I stretch out my aching limbs and let out a sigh of exhaustion. Even after a full day of honest labor in our workshop I have never felt this tired. My feet and thighs hurt the most, after going who knows how many steps up and down the winding staircase, with who knows how many buckets of water, first filling another bath for Hadrian, then emptying it. In addition, I and Syra had to help bring and arrange fruits and meats and wine flagons next to his bed. The amount of food suggested that either the prince was more of an eater than his slender frame could suggest, or he was expecting a company.

The straw palliasse I'm lying on does little to separate my aching body from the cold hard floor. Around me, people snore and mutter in their sleep, and the smell of tens of unwashed bodies makes the atmosphere almost unbearable. Yet I'm so tired that even in such conditions, I find myself balancing on the edge of slumber.

I can’t allow myself that, though. Night is the only time when I can try to escape.

I wait until it seems that I'm the only one awake. Even the occasional sounds of guards passing outside have seized a while ago.

Slowly, I sit up. The room is pitch black, and I can only make out vague shapes of the slaves sleeping on the floor.

Then the door opens. I drop to my mattress and close my eyes.

Someone makes his way among the sleeping people. At last, he stops by me and kicks me in the ribs.

"Get up," he says, not bothering to lower his voice. "Prince Hadrian needs more wine."

It's Cassio, the slave master, whom I have met a few times during the day—an old, skinny, hook-nosed man. Following Syra everywhere and avoiding eye contact with him have saved me the pleasure of drawing his attention, but it seems that now I've ran out of luck.

I get up and follow him out of the room.

He leads me through the dark, desolate corridors, barely illuminated by sparse torches on the walls, until we reach the kitchen. Listening to the voices and the clanking of dishes, I stand by the door, staring at the floor, until a tray with a flagon of wine is forced into my hands.

"Don't you spill it, you moron," says Cassio.

A couple of guards stand in the passageway leading to the Eastern Tower, talking in hushed voices. They go quiet as I approach. I can feel their eyes on me, but they let me pass without a word.

Once on the stairwell, I stop and listen. Everything is quiet. The secret door is just one floor below me, yet if I go there now, the prince may complain on the delay in his wine delivery. I should check the door on my way back.

I start up the stairs.

Once I reach the top floor, I balance the tray on one hand and open the door with the other.

The dark room looks smaller than it did in the morning. There's only one torch on the wall by the window that supplies little light, and the breeze makes the fire flicker and dance. The room seems empty at first. Then I notice that the embroidered drapes around the bed are now lowered, concealing it. Looks like the prince has gone to sleep without waiting for his wine.

Quietly, I approach the little oak table by the bed and place the flagon upon it. The remains of the food are in disarray, and most of the fruits are gone. A dagger glimmers between the few remaining ones. I pick it up and examine it mindlessly. A beautiful weapon. So sharp.

It could be so easy to open the drapes and bury this blade in the chest of the man sleeping inside. They owe me blood. Why not claim the first payment now?

If their tax gatherers could kill unarmed people, why can't I?

A sudden sound almost makes me drop the dagger. A low, guttural moan comes from behind the bed drapes, followed by a soft, musical laughter. I freeze, holding my breath.

"Should I stop, my lord?" That's Hadrian's voice, for sure. "It seems to me that you're not enjoying our little game."

"Yes…no…" The other voice is familiar, yet I can’t quite place it. "I mean, yes, continue. I am…argh!"

There come wet sounds of what could be kisses, and then another deep moan breaks the silence. I place the dagger on the table and back away.

"Why did…why did you stop? Come on…" The man is panting, choking on his words. "You should… you must continue…"

"Must I?" says Hadrian. "I'm not so sure. My time is quite expensive, my lord."

There's a pause. Then the second man speaks in a more composed tone. "How much?"

Now I recognize the voice. Wido. My eyebrows go up as I try to imagine the slender prince and the huge merchant in one bed. No wonder he needed more wine.

"Do you take me for a whore?" Hadrian sounds amused.

Wido moans again. "No…of course not…"

"I don’t need money…but sometimes…I want other things…"

"Such as?"

"Say, a ship?" Hadrian says in a smooth, silky tone. "Or two?"

There's a pause, and then Wido groans again.

The sounds and the moans coming from the bed are beginning to have their effect on me. My pants feel tighter than before. Rumors about Hadrian's habits have long since earned him the "Whore Prince" title, yet I never knew if there was much truth behind the name. Now it seems that the young prince is not only a whore, but a one quite skilled in his trade.

"Should I continue?" he murmurs, and the last thing I hear before leaving the chamber is the "Yes…yes!" coming in broken, unrecognizable voice of the fat merchant.

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