Alfidius carried his victim out into the slaves' quarters in the rear of the house; there he bound his hands and called in the aid of an assistant to help him execute his mistress's stern mandate. Agias had been born for far better things than to be a slave. His father had been a cultured Alexandrine Greek, a banker, and had given his young son the beginnings of a good education. But the rascality of a business partner had sent the father to the grave bankrupt, the son to the slave-market to satisfy the creditors. And now Alfidius and his myrmidon bound their captive to a furca, a wooden yoke passing down the back of the neck and down each arm. The rude thongs cut the flesh cruelly, and the wretches laughed to see how the delicate boy writhed and faltered under the pain and the load. "Ah, ha! my fine _Furcifer_,"[45] cried Alfidius, when this work was completed. "How do you find yourself?" [45] Furca-bearer, a coarse epithet. "Do you mock at me, you '_three letter man_'?" retorted Agias in grim despair, referring cuttingly to FVR[46] branded on Alfidius's forehead. [46] Thief. Branding was a common punishment for slaves. "So you sing, my pretty bird," laughed the executioner. "I think you will croak sorrowfully enough before long. Call me '_man of letters_' if you will; to-night the dogs tear that soft skin of yours, while my hide is sound. Now off for the Porta Esquilina! Trot along with you!" and he swung his lash over the wretched boy's shoulders. Agias was led out into the street. He was too pained and numbed to groan, resist, or even think and fear. The thongs might well have been said to press his mind as much as his skin. Chapter III The Privilege of a Vestal I