A hand grabbed the ragged queue of hair at the back of his head. With a cry, he fell to his knees. He felt cold sharpness at his throat, a blade.

Two figures stepped into his sight. It was the priest Palla, his face expressionless, and a soldier, wearing mail and a heavy,dusty cloak. The soldier said, ‘Always a few stragglers. Wily lot, these slaves. Well, let’s get this done.’

Pimpira felt the blade at his neck press harder. He stiffened, determined not to cry out, in case his father should ever hear how he died.

‘No, Zida.’ The priest stayed the man’s arm with his hand. ‘Not like this.’

‘Look at him, he’s lame. He can’t join the March. It’s the law. You know that, priest.’

‘Yes, but have some humanity, man. Look at his face! There was hope there, even if he knows he’s lost his family. Hope now replaced by a despair, so cruelly. What’s your name, boy?’

‘Priest, this is not a good idea—’

‘Your name.’

‘Pimpira,’ the boy said, his voice a croak after so long in the earth. ‘My name is Pimpira.’

‘A Hatti name,’ said the soldier.

‘Given him by his parents’ owners on his birth, no doubt. And where do you come from?’

‘Wilusia district.’ Which was where the farm was, where they stood.

The soldier laughed out loud.

‘Well, if he was born here it’s a correct answer,’ the priest said. ‘I mean your people. Where did they come from, originally?’

Pimpira couldn’t remember the name, of a place neither he nor his parents had ever seen.

‘Which prophet comforts you? Jesus, Mohammed?’

‘The wise Zalmoxis.’

Zida asked, ‘Who?’

‘He’s a Dacian.’ It was the voice of the master. Kassu himself walked up to stand before Pimpira, in mail and cloak and dusty boots. Pimpira tried to drop his head in submission, but the blade at his throat, the hand holding his hair, would not allow it. ‘His people are Dacian.’ Kassu glanced around, at the blood-splashed ground, the pyre of corpses. He glared at Palla. ‘You did this while I was away. To my slaves, on my farm. Your idea, I suppose, priest. Must you meddle in every aspect of my life?’

Palla said firmly, ‘It was Henti. Your wife wanted to spare you the chore.’

‘As I did,’ Zida growled, still holding Pimpira tight. ‘We’re here to help you, Kassu. Anyway, you’re back early.’

‘We’ve been setting up the March. There’s a baggage caravan you wouldn’t believe . . . We’re being released in shifts so we can prepare our own families.’

‘Then go to Henti. I’ll finish up here.’ Again Zida tensed for the strike.

But Kassu grabbed the man’s arm, pushed him away. Pimpira, released, slumped to the ground. ‘No. Not this one.’