As we passed the camp’s center, Cletuns prodded me and pointed to rotting, half-eaten pieces of a man upon a trio of crosses. A stringy arm dangled from one crossbeam. A skinless leg hung on another. The torso impaled in the center of it all was nearly torn in two, and, at the top of the central stake, what remained of a man’s crow-picked head was haloed in a black cloud of flies. “He’d have been your bedmate, but he refused to work. I haven’t tolerance for troublesome slaves, and my men have minds for making spectacular deaths,” Cletuns said. “You see now who left a bed and bowls for you. Let’s hope you enjoy them longer.”