Still the caravan rattled on, rarely stopping, such was Barmocar’s haste to get this long journey done. The cabin did have a privy with a vent to release waste through the floor, and running water from a tap, and a food box with dried meat, scrawny bits of fruit, bread, Northlander dried cod. Rina forced herself to eat every scrap, even the bread, the signature product of the farmers, disgusting, tasteless stuff that every Northlander knew would wear away your teeth.

They were all weary and feeling none too clean by the time the caravan reached its final halt, at a small port on the southern shore of Northland, at the Cut. Just as last year when Rina had travelled with Pyxeas, here the polyglot party were to embark on a flotilla of riverboats and make for Parisa. Boats were waiting, but not enough of them, and the transfer was messy and hurried. Now it was the turn of others to shed prized possessions for the lack of room on board, and to fume at Barmocar for his terrible service after extracting such high fees for the privilege of the journey.

Parisa itself, as they approached along its great river, was much as Rina remembered from last year, but even more crowded. Smoke rose everywhere, and people camped in shacks of rubbish on the quayside. The party was supposed to disembark here and proceed south overland across Gaira to Massalia, a port on the Middle Sea and a Carthaginian dependency. But when the lead ships tried to put into dock they were blocked by a small boat rowed by a team of oarsmen, to Barmocar’s fury.

A uniformed official stood up in the boat. He wore a thick mask over his mouth, as did the oarsmen. In the argument that ensued, shouted across the river water, it emerged that the Carthaginian flotilla had to make for the island at the centre of the river. There the passengers could disembark, but the ships would have to turn around and leave immediately. None of them would be allowed into the city proper.

The reason for all this caution was the subject of rumour that swirled around the ships in half a dozen tongues: ‘Plague. It is in the city.’ ‘No, not yet, but they fear it . . .’

Barmocar and his companions argued about how difficult this was going to make life, but it was clear the official wasn’t going to back down. The oarsmen in the boat were armed, and Rina saw troops drawn up on the quayside, all wearing face masks, clearly ready to repel anybody who tried to land.

So they disembarked on the island. Rina, with her children and their single trunk, had to spend the night in a dusty, empty, cold warehouse, sharing the bare floor with perhaps fifty others, surrounded by snores and farts and the sheer animal stink of people who had been travelling too long.