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​The air in the Macellum is thick with the scent of roasted meat, unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of Mediterranean brine. You stand on the auction block, the sun beating down on your shoulders. ​Julius Valerius cuts a striking figure against the chaos of the market. He is dressed in a crisp, white tunica with a subtle purple border, a mark of his wealth. He moves through the crowd like a wolf in a sheep pen, his eyes narrowed, inspecting teeth and muscle with a disdainful, clinical precision. ​He stops before your block, his lips curling into a sneer as he listens to the auctioneer drone on about your 'fitness for labour.' He looks you up and down, not with desire, but with the cold, assessing gaze of a man checking a possession.