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face filthy with dust and his flesh pocked with untreated sores. His bush of hair and unkempt beard were caked with grey dust, making it impossible to tell his age. Most of the others – there must have been twenty of them – were in a similar condition, but Serpentius recognized a few newcomers by the muscle on their bones. Not a man met his eye. Each was lost in the depths of his own suffering. Six months, his companion had said, was the most anyone lasted.
    From his position in their midst Serpentius guessed they were in a side chamber of the main mine, entered by a narrow entrance at the head of the sloping floor. The two guards who accompanied the jailer were armed with spears cut down for ease of use in the confined space and they wore short swords at their belts.
    A single chain connected the ankle shackles of the cowed prisoners and when the jailer reached the end of the line he unbolted it from a ring on the wall and hauled it clear. No order was given, but every man struggled painfully to his feet. One of the guards hovered close, ready for any sign of hesitation or rebellion in the new prisoner, but Serpentius was prepared thanks to his companion’s warning. A few of the men were slowed by weakness or injury and the guard showed what Serpentius had avoided, lashing out mercilessly with the butt of his spear until the prisoners were formed in a ragged line. The guard pushed the man at the head of the line hard in the back so he staggered towards the entrance, followed by the man behind. The ankle shackles had just enough give for a man to take a full step, but they chafed with every movement. After three steps on the rough ground Serpentius felt the sting of the edge cutting into the skin on his ankle bone, and the warmth of blood trickling over his feet.
    They filed through the entrance past a pile of picks and shovelsheaped against the wall. Beyond lay a stack of waist-high cane baskets. Once again Serpentius silently thanked his anonymous informer as he hefted a short pick in his right fist. Those at the head of the line took a pick or shovel and once they were gone the others picked up the baskets. It was entirely arbitrary and depended on your place in the line at the end of the previous shift.
    Someone thrust a lit oil lamp at Serpentius and he coughed as the noxious smoke swirled in front of his face. A brutal push in the back propelled him forward in the wake of the man ahead and he struggled to retain his balance. The tunnel was perhaps three paces wide and two high and a tall man like Serpentius had to walk at a crouch. They must have been in one of the upper parts of the mine because the floor sloped relentlessly downward. The atmosphere became steadily more breathless and the cloyingly thick air tasted of rotten egg. To one side a sealed leather pipe two handspans in breadth twitched every few seconds and Serpentius realized it must be some kind of ventilation system. No point in suffocating your slaves before you worked them to death.
    But not everyone down here was a slave or a jailer. As they struggled along in their chains the prisoners were passed by a group of broad-shouldered men carrying heavy hammers. One of the hammer wielders barged into Serpentius as he passed, slamming him into the rock so the impact removed a patch of skin from his bare shoulder. The man glared at him with his single eye, the other a weeping pit of red. Serpentius ignored the challenge and concentrated on the next treacherous step. The flickering oil lamp revealed the tunnel had been carved from the solid rock; water seeped from the walls to form a slimy stream beneath his feet. Down and down they went until the air quality became so poor that the lamps began to sputter and threatened to go out.
    At last they reached what must be the ore-bearing level. An overseer carrying a short whip examined each prisoner in turn and ordered them into side chambers in teams of three.
    ‘You, new man,’ he pointed to Serpentius.