishing his polished rod. "These are no delicate greek courtesans; they are the backbone of the north!"
With a practiced yank of the chains, he pulled both women forward to the front edge of the platform. Then, with a swift, rough motion, he used the hook on the end of his rod to tear away their simple tunics.
The linen tore readily, revealing the Celtic and Germanic women's strong bodies and pale skin to the harsh Corduban sun and the ravenous gaze of the throng.
A collective gasp, followed by appreciative murmurs and coarse jokes, rippled through the onlookers. The red-haired woman spat toward the dealer; the dark-haired woman merely tightened her jaw, her eyes burning with pure hatred.
"Cover them," a voice cut through the crowd as they parted to see a tall legionary making his way to the wooden platforms with two others in tow.
The mangō's face fell, and his brain started thinking just who could make trouble for him with his backing. He shouted, "Legionary, you have no authority over any of us. Identify yourself."
Valerain climbed the stairs and was now face-to-face with the mangone looking down on him, his hand on his gladius. Atticus and Bernardus remained under the stairs
"Valerian Valerius, legionary of the fourth century of the eighth cohort,"
The mangone froze, his eyes darting between the three soldiers. This wasn't a political challenge from a senator or rival official, as he assumed they weren't agents sent by one of the praetor's rivals, here to interfere with his profitable trade.
In truth, it was only a young plebeian turned legionary, foolishly believing he could wield authority in the civilian world
A cold grin spread across his features. He didn't need to fear this boy. In a sudden motion, he lashed out with his polished rod, striking the legionary across the face.
A sharp crack echoed through the square. Gasps rippled through the crowd as a line of crimson immediately welled on Valerian's cheekbone. The glint of drawn gladii sparked anxiety among the onlookers as Atticus and Bernardus surged forward in unison.
"I am Lucius Sura," the mangones spat, straightening his broad shoulders and fixing Valerian with a hard, triumphant stare. "These women are the property of the propraetor of Hispania Ulterior, Gaius Trebonius Sabinus himself! The law of Rome is on my side, and I do not tolerate insults to my business without reason."
He pointed a challenging finger at Valerian's military cloak. "You are a mere legionary," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "A soldier of the fourth century, obedient within your cohort, disciplined within your fort. But outside those walls, your little authority ends. You have no right to command civilians, you cannot interfere with legitimate property, and certainly not the holdings of a man appointed by the Propraetor himself. Step aside, boy, before your lack of wit becomes your ruin."
Valerian wiped the blood from his cheek, his mind racing. He had misjudged the situation, but his pride flared, demanding a defense of his honor. Yet before he could speak, a new disturbance stole the moment
Shouts of "Make way for the lictors of the Tresviri!" cut through the market noise.
A small contingent of Corduba's city watch pushed through the now tightly packed crowd. They wore only light leather tunics and carried short clubs and staves, their faces nervous.
They were local men, poorly trained and armed, certainly no match for a disciplined legionary, let alone three. They stopped short when they saw the drawn gladii of Atticus and Bernardus and the bleeding, furious face of Valerian facing off against Sura.
The city guards looked terrified. "By order of the city magistrates," stammered the lead guard, a man barely older than Valerian. "We are here to cease the disturbance and arrest those responsible!"
Sura pointed a demanding finger at Valerian. "That one! The legionary is the aggressor! He assaulted a citizen and disrupted lawful trade!"
The city guards hesitantly advanced, their eyes fixed on the razor-sharp gladii in the hands of Atticus and Bernardus. They didn't want this fight. A scuffle with a drunken local was one thing; engaging trained soldiers of the Eighth Legion was entirely another matter.
Bernardus looked at Valerian, his face tight. "Valerian, we have to go. Now."
Atticus reached for Valerian's arm, but Valerian shrugged him off, his eyes fixed on Sura, who stood on the platform with a smug, victorious sneer.
"No," Valerian said, his voice low and resolute. "I am the one who spoke out. I am the aggressor. You two had nothing to do with it."
"Report the incident to the Centurion, Centurio Maximus. Tell him I have been detained by the city watch." Valerian turned his back on his friends and faced the cluster of terrified city guards who were slowly closing in, their clubs held loosely.
He deliberately sheathed his gladius, the sharp snick of steel on scabbard a final declaration of intent. He raised his hands in a gesture of submission. "I am Valerian Valerius, a legionary of the Eighth."
He announced to the guards, his voice clear and formal. "I submit myself to the city watch."
Bernardus and Atticus were frozen for a moment, torn between duty and loyalty. "He's a stubborn ox," Atticus muttered, turning sharply away. "Come on, we have to move fast."
Bernardus shot one last, worried look at Valerian, who was now being tentatively surrounded by the city guards. Then, with a heavy heart, he turned and ran with Atticus through the crowd, heading toward the main gates of the city and the road back to the Legion's castra.