<hr/><div align="center"><em>Autolycus takes Ciara and Sorcha to his workroom</em></div><hr/><br/>Autolycus stood under the arcade that made up one side of the training area. He'd followed the arrival of the slaves with some interest. After all, these were to be his new patients. The new gladiators would doubtless make their way to his workroom at some point and the slaves, well... Accidents and illness had a way of happening. There was always plenty of work for the medicus at the Ludus Leonis Scopulus Tarraconensis.<br/><br/>He was a bit surprised at the sheer amount of slaves arriving and even more by the quality of some of the new gladiators. Fit and muscular-looking, they must've been well-trained, well-fed by their previous masters. These were<em>expensive</em>slaves, the woman gladiator in particular for she was beautiful as well as strong. Autolycus wondered, not for the first time, just how deep his masters pockets were and just how ambitious his plans for the Ludus.<br/><br/>There were others... Meat for the grinder most of them. One very neat, clean-looking slave that would probably serve in the villa. And finally a feral-looking woman who seemed intent on causing trouble. There was something intriguing about that one and the way she handled the horses but Autolycus' interest went mainly to the pale colour of her skin and the markings on it, scars and ritualistic-looking spirals. An interesting specimen, from the far North he guessed and there were not many of those in the empire. He should very much like to examine that one more closely and so he was pleased when the Dominus assigned her to him.<br/><br/>Stepping out from under the shaded arcade the man, who looked like a servant in his sandals and plain grey tunic - a Greek one to judge by his beard and hairstyle, approached the slaves. "Yes, take her to my workroom," he said to the guards holding Sorcha. "Miss," he spoke to Chiara in a soft, polite voice that only made him appear more like a servant, "This way please."<br/><br/>He led the young slave and the guards holding the Pictish woman through a short corridor and then into the low, shaded room that was his workspace. Two high-set windows illuminated an operating table, several beds and a table that held vials, a mortar and pestle, bundles of dried herbs and an unpleasant-looking assortment of surgical tools. A small fire burned in the heart despite the heat. The place looked clean, orderly right down to the recently swept stone floor, covered in clean rushes to soak up any fluids that might get spilled. Despite the apparent cleanness it smelled of old blood and death, but also of smoke, herbs and fragrant oils - mostly it smelled like home to Autolycus.<br/><br/>He gestured to the far corner, shackles were attached to the wall to hold his more troublesome patients. "Kindly secure the woman, then you can go," he said to the guards, then stepped into one of the two small side-rooms and returned with a small amphora and several plain earthenware cups.<br/><br/>"You must be thirsty," he said to the red-haired slave girl.