When he heard the boy coming, Pimpira climbed out of his hole to watch, and the other slaves and workers paused in their tasks, curious. The boy ran like a whipped dog, right through the farmyard, legs and arms pumping, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. He was young, not much older than Pimpira, perhaps, though it was hard to tell anybody’s age these days as everybody was so skinny. You could tell he was a slave, though. He was barefoot, for one thing. And his tunic and trousers were old in the way only slaves’ clothes were old, patched and handed down, the colour of mud, generations-old clothes so worn they were more like memories of clothing than the real thing. A slave, running away from the city.

Then there was a thunder of hooves. On panting horses, two soldiers in light mail and shining steel helmets came charging after the boy. One man carried a net, the other wielded a sword. Cavalrymen! Pimpira was thrilled at the sight. He had only seen soldiers on parade in the city, on occasional feast days when he had been allowed to accompany the master and his family. He pitied the boy, for he clearly had no chance of outrunning the horses; he must have had a good start to get so far. As the cavalrymen passed through, some of the men on the farm called out greetings and good-natured abuse. ‘I’ll give you five to one the fat one falls off his horse!’ The soldiers did not respond. Soon they were disappearing into the east.

After that Pimpira heard a rumble of noise, coming from the west as had the running slave and the cavalrymen, and again he turned to look. More soldiers, he saw from a glint of distant armour, a small squad of them this time, walking before wagons.

The mistress, Henti, emerged from the big house, with the young priest Palla who so often seemed to hang around here, evoking much ribald speculation from the slaves. Henti walked to the fields and passed among the workers, speaking to them softly. It seemed to be the end of work for now. The slaves were told to gather in the courtyard, a square of beaten earth before the big house, while the hired hands laid down their tools and began to drift off towards the city. They muttered, looking confused, distressed; none of them could afford to be without a day’s pay.

The squad of soldiers drew nearer. Pimpira, in his hole, stood on tiptoe, balancing on his good leg, squinting to see them better.

The punch in the back caught him completely by surprise. He was knocked forward into his pit, banging his head on the hard-frozen wall. Winded, he lay there, submissive. He had been born and raised a slave; you just accepted whatever was done to you.

‘Don’t move.’ It was his father’s voice.