As he looked them over, a young man lying curled up, his head resting on a rolled up straw pallet and dead to the world, caught his eye. When he walked over to the cage he drew the attention of all the slaves. That he was wearing leather identified him as Senator caste, making the slaves get to their feet respectfully, all except the boy who remained asleep.

A male slave walked over to the lad and nudged him with his foot, awakening him. Seeming disoriented, he sat up.

“Stand up, boy,” Jericho ordered.

Waiting a full ten or fifteen seconds before he obeyed, the boy arose. His thinness made Jericho’s heart ache, even as the beauty of his fine, delicate features and the blueness of his eyes attracted him in a way he had not experienced before. But the young man was a slave and therefore off limits in that way. Jericho would never put his hands on a person who could not refuse him should they want to.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes ... Master.”

The delay in using the proper address did not go unnoticed any more than the young man’s reluctance to obey at once. But perhaps he was merely worn out.

“What your name?”

“Tenzin, Master.”

“Your age?”

“Eighteen, but I might have turned nineteen. I’m not quite sure, Master. I don’t remember when my birthday is.”

“What did you do in your last place?” Finally the boy met his gaze. He was lovely, but he looked as if he needed a home and someone to love him more than he needed hard work.

“I’ve always been a house slave. I’ve spent a lot of time in the kitchen, but I’m not a cook, Master. Nor am I a whore.”

Taken aback by the remark, Jericho was momentarily angered. Did the slave sense his attraction? “I don’t need a cook. I need someone to clean -- and to mind their mouth.”

“I can clean, Master.”

Every response was said in the same flat tone and each one bordered on impertinence.

“Who owned you until now?” Jericho asked.

“I spent three years in the household of Mr. Ashley Cibus, and then a year with Mr. Reed Cibus. The last two years I’ve been in the household of Mr. Ajax Ore Miner.”

“Then you are acquainted with his son, Xerxes?”

“I am. Unfortunately. Xerxes Ore Miner runs that house and Mr. Ajax lets him.”

Behind Jericho, a man said, “Can I help you, Senator?”

Jericho turned to see the slave wrangler. Not only was the man was grubby, but an odor of unwashed sweat emanated from him making Jericho’s nose wrinkle. Wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible, he asked, “How much for this slave?”

“He’ll go up on the dais for the afternoon’s bidding, sir. I can’t say how high his price will go, but he won’t be too expensive. I’m bound by law to tell prospective buyers if a slave has any impediment, and his former master said he is sullen and insolent.”

Looking into the slave’s eyes, Jericho asked, “Are you sullen and insolent, Tenzin?”

“My former master also said I was lazy. All I can promise, Master, is that I’m not lazy.”

A smile cracked Jericho’s face. “At least he’s honest. I like honesty, and I have no time to hang about the auction hall. Will you take two hundred and fifty daroes?”

He wanted to spend as little money as possible, but he wanted this boy. Something inside him made him want to take the lad home -- if only to feed him. There was a quality about him, an emptiness, as if he had never been loved, that made Jericho sad. Johnathan Goldsmith may spend his days studying and not be the father Jericho needed to support him in his ventures, but at least he had always known he was loved.