It was just before noon when the eparch and his escort loaded their horses on the boat in the Neorion Harbour that would carry them inland along the Golden Horn to deposit them on the deserted shore of its head waters to the north-west. The hours of daylight were still few, the break of winter into the first days of spring still a handful of weeks away, so Alexios told Erlan.

Not waiting for dusk, they rode west up into the hill-country above the Blachernae Gate. The main lines of Maslama’s army were drawn up further south. Months before, they had dug in for the winter. Two great fortified ditches protected them from attack, from the Byzantines on the east, and the Bulgar night raiders to the west. Entrenched though they were, all of the country outside the city was dangerous and the eparch’s party took care to watch for any Arab patrols roving that far north. The aim had been to get well clear that first night, slipping through the Arab lines without detection. But their progress up and away from the Horn was painfully slow thanks to the eparch’s poor riding skills and his excessive body mass.

‘I think I see a flaw in the emperor’s plan,’ said Einar in Norse, when the sun had already set and they were still climbing. Every few minutes there was another crumple of loose stones, followed by a burst of foul language and the sound of a horse being flogged.

‘Aye,’ agreed Erlan. ‘This mission could be over before it’s started.’ He kicked on his mount alongside Alexios, the captain of the escort. ‘That fat fool is going to break his neck if we go on like this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Or else hobble his mount.’

‘Mmm. You may be right. I was hoping we’d be clear before daybreak.’

Reluctantly, Alexios agreed to make camp among the rocks at the top of the next hill and then continue in the grey before the dawn. He called a halt. The eparch protested, doubtless realizing it was for his benefit, but when Alexios insisted, Erlan could see Lord Daniel was relieved.

They found a likely spot in the lee of a rocky outcrop, which shielded them from the eyes of any Arab gazing that way from their encampment, if not from the cold breeze blowing from the north. They tethered their horses and set up three small fires to keep the worst of the chill off them. The fifth guard in their party, there to represent Arbasdos, was the general’s spatharios, Davit – a man who held no love for Erlan. But aside from the odd hostile glance, he seemed minded to make no trouble. The two Northmen sat separate from the others, talking softly as they built their small fire. Aska was coiled in a pile of grey fur beside Erlan. ‘Crazy situation, huh?’