Sinric goes to him gladly, like a tired child. But the view as he stretches out on the bed is anything but child-like.

From behind, half turned, he is a vision of androgynous beauty. His small, heart-shaped buttocks, the sweep of his back, the fall of his golden hair in its long braid swept over his neck. He should have been a grecian muse or a renaissance model rather than a Byzantine slave.

He's sleep almost at once.