Rina was an Annid; she had plenty of practical experience of petty corruption. ‘Nelo, don’t worry. It’s just a rule being bent. If they were seriously concerned about plague here that man wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing. He’d be thinking about his own family, his own safety – he probably wouldn’t let us land at all. Now come on, let’s get our stuff together before we’re thrown off the boat . . .’

The quayside was a jumble of passengers and their goods, grimy, weary, eager to get this last leg of their journey over with. The word had evidently got around that this was a boatload of the rich, and would-be porters came flocking, hungry for work, a look Rina had come to recognise.

Barmocar and his wife stood by, chatting to a dock official and his ship’s captain, while their mountain of luggage was loaded onto carts under the blustering supervision of Mago. Some of the Carthaginians waited while messengers fetched family or servants from the city; others had the dock workers call for carriages. They seemed surprised at how few horse-drawn carriages came in response. But there were plenty of two-wheeled contraptions with weary-looking men in harness – slaves, perhaps, or nestspills, doing the work of horses.

Alxa was growing agitated. ‘Mother? Everybody is making arrangements. What about us? What are we to do?’

‘We,’ Rina said coldly, ‘are in the hands of Barmocar, our host. We just wait.’

‘But he’s not paying us any attention. He’s not even looking at us.’

‘Wait, child.’

They did wait, silent and ignored, until at last the business was done, the carts were loaded. And Barmocar was helped up into the lead carriage.

Rina dropped her bundles, and with all the dignity and command she could muster she strode forward to face the Carthaginian. Even now he didn’t look down at her from his perch on the cart. ‘Barmocar!’

The man laughed, and gave a curt order to drive on. But Rina grabbed the traces of the lead horse. He looked down at her. ‘Why do you stand in my way?’

Rina summoned Alxa. ‘Repeat what I say in Carthaginian. Say that we had an arrangement, he and I. A business deal.’ They were attracting a small but curious crowd, of Barmocar’s other passengers, a few passers-by. ‘No, don’t whisper it, child. Speak it boldly. Put on a show. I want these others to hear. This man is a Carthaginian. A trader in a city of traders. Is he a man who reneges on deals honourably made? And are there followers of Jesus here? Any Hatti? Shall we discuss why a Carthaginian trader should wish to acquire the bones of—’

‘Enough.’ Barmocar leaned out of his carriage and hissed at her. ‘The deal was to bring you to Carthage, and that I’ve done.’