She stirred reluctantly and sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘I need sleep.’ She was dark, with tousled black hair and brown eyes. She was only about fourteen; though her body was full, her face was small, round, like a child’s, and her mouth, bruised around the lips, had an habitual pout.

He thought she was a Kaskan, from the north. He didn’t know her name, or care. ‘You’ve been asleep since dawn.’ The last time he’d managed it. ‘Now it’s noon. Up and out with you. Praxo! Wake up, you fat slug.’ He rummaged for his clothes on the floor, amid the stale, half-eaten loaves, a spilled cup of wine.

The girl pulled the blanket over her small breasts. ‘You want me tonight?’ She forced a smile, but her eyes were like a hunted animal’s.

He’d seen that look before in his women; they wanted his money, but feared the strength of his lust. This girl hadn’t satisfied him but he supposed it wasn’t her fault. He needed an athlete, to match him. A Spartan maid! Rummaging in the heap of stuff he found a tiny goblet, a miniature as you might make for a baby prince. It had lost its base and was badly dented, but it was silver, and it would keep this girl fed for a week or more – and her family, her babies, whoever controlled her, whatever shadowy figures lay behind the child-woman he had taken a fancy to in the street last night. ‘No. I won’t want you again. Here.’ He threw the cup over to her.

She grabbed it, sniffed it, tucked it under the blanket out of his sight, gone in a flash. She smiled again. ‘You were strong. Like bull of legend-’

He swept the back of his hand towards her, and she flinched. ‘You won’t get any more out of me. Out. Now. Oh, and empty the night soil bowls on your way.’ He turned his back and pulled on loincloth, tunic, boots. He heard her move around, finding her clothes. Then she was gone, and he knew he would never think of her again.

He stood, fully dressed. The sudden movement brought a sharp pain to the base of his skull, a relic of the lousy wine which was all you could find in this town these days.