The silence of the cubiculum is the only true peace I am afforded. It rarely lasts. The sun, barely scraping over the roof tiles of Venusia Magna, signals the start of my day, and already, I am thinking of margins.

The popular notion of a Roman Slave Trader is a lumbering, sweaty brute with a whip and it is childish. I am Quintina. I am a Mercator Servilis, and this is a profession demanding more acuity, calculation, and sheer ruthlessness than any Senatorial debate.

My first hour is spent with the ledger, the true heart of my operation. I analyze the acquisition costs from the pirate supply lines, compare them against the prevailing market rate for specific skills (a Greek secretary versus a Dacian labourer, for instance), and adjust the projected auction prices. This is where I truly earned the title of Domina. I know what every piece of property is worth, down to the last copper as. Any trader who relies on instinct over mathematics is destined to end up in debt, or worse, on the auction block herself.

Forenoon: The Art of the Sale from a Roman Slave Trader

By the time the markets begin to fill, my staff, the few free I trust, and the many highly specialized servi who manage the inventory, have prepared the day’s offerings. The central focus today is the sale of a particularly difficult but exquisitely educated Greek youth. He is smart, which means he is trouble, but he fetches a higher price if I can control his insolence long enough for the sale.

The truth is, 90% of this business is marketing. You are selling a future to the buyer. You are selling compliance, skill, and status.

We use the traditional methods: oiled bodies, chalked feet to denote foreign origin, and a carefully scripted speech detailing the property’s health, temperament, and—if necessary—the methods required for “discipline.” I find a certain brutal honesty sells well in Venusia Magna. Unlike my competitors, I do not promise obedience; I promise the effective means to enforce it. The buyers here are Roman, and they appreciate efficiency.

Midday: Acquisition and Assessment

The greatest risk, and the greatest potential for profit, lies in the acquisitions. Midday often brings the arrival of new cargo either from captured pirate vessels or from the vast, unpleasant supply routes upriver.

My inspection process is swift, cold, and exhaustive. I check teeth, musculature, and scars. I look for the signs of resistance, the blazing defiance in the eye that signals trouble, or the slumped posture that betrays a broken spirit. Both have value, but they require different handling. The defiant ones are destined for the arena or the specialized (read: harsh) households. The broken ones are sold to less demanding buyers, like the rural plantation owners.

I find myself frequently running into others engaged in Roman roleplay in Second Life during these transactions. They are often amateurish, trying to haggle without coin, or worse, trying to inject some sentimental nonsense into the transaction. I deal with them quickly. This is not a game of pity; it is the engine of the Empire. If you cannot afford the cost, do not waste my time. The real work of a Mercator Servilis is separating emotion from finance.

The Dark Hour: Discipline and Preparation

The hours before the main auction are crucial. This is when the hard work begins. The inventory must be perfectly ready.

A Mercator Servilis has to be personally involved in the “training” of high-value inventory. I often supervise the application of the lash, not out of pleasure, but out of necessity. It is psychological, not simply punitive. The slave must understand that their will is now simply an extension of mine. They must understand that I am vicious, brutal, and uncaring. And that is the honest truth.

I remember two unfortunate souls, Prudentia and Petronilla. They tried to escape. They fought with a misguided loyalty that was almost admirable, right up until the point that pike found its mark. Their bodies were left by the town walls as a simple, effective lesson for everyone else waiting in the cages. It was a waste of perfectly good product, but the lesson was invaluable: Quintina does not tolerate resistance.

Evening: The Auctioneer’s Hammer

The evening auctions at Venusia Magna are loud, drunken, and profitable. The high-end buyers come out when the air is cool and the wine is flowing. This is my domain.

I stand on the dais, my back perfectly straight, my voice ringing out over the rabble. I am selling lives. I am selling fates. The hammer falls, the coin is counted, and the debt is paid. Every successful sale confirms my status: I was property once; now I create it. I am Self Made.

When the final servus is delivered and the last sestertius tallied, I may allow myself a brief glass of sharp wine. The market will open again at dawn, and I will be there, ledger in hand.

The Roman world runs on two things: conquest, and the efficiency of the Roman Slave Trader. And I, Quintina, am the best engine of the Empire in Venusia Magna. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Gladiator to find.