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faced in Gaul had been so,” he said to himself in a low voice.
     
    It was overcast, which was a blessing for Heracles. Spring rains kept the dust down as the cart made its way along the dirt road that led to the sulfur mines. A wheeled cage was towed behind them; his quarry would need to still give the appearance of being slaves once they were bought. The Greek kept his cloak around him tightly, Sacrovir’s spatha concealed in its folds. His pouch of gold was heavy, though he knew better than to trust his riches to any man while he travelled. The old man at the tavern had promised to keep his room for him, though Heracles knew it would be picked clean before his return.
    “Here we are then,” the cart driver said as they gazed upon the depressing sight that was the sulfur mines. There was nothing but barren rock, with few outcroppings of vegetation. Heracles dismounted without a word and walked briskly towards the small group of buildings which housed the slave drivers and the offices of the mine owners. He paid little heed to the row of newly-arrived slaves who were being accounted for by the shift foreman. A pity for them that it was overcast that day ; they would not even get a final glimpse of the sun. Heracles found the main office and pushed open the door. A bored clerk was busy writing sales receipts for customers.
    “Here to pick up merchandise or dropping off slaves?” he asked without looking up.
    “Neither,” Heracles replied. “I’m here to purchase a couple slaves.” The clerk raised his eyes to assess the Greek and gave a short laugh.
    “I’m not sure I understand you,” he stated, his eyebrows furrowed. “This is not a place one comes to buy slaves. This is where slaves get dumped off because they are of no use to anyone else.”
    “Yes, well there are a couple in particular that I am interested in,” Heracles replied.
    “Ah, family members, or lost friends perhaps?”
    “ You could say that,” Heracles answered, his expression never changing. “Mind if I look at your prisoner rolls for those brought in, oh say around September and October of last year?”
    “Sure,” the clerk replied with a shrug. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to a shelf lined with scrolls. “Have a look over there, if you wish. Just don’t go messing up the order of the books!” Heracles gave a nod and the clerk went back to his work. He grabbed a couple of scrolls and started to read through them. Most of the names were lined through, with the words “deceased” written over them. He gave a mirthless snort at that. Not many survived more than a few months in the hell of those mines. Accidents were common, the sulfur burned the eyes until one went blind, and the very air was a poisonous fume. Indeed even the slave drivers who returned to the surface after their shifts put their lives and their health in great peril by working in such conditions.
    Heracles saw one group from the first part of October that gave him pause. There was an asterisk next to many of the names. At the bottom of the page was a note that said “* - Prisoners of war, do not release under any circumstances!” Most of these had long since perished as well, though one name stood out. Radek was not a name that Heracles recognized; however he figured the man must have been one of the debtors and thieves that Sacrovir and Florus had taken into their army. Many of the slaves had only one name listed; family names probably unknown to many.
    “I want this one,” Heracles stated, pointing to Radek’s name; the rest of the prisoners of war having perished, quite possibly with some help from their new masters. The clerk laughed and shook his head.
    “You can’t have that one,” he said with finality. “If we released a prisoner of war, the Roman governor would cast us down into those mines!”
    “Oh I think I can have this one,” Heracles said with an equal air of determination. “Send for the foreman and I will discuss this with