Even in the palace, where the hearth fires had burned without respite for more than fifty days now, the furs on the imperial couch and the heavy silk curtains could not keep out the seeping cold. A harsh winter, bitter as death.

And yet, thought Emperor Leo, third of his name, it’s worse for them. It was hard not to see the work of some unseen hand in all this, although Leo was not a man who would lightly attribute some trifling good fortune to Divine intervention. But when the news came in the autumn that his rival, the Caliph Sulayman, had died suddenly. . . even Leo had to admit that something greater than all of them was moving in his favour.

Yet still, he must be certain. The fate of the city remained in the balance.

‘They say the Arabs are eating their own horses.’ Arbasdos smiled lazily through the steam rising off his hot cinnamon-spiced wine.

‘They’ll say worse than that before this winter is done,’ returned Leo.

‘It’ll be thanks to you if they do.’

‘Maybe. Or to Maslama’s credulity. Poor fool.’ Leo took an impatient pull on his wine. ‘Still, I can hardly believe it. He can’t be that stupid, can he? We can’t be that lucky.’

‘Why not? You play the game well.’

‘And yet I don’t know my next move.’ Leo rose from his couch in frustration, feeling restless.

‘Wait till you do, then,’ said his friend in a languid voice. ‘And meanwhile have another drink.’ Arbasdos refilled Leo’s cup.

‘I’ve never waited. I act.’

Arbasdos chuckled and raised his cup to his emperor. ‘And there’s the difference between a strategos and a basíleus, my friend.’

‘What would you do?’

‘I just told you—’

‘No. I mean if you were him.’

His old ally sighed. ‘Supplies are low. Morale is low. My lord and brother just died. The winter’s hard.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Go home, perhaps.’

‘And lose face for ever? No. He won’t do that. Not yet. Maybe that’s why he still treats with me. He longs to believe there’s a chance I could still offer him what he wants.’

‘Like any whore promised marriage,’ Arbasdos sniggered. ‘One day. . .’

‘Hmm.’ Leo moved to the window and gazed out over the grey waters of the Bosporus, almost hidden by the flurrying snow. ‘Do you believe that the Virgin watches over this city?’

‘What? Has that old vulture Germanus been getting to you again? Taking credit for the Arabs’ failure to break through.’

Leo snorted. He didn’t need the patriarch to put the question in his mind; it lurked there of its own accord, haunting his thoughts. ‘Maslama must be planning something. He must. He can’t just sit there and let his army rot away until spring comes.’