Impressions at the Mercenary Market (Part 1)

"Persian, shut up! When your wife and children were in the baggage camp, I didn't mistreat them!" Mesis said angrily.

"Mesis, did you really just let those dozen or so prostitutes... receive... clients...?" Cheiristoya asked seriously, her face flushed red.

Mesis knew he couldn't hide this from her, and he had to admit: "There are also some women—the soldiers who seized them died in battle, and they lost their support. They don't want to do dirty or hard work, and under the influence of those prostitutes, they think this kind of work is easy money. After all, our food is prioritized for the soldiers. They're just trying to survive..."

"Then why don't you let them go?" Cheiristoya pressed.

"Let them go? Where can they go? They're already hundreds or thousands of miles from their homelands! They can't go back. Rather than being captured by the city-states and tribes along the way and becoming slaves just the same, they might as well stay in our camp, where at least they can live a little better..." Mesis said with feigned pity.

"This is all the crime the soldiers committed!" Davos let out a long sigh and put his arm around the sorrowful Cheiristoya. "Mesis, you don't need to force them anymore. Let's do this—we'll provide them with food for free, and once we find a place to settle in Magna Graecia, we'll marry them off to the soldiers. From now on, our soldiers won't loot anymore, because we won't be mercenaries anymore!"

"Leader, you are truly merciful!" Mesis hurriedly praised him, then quickly left, not wanting to face Cheiristoya's reproachful gaze any longer.

...

As time passed, news from the west grew more alarming day by day. The Lucanians' camp at the western mountain pass expanded larger each day, while the Thurians working the Sybaris Plain north of the Crati River grew increasingly scarce. Then, after a dozen or so days, Lucanian scouts appeared on the outskirts of Thurii, sparking panic among the city's populace. The generals at the city hall knew that the Lucanian attack was imminent—they had to prepare.

So Bourkos, entrusted with a mission, sailed to the simple dock at the mouth of the Crati River and came ashore (it was a Greek bad habit—if they could travel by boat to a place, they would never walk).

Once on land, Bourkos noticed that this area was clearly more lively than other parts of the Sybaris Plain. A few people walked here and there along a wide, packed-earth road, which led to a large earthen enclosure.

"What is that?" Bourkos asked Morras.

"It's the market I told you about last time, built by the mercenaries."

When Morras had told him before, he hadn't taken it seriously. Now, he was curious. Since he had to pass through the market on the way to the mercenary camp, it wouldn't take much time to take a look inside.

Before they even reached the market entrance, the clamor of a bustling crowd filled their ears. At the gate stood two women in colorful clothing, comely in appearance, elegant and poised—from their looks, they were clearly not Greek, but their Greek was pleasant and melodic: "Welcome, distinguished guests! Is this your first time here?"

Morras couldn't help but nod repeatedly.

"If you've come to sell goods, there's a wooden hut just inside the gate—it's our market management office. You can find the person in charge there to arrange a stall for you, but there's a small fee."

"What's the fee?" Bourkos asked quickly.

"One obol per day."

That's quite cheap, but these mercenaries are actually making money from Thurian land! Bourkos felt a bit indignant.

"However, all the stalls are full right now. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

This shabby place is actually in such high demand! Bourkos was astonished. He tested them: "If I pay a bit more, could you squeeze out a stall for me?"

"Distinguished guest, we charge this fee not to make money, but to maintain order in this market. The help we provide is worth far more than the value of one obol. We simply want stall owners to make good use of their stalls and earn far more than an obol a day!"

A modern person would find this speech very familiar, but Bourkos and Morras were completely dumbfounded.

The woman continued: "If you've come to buy, there's a wooden sign hanging on the door of the market management office that lists a few small requests for every customer. We hope you will follow them. If you encounter fraud or disputes while trading, you can go to the management office for help—they will enthusiastically assist you..."

Bourkos and Morras had traveled far and wide and considered themselves well-informed, but the woman's words left them a bit dazed. In all the Greek city-states they had visited, they had never heard of a market so considerate to merchants and customers. Driven by strong curiosity, they went to the market management office.

It was a crude wooden hut with a large window facing the market. Several people sat at the window, politely answering questions from customers who came to inquire.

"Hello! Is there anything we can help you with?" a slender Egyptian with dark skin asked Morras politely as he peered through the window into the room.

Morras was about to brush him off when someone inside shouted: "Lord Bourkos, welcome!" A middle-aged man with brown hair, a long beard, and a hooked nose pushed open the door and greeted him warmly.

"You are?" Bourkos thought he looked familiar.

"Under Chief Davos, I am the commercial officer. My name is Mariji." Mariji unabashedly claimed the official position that Davos had promised him.

Bourkos didn't really pay attention to what he said; first he corrected him: "No! Please don't call me 'lord'! I am just an ordinary citizen of Thurii." Then, curious, he asked, "You're Persian?"

"Yes." Mariji not only didn't avoid the question but seemed slightly proud.

"You have people of every race here!" Bourkos remarked with a sigh, then pointed at something placed by the window and asked curiously, "What are these scales for?"

"If a customer feels that what they bought is short in weight—for example, olive oil or fish—they can bring it here to be weighed. If it's indeed insufficient, the management staff will find the seller and impose a penalty. For serious cases, the seller's stall will be revoked and they won't be allowed back into the market."

"Hmm, not bad. Quite an idea. Has that happened before?" Bourkos said casually. Although he felt the mercenaries had no right to punish anyone on Thurian land, he thought it best to discuss this matter with their leader.

"Only once. After the punishment, nothing like that ever happened again." Mariji glanced at him and spoke cautiously.

"That wooden sign of yours says 'No spitting, no littering—buyers must keep stalls tidy.' Why emphasize this? In all the markets of city-states I've visited, including the Agora of Athens, there's no such requirement!" This was what interested Bourkos the most.

"This rule was suggested by Chief Davos. He said, 'Markets are places with dense crowds, and also places where garbage and wastewater run rampant. Too much rubbish not only stinks to high heaven and makes people uncomfortable, but also attracts swarms of flies and mosquitoes, spoiling everyone's mood for trading. Most importantly, it can lead to disease outbreaks!'" Mariji said gravely.

"Is it really that serious?" Bourkos was somewhat startled.

"The Chief is the God-Touched One of Hades—his words cannot be ignored! Not only do we remind customers, but we also have ten slaves specially assigned to continuously sweep the entire market. I can say that although our market is simple, in terms of cleanliness, it is cleaner than the markets of any city! After all this sweat and effort, that's why we charge that tiny little fee." Mariji quietly added a bit of explanation for himself.

Bourkos breathed in the still-fresh air, looked down at the level ground, and fell into thought.