16 look at this pretty one! You should sell well, little girl.” Esselt glared up at him. Faelan, despite his shackles, leapt to her defense. “Leave her alone! She’s—” His shouts were interrupted by a fierce crack on the head with the stick. The little man was about to hit Faelan again, when the slave dealer poked his head in at the door. “Come on, Clodius,” he said, “the people are waiting. And please don’t beat the slaves about the head. No one wants to buy a slave with an open wound on the face.” Faelan and Esselt were in the second group of slaves led into the forum by Clodius. The little man applied the stick to Faelan’s back as they exited the warehouse. This last blow was unnecessary; the sudden brightness of the sunlight and the din of the forum were enough to keep Faelan quiet and submissive for the time being. The slave dealer had applied some kind of oily substance to his closely cropped hair and beard, and he wore a smile of forced charm. His hands were folded before him in a show of fawning helpfulness to his potential buyers. Faelan turned from surveying his current master to looking out at his potential ones. He wished he could read more from the appearances of the men and women gathered before him; most simply squinted back at the slaves as they waited. After the little man placed placards around the slaves’ necks, the people advanced to inspect them, the wares. They asked the slave dealer questions, forced the slaves to open their mouths so that they could see whether their teeth were rotten, and felt their arm and shoulder muscles. A haughty-looking woman approached Faelan and Esselt. She wore a gauzy, gold-edged palla, or veil, over her head and around her face. Her clothes were those of a married woman.
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