Three days had passed since Cassius codified the estate’s monumental treason into the Lex Fundi Ferrati.
To the neighboring patrician landowners and the tax collectors in the provincial capital of Civitas Aurelia, nothing had changed. The estate of Fundus Ferratus remained nothing more than a wildly successful, if unexpectedly agricultural venture.
Today, Lucius awoke before dawn. He felt a surge of profound excitement. According to his father’s sweeping edicts, the workforce had been divided into rigid ’Centuries of Labor.’ Lucius was eager to witness the fruits of this mastery.
As he neared the staging area between the primary hematite mine and the roaring blast furnace, the sounds of splintering wood and shouting men echoed through the morning mist. Lucius quickened his pace, a knot of unease forming in his stomach.
The transition from the nocturnal shadow shift to the daytime agricultural shift was happening, but it was an absolute catastrophe.
The layout of the grounds still resembled a barbarian war camp rather than a streamlined factory floor.
A traffic jam of wheelbarrows had formed at the primary intersection between the charcoal kilns and the ore crushers.
Men were shouting insults, wooden wheels were locked together in the mud, and hundreds of pounds of precious raw hematite were spilling onto the dirt.
Worse yet, the exhausted night-shift laborers were simply dropping their tongs and aprons wherever they stood.
The fresh morning crew was wandering around, wasting precious daylight hunting for their misplaced tools.
While he stood there, rubbing his temples and lost in his frustration, a gruff voice called out.
"Dominus Lucius! May the gods grant you a profitable morning."
Lucius turned to see Titus, the burly Mine Overseer, marching up the path.
Beside him was Decimus, the Master Blacksmith.
"I was going to come find you at the villa, Dominus. I could have had the cooks prepare a proper morning feast to celebrate the new quotas," Titus offered, attempting to sound cheerful despite his obvious exhaustion.
Lucius frowned, waving a hand to cut off the pleasantries. "Leave the feasts to the patricians in the city, Titus. Now tell me, why in the name of Vulcan is the—"
He paused. Standing a few paces behind them were two unfamiliar men.
Lucius quickly adjusted his posture, ensuring he maintained the untouchable aura of a Roman master.
"And who are these men?" Lucius asked.
"Oh, them?" Decimus replied, gesturing for the two men to step forward. "These are the new candidates we selected to act as Decani, the squad leaders for the shadow forge’s night shifts. We are vetting them before placing their names in the central ledgers for your final approval."
Decimus pointed to the first man, a mountain of muscle with pale skin, a blonde beard, and the hardened eyes of a seasoned veteran.
A fresh slave brand was seared into his shoulder. "This is Wulfric. He is one of the captives Valerius secured from the border trades. He used to be a war-chief for a minor Germanic tribe before the Alemanni slaughtered his people. He barely speaks Latin, but his authority is absolute. Because of his outstanding contributions in keeping the men focused during the night, he is our primary candidate to lead the quenching contubernium."
"And the other one here is Hrorek," Titus chimed in, pointing to a man with a slightly darker complexion and a leaner, more agile build. "Last night, he noticed a hairline fracture in one of the clay casting molds just moments before the liquid steel was poured. If he hadn’t spoken up, we would have lost an entire batch of spathas and potentially burned three men alive."
Lucius looked Hrorek over as well.
The man was of average height, unassuming at first glance, but his eyes darted around the forge with sharp intelligence.
At a sharp nod from Titus, both Germanic slaves struck their fists against their chests in a crude but powerful salute.
"Wulfric, ready to serve the fire, Dominus!" the massive blonde man barked in heavily accented Latin.
"Hrorek, ready for the molds, Dominus," the leaner man said.
Lucius was genuinely satisfied.
Even though their salutes lacked the polished discipline of a Roman legionary, the fact that these wild warriors were willingly submitting to the estate’s corporate hierarchy after only a few days was a testament to his father’s brilliant incentive system.
"At ease, men," Lucius said smoothly.
He stepped forward, closing the distance. "Keep the men moving, minimize the waste, and the copper sestertii will flow into your hands. Do a good job, and you will buy your freedom in this lifetime."
The sight of a slender, twenty-year-old Roman casually patting the shoulder of a forty-year-old barbarian war-chief was slightly absurd, but nobody dared to laugh.
Both Wulfric and Hrorek stiffened their backs, raising their chins with a sudden, fierce pride.
"Yes, Dominus!" they answered.
Lucius nodded, then turned his gaze back to his two primary managers. "Join me in the administration shed, you two. We need to speak privately."
The Germanic squad leaders bowed respectfully and returned to the chaos of the factory floor.