Tiberius climbed onto the low platform and looked down at the two sharply divided groups below. On the left stood the slaves who had passed—roughly fifty men, counting the ones they'd lowered the bar for at the end. On the right were the two hundred or so who had been rejected.
"Listen up," Tiberius shouted, putting every ounce of volume he had into his voice. "Everyone on the right—go next door and collect one small sack of rice, one bottle of olive oil, and one slab of cured meat!"
The moment the words landed, the rejected slaves' faces lit up with pure joy.
Meat, rice, and oil—and they didn't even have to work for it? This young master was a saint!
[Hell yes—real oil and real rice! If I scrape off the bran it'll be proper white rice!] one slave thought, already calculating what he'd do with it. But as he started to leave, a fierce-looking mercenary blocked his path.
"The young master hasn't dismissed you yet!" the mercenary snarled.
"Oh… right, right! I'll go back!" The slave stammered, clutching his food tightly and hurrying back to his original spot.
Tiberius watched the left group carefully. Their faces were practically dripping with hunger and envy. Quite a few looked openly resentful.
That was understandable. They were all slaves—why did the others get food while they got nothing?
[Perfect. Plan working,] Tiberius thought with quiet satisfaction, then continued, "As for those of you in the left circle…"
He deliberately drew out the pause. Several slaves started trembling, terrified they were about to be executed.
"One sack of fine white rice, one barrel of oil, three strings of cured meat, and one bottle of wine," Tiberius cleared his throat and announced. "And it's per person in your household! One full share per family member!"
The selected slaves nearly jumped for joy.
This twist was something they had never dared dream of!
"Alright then," Tiberius said gravely. "Everyone in the left circle, tell the mercenaries how many people are in your household. After that, your families can come collect the food!"
"But…" Tiberius's sudden shift made the left group's hearts leap back into their throats again.
What now? How could he suddenly give them so much good food? Masters were never this kind!
"Starting tomorrow, you will no longer report for your regular work," Tiberius said with a smile. "Instead, you will gather every day in a designated area for collective training. During this time, you don't need to worry about your families. You will receive food every week, again calculated by household size!"
And just like that, the envy flipped. Now the ones who had been rejected were staring hungrily at the ones who had been chosen.
---
"By the way, kid, I need to tell you something first," Vito said as the mercenaries brought over the wagons loaded with food.
"What?" Tiberius asked.
"Don't start training them hard right away," Vito said very seriously. "At most, teach them basic discipline—how to stand in formation, how to stand guard, and pick out a few smart or obedient ones to be squad leaders. That'll make them easier to manage. Gradually get them used to you as their new boss and used to following your orders."
"After that, paint them a big, beautiful future! Talk about how life will be better, the glory of being a mercenary… well, if there is such a thing! You're good at that—drawing huge pies until they're full just looking at them!"
"Vito, every day is precious right now, and you want me to let them rest for a few days? I don't even get to rest! You want them to eat free rice for days on end?" Tiberius frowned. "All that fine white rice—just given away? My heart aches!"
"You idiot!" Vito said in a tone that screamed you still don't get it. "You really think that if you make them run ten miles and drill spear thrusts on the second day, they won't just collapse? And I mean collapse for good! Then you'll have to spend even more money on medicine!"
"Explain," Tiberius said, genuinely listening.
After all, Vito's rough, battle-hardened experience was exactly what grounded Tiberius's more advanced ideas in reality.
"First, let them eat. A lot. Until they're stuffed! Eggs, milk, oil, meat, fish—give it to them! But one thing—don't give them good bread or fine white rice!" Vito warned. "Make the bread and rice as disgusting as possible—mix in sand, sawdust, husks, small stones… make them not want to eat that stuff!"
Tiberius looked shocked. "Vito, what the hell? You're not letting them eat their fill?"
"What do you mean 'not letting them eat their fill'? I'm telling you to let them eat the good stuff!" Vito rolled his eyes. "Think about what these poor bastards used to eat. On the estate they probably survived on half-risen bread and watery gruel. In the mines or quarries they might get a little more, but meat was rare—maybe some stinking salted fish at best."
"To put it bluntly, their stomachs have been starved for so long they've got no tolerance for oil or fat. If you suddenly give them piles of fine white bread and white rice, they'll gorge themselves stupid! They won't have any room left for the real good stuff like meat, eggs, and milk."
"Let me tell you—these men have been doing hard labor on terrible food for years. Their bones and muscles are weak. The only way to fix that is to let them eat rich food for a few days to rebuild their strength. Making the staple food taste bad is to stop them from filling up on bread and rice and ignoring the meat and eggs. That would be a disaster!"
Vito continued, "But there's one important detail. For the first three days, you still need to give them some bread and rice. Preferably quite a bit."
Tiberius was even more confused. "Why? You just said that stuff doesn't count."
Vito sighed and gave a real-life example. "Let me tell you a true story. Back when Old Tom owed a mountain of gambling debts and was about to lose his fingers, the company was broke too—no contracts for months. Your uncle Jules was so desperate he almost pawned his own swords to pay wages. In the end, Garvin and Leon secretly pawned their own gear to bail him out."
"At that point, even thick-skinned, shameless Old Tom couldn't bring himself to ask for more help."
"For those two months Old Tom survived on nothing but thin gruel and bran. Then we finally landed a rich contract. The employer treated us to a proper feast that first night—meat, wine, the works. Old Tom stuffed himself. Guess what happened the next day? His guts couldn't handle it. He spent the entire day squatting in the latrine, legs so weak he could barely stand!"
Vito pointed at the slaves. "These men have been eating worse than Old Tom did during those two months. Their stomachs are used to slop. If you suddenly switch them to rich food, they'll shit themselves raw and end up dehydrated. The whole camp will turn into one giant toilet! So you have to ease them in—start with some staple food to cushion their stomachs, then slowly increase the meat and fat."
"I figure the men you picked are still reasonably strong. Give them ten days to two weeks—let them put some meat on their bones, clear the haze from their eyes, steady their hands and feet. Then you can start whipping them like draft animals. Otherwise, with their current condition, they won't survive the kind of training you're planning!"