They were standing in the doorway, within earshot of the drinkers outside. One of them set down his cup. ‘You looking for the old beggar?’ The man had the look of a coppersmith – big forearms and a ruddy face.

‘That’s right.’

‘Can’t tell you where she is.’ He took a slurp from his wine cup. ‘But I did hear something.’

‘You hear a lot of things, Joseph,’ said Cornelius.

‘Maybe. . . But that empty spot there tells me this one could be worth retelling.’

‘What did you hear?’ Gerutha felt the prickle of anxiety in the nape of her neck that she’d been carrying since the palace. ‘Please.’

‘Oh, I’ll tell, I’ll tell,’ he croaked and took another swig. ‘They pulled a body out of the Prosphorion yesterday morning.’ That was the naval harbour at the eastern end of the Horn. ‘The fish had taken a few bites out of it already.’

‘What’s that to do with Alethea?’

‘Could be not much,’ the man drawled. ‘Except the body didn’t have no legs.’

Gerutha felt a little sick, her mind filling with a vision of Alethea, drunk as a Dane in her crabby little box, toppling off the quayside. She would have gone under without a murmur. ‘Did she drown?’

The coppersmith shook his head grimly. ‘Wasn’t no drowning.’

‘How can you be sure? Anyway, the authorities must still have the body. I could go and identify her. . . if it is her.’

‘Ain’t no identifying to be done.’

‘Why not? The fishes can’t have done that much damage.’

‘God’s blood, Joseph,’ snapped Cornelius. ‘Spit it out, man.’

The coppersmith calmly drained his cup. ‘Thing is. . . whoever did for the poor bitch,’ he said, ‘cut off her face.’

Katāros hurried towards the rose garden that sat nestled in a quiet, sunny corner of the Daphne palace. He was late. He was never late. But the emperor had delayed him – Emperor Leo, the Isaurian, third of his name, a man so inflated with his own smug certainty that his eyes were sealed shut. Leo thought every possible move checked, that no one could out-think him, no one could thwart his plans. But he was wrong. Because he was blind to what was right under his nose. And now, soon, he would become the man who lost the empire that had stood for seven centuries.

Even so, they had little time. The escort he had arranged to accompany al-Battal and his riders back to the Golden Gate would soon arrive. Katāros had chosen the rose garden because it was close to the Hippodrome stables, a discreet corner where they could stroll more or less undisturbed and out of earshot of any sentinels patrolling the palace.

‘You are late,’ said the envoy, his sharp voice cutting through the warm air, fragrant with the first rosebuds of the year. ‘I begin to wonder whether you are any use to us at all.’