J. Clements: Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

She was safe. She had reached a sanctuary harbor. She was almost on Italian soil.

They began unloading their cargoes. Syrian silks and Greek wines, Egyptian incense and perfumes, olive oil and crocodile skins. The scribes tallied the manifest, making marks on their wax boards, so that the harbormaster knew the correct tariffs.

The unloading was slow. But the captain himself soon edged ashore along the gangplank, dragging one other cargo in transit: a woman.

Her hands were chained. Her face was hidden beneath a man’s rain cloak, bestowed upon her by some kindly mariner. She was barefoot, her feet etched in patterns by raindrops falling on earlier filth.

The dockside scribe stopped the captain as his feet touched the flagstones of the quay.

“There is no slave on your manifest,” the scribe said. “You registered no living cargo.”

“This slave is not mine,” the captain said. “She is registered as the possession of her receiver.”

The scribe frowned, his eyes scanning over his wax tablet.

“I see no record of her.”

“She was a late arrival. A trans-shipment taken as a favor. Bound for the House of Pelorus.”

“What is her destination now?”

“Absent Pelorus, we must send her on to his heir in Capua. Mark her for the House of Batiatus.”

“Her name?”

“Sura.”