‘Who says I didn’t try, hey? For a start, it ain’t so easy to get around, you know. But I still found a nightwatchman and told him what I’d seen. And what do you think? The son of a slut told me to crawl back into whatever hole I’d crawled out of. Well now, a pox on him and his favourite whore – oh, forgive me, Father! – a pox on all of ’em too high and mighty to listen to the likes of me.’

‘I must take this,’ said Gerutha, clutching the blade jealously to her chest, sure that here was evidence to clear Lilla’s name. ‘May I, please?’

‘Go ahead. I’ve no use for it now.’

‘And your story – you would swear to it?’

‘It’s God’s truth. Every word!’

‘And you’re sure the man had no beard?’

‘Heavens, no! His face was as smooth as yours, girl.’ Alethea cracked another toothless grin. ‘Your pretty face. . .’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Now Erlan knew what that pit was for. No midden heap, then. At least not today.

It hadn’t taken long for a crowd to gather. Whether the outcome would reflect the sacred judgement of their gods or not, this was pure spectacle.

‘These Bulgars must be halfwits, Erlan,’ muttered Einar, ‘if this is how they decide things. It’s bloody madness, lad.’

‘Maybe. But sometimes I think the whole world is mad.’

‘Are you ready, Aurvandil?’ boomed Tervel from the high-backed seat perched on a platform overlooking the deep pit beside his hall, its purpose now all too clear.

‘I’m ready, Great Khan,’ Erlan called, hauling off his tunic and refastening his belt, the gnarled leather rough as bark under his fingers. The crowd lining the pit gave an ironic cheer. ‘Now where’s this famous knife?’

Custom demanded that the only blade sacred enough to slay a god was kept on the altar-stone of their temple – a squat, gloomy building to the east of the wooden palace. Prince Kosmesy stepped forward and offered Erlan the hilt.

It was an ugly weapon, the blade a foot long and angled in the middle, the hilt wound with horsehair stained red. Doubtless with the blood of their sacrifices. The metal was black and unpolished, but testing its edge, Erlan found it as keen as any he’d held. A killing blade, no error.

‘If I live, how can I trust you will honour the treaty?’

‘We are honest men,’ grinned the khan. ‘As honest as your Byzantine friends.’