There were plenty of female slaves who could be bought and sold, but none that came anywhere near the standard required in the arena.

"I thought you might know of one or two," Quintus said hopefully. "After all, you are the biggest slave dealer in Marcellum."

Clodius signaled the young slave girl who came hurrying over. He needed time to think and thinking was thirsty work. The girl replenished the cups and he gave her rump a playful pat. How old was she he wondered, nineteen or twenty perhaps, but well formed with pert buttocks and rounded breasts if a little on the small side. He couldn't remember if he'd had her or not.

"I'm going to make you a present of her," he told Quintus. "She's yours after this tiresome matter is concluded. But in the meantime if you want to view some robust slave women you need look no further than the grinding house."

The two men arose and made their way to the sound of the groaning timber, which in fact was an apparatus used for grinding corn, another little side line of Clodius' providing the bakers of Marcellum with flour.

In the centre of the room a stout timber pole reached from floor to ceiling and at waist height long wooden poles were attached horizontally to the main shaft. The whole apparatus was turned by women slaves chained by their wrists to the horizontals. Quintus had never entered the grinding house and he now stood fascinated as the women went round and round in a huge circle, straining to turn the grinding stones unseen in the room below.

One glance at the women slaves told him why Clodius had brought him there. They were nothing like the slim girl slaves who waited at tables, or in their master's bed chamber. It needed strength to turn the wheels and Clodius had selected his slaves wisely. Urged on by a whip wielded by the corn master, the women flexed their powerful thighs and arms, grunting from sheer exertion as sweat ran from their glistening bodies in rivulets, running ceaselessly down their spines and between their buttocks, trickling over their breasts and into their thick unshaven sex mounds.

One of the slaves immediately caught Quintus' eye. A black slave with well shaped legs and firm protruding buttocks was chained to the outside of one of the horizontals, her whole body shining like polished ebony as she struggled against the pole. He could see her large pendulous breasts swinging to and fro as she bent over the shaft. The nipples, he noticed, were extraordinarily erect from a recent lashing. Her arms and legs were perfectly sculpted, the muscles already well honed from so much hard labour. He nodded in satisfaction. The woman was strong and already he was beginning to think he had found exactly what he was looking for.

In gladiatorial combat strength was not everything. It was speed and agility which counted that and the ability to think fast, to be able to guess what the opponent was going to do next and get in first. That would come with training. First he needed to gauge her stamina.

"The black slave. Who is she?" he asked, turning to Clodius.

"Her name is Africanus. I bought her from a slave market in Carthage. She works well but is more trouble than she's worth. I wouldn't advise you to choose..."

"Have her unchained," Quintus interjected. "I want to see how well she holds up against the whip."

Clodius shrugged and summoned the corn master. "Have the black slave released and taken to the whipping post."

The corn master bowed wondering what she had done to deserve a flogging. But it wasn't his place to argue, and he went to the front of the pole and unfastened the manacles around her wrists.

She stood upright, groaning and straightening her back, rubbing her hips and flexing her shoulders. Seen upright she was much taller than Quintus at first imagined, at least six feet in height, maybe an inch or two above. Her legs were long, capable of carrying her quickly and for several seconds he marveled at the length of her thighs and tight, strong buttocks. Her large breasts would look good in moulded armour.

"Take her to the whipping post," the corn master ordered, and then for the first time Quintus saw her face.

Her eyes, wide and lustrous narrowed into angry slits. "Why am I being flogged?" she hissed at the corn master. "I haven't done anything."

Defiance, Quintus noticed, a good quality in a gladiatrix, but one that would have to be subdued before she swore total obedience to her new master.

"Not your place to argue," the corn master replied confidently.

But that was before a well aimed kick crushed his balls. Doubled with pain he fell to the floor rolling over and over both hands clasping his throbbing nuts.

The guards rushed forward and grabbed her arms pinioning them behind her.

"You'll get an extra ten strokes for that," Clodius informed her.

A wry smile creased Quintus' lips as they dragged her to the whipping post. The more he saw her the more he liked her. Breaking her spirit was going to be a challenge in itself.

"Up on your toes, slave," the guard barked, forcing her hard against the post.

Africanus stood on tiptoe and Quintus saw how the muscles in her beautifully shaped calves bulged and tightened. The softer under parts of her buttock cheeks lifted, and for a brief moment clenched into a deep sensuous crease.

While she stood on her toes, the guards quickly shackled her wrists. A length of chain was speedily fetched and fitted to the shackles. One of the guards taking no chances drew his gladius; the sword favoured by the conquering legions, and prodded the point into the small of her back.

"Move and I'll kill you," he whispered.

It was a bluff, she knew that, but a look of dull resignation spread across her voluptuous lips. Obeying his instructions, she reached upwards while the length of chain was passed through a ring at the top of the post. The two guards took hold of the chain and pulled hard lifting her clear off the floor. Quintus heard her grunt as her manacled wrists bore her whole body weight. He moved to the front of the post and feasted his eyes on her uplifted breasts. She stared back at him, no longer so defiant but with an expression of helplessness.

"The corn master may have the pleasure of flogging her," Clodius grinned as the man struggled to his feet. "Give her twenty strokes."

"Only twenty?" he protested. "She deserves at least forty."

"The decision is not yours to make. Twenty strokes of the cat o' three tails are enough."

Grumbling, the corn master gathered them in his hand, long thin lengths of tightly woven leather, knotted at intervals.