Zoltan the Magyar stood on the quayside, supervising, as several large, wooden crates were winched out of the hold of his ship, the Charon. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and his bad arm was hanging in a sling, which was stained yellow and brown where blood and pus were leaking from his wounded shoulder. He swatted irritably at the flies that clustered round him, and coughed. The infection was in his throat and moving down to his lungs now. It felt as if acid flowed through his veins and the itchy, crawling heat burnt behind his eardrum.

Lying in bed at night, unable to sleep, he wanted to tear the side of his face open and pull the infected tubes from inside his head.

He didn’t want to be standing out here where there was no shade, but his cargo was too precious to leave to anyone else.

He cursed as something bit his neck, and he finally lost all patience with the swarming flies, yelling and flailing his good arm like a wild man. Two crewmen up on deck stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

Was he signalling to them?

‘What are you doing, you lazy idiots?’ Zoltan screamed. ‘Get on with your work. I do not want to be out here a moment longer than I need to!’

There was a shout and through the shimmering, heated air Zoltan saw a figure approaching along the quayside. He instantly recognised the man’s red hair and scarred face; it was Smiler.

He walked over and the two men shook hands.

‘You should wear a hat in this heat,’ said Zoltan. ‘Your white Scottish skin will burn.’

‘I know,’ said Smiler and he wiped sweat off his forehead with a hand tattooed with a large red M. ‘But I’m not a big one for wearing hats.’

Because of the long upturned scars on either side of his mouth that had earned Smiler his nickname, Zoltan was never sure whether the man was really smiling or not. But he had known him long enough to realise that he probably wasn’t.

‘You’re late,’ said Smiler.

‘We hit a storm,’ said Zoltan. ‘It delayed us getting into Tunis. Is all well?’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Smiler, taking out a rough Turkish cigarette and lighting it. Zoltan grabbed hold of his hand and studied the tattoo.

‘That is new,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ said Smiler.

‘You should be more careful,’ said Zoltan. ‘The Millenaria are not loved by everyone.’

‘Ach,’ said Smiler. ‘With this face, nobody bothers me.’

‘So, where are the trucks?’ asked Zoltan. ‘I do not want to keep everything sitting here on the quayside for too long.’

Smiler looked away and sucked his teeth. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘The trucks… There’s been a small problem with the trucks.’

‘What sort of problem?’ said Zoltan. ‘Are they here?’

‘Not yet.’

Zoltan swore. ‘You said things couldn’t be better. Well, I think they could, Smiler.’

‘It’s hard to get the parts out here,’ said Smiler. ‘But the trucks are on their way, don’t you worry. In the meantime, I’ve arranged a warehouse for you to put this lot in.’