It was far beyond any dream. But the smells and noise and strange voices and oddly dressed bodies jostling past were real enough. His mind was too stupefied by it all to think of escape or of his own sorry predicament. It was a sponge so dry all it could do was soak up what his senses fed it.

‘Ramedios tells me you speak Greek,’ the man who bought him suddenly said.

‘Some,’ Erlan answered.

‘Well then – what’s your name?’

‘Erlan.’

His owner tried it out for size. He made it sound strange.

‘Who are you?’ Erlan asked.

‘Me?’ the man laughed. ‘My name is Silanos. A humble steward, no more. But my master – your master – is a great man. General Arbasdos. He is second only to the Basíleus in this city.’

‘Basíleus?’ He hadn’t met this word.

‘Ahhh. How to explain?’ The steward pulled at his beard. ‘Arbasdos is second only to the king. You know that word, do you? King?’

Erlan nodded slowly. ‘King of kings,’ he muttered.

Silanos frowned doubtfully. ‘Never mind. You’ll see.’

Erlan had no idea how far they had walked since the slave market, only that they had come north, more or less, over a steep hillside and then down an even steeper maze of alleys. At the ridge crest, he had glimpsed a long and narrow inlet lying further north, and floating on its surface, dozens of lean-looking ships.

But the vista was soon swallowed up as narrow streets closed over them, choking him with their dusty, stagnant air. At length they emerged once more into a broader sunlit way, and he found himself standing before two high doors of black polished wood set into a severe stone wall which ran up and down the street in both directions as far as he could see.

‘Welcome to the House of Arbasdos,’ Silanos declared. ‘Your new home.’

Erlan waited while the steward rapped a huge bronze knocker against the door. Almost at once the gates swung open and they passed through into a cool and quiet courtyard beyond. The gates closed behind them and Erlan felt sweet relief as they shut out the heat and the dust of the city. Everywhere were columns, fluted, painted, carved into impossibly lifelike detail. In the corner of the courtyard, a small spring was chuckling away into a stone basin, though where the water ran to, he could not tell.

‘Where’s the strategos?’ demanded Silanos of a passing servant.

‘In the Fourth Courtyard, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘Sparring with Davit and Georgios.’

‘Very good,’ nodded Silanos. ‘Bring him, Marcellos,’ he said to his over-sized attendant who still had Erlan’s chain bunched around his fists.

Meanwhile, Erlan was gazing thirstily at the bubbling spring. It had been half a day since he’d tasted water. His tongue was stiff as bark. But Marcellos tugged his chain and went stomping after Silanos so Erlan had little choice but to follow.