As the Frank spoke, Pyxeas made notes with pen and ink on his lush Cathay paper, muttering and murmuring. The Coldlander lad helped in small ways, handing him paper, fetching him water. Pyxeas was nervous, intent, but he seemed on the edge of exhaustion. Alxa saw his head nod over his papers, the scribbling stylus slowing, until he drifted to sleep – and then he would wake with a start, and an odd barked grunt, and he would turn his head like a short-sighted bird.

‘I’ll cut it short,’ said the Frank. ‘We had hopes for this year. But the winter was from the gates of hell – you know that. We had snow on the ground long after the spring equinox, and even when that melted back the ground stayed hard frozen beneath and you couldn’t get a hoe in it. We ran out of wood to burn! We have pleaded with our gods. We have sacrificed what we can – we have little left to give. My priests say it is only the little mothers of the Northland who listen. So I am here, Annid of Annids. In the past we have come to your aid in your hours of need.’

‘I hear you in friendship,’ Ywa said. ‘Even now we have troops of Frankish warriors patrolling our eastern flanks against incursion of German bandits.’

Rina murmured to Alxa, ‘Just as in the south we have German soldiers kicking out Frankish nestspills, but don’t tell this fellow that.’

Before the man’s dignity, Alxa was faintly repelled by her mother’s cynicism.

Everybody seemed relieved when the old Gairan at last bowed and withdrew. But the next supplicants, more from Gaira, then from the German nations south of the great forest, had much the same story to tell: of years of rain, failed harvests and famine, and now the cold. The dismal accounts began to have a cumulative effect on Alxa. Was nowhere spared?

Now there came a Carthaginian, a worthy of some kind called Barmocar. He was a man of about forty with hair that looked suspiciously deep black to Alxa, and he wore a robe of heavy cloth dyed richly purple, a shade much envied in the fashion houses of the Wall but which remained a Carthaginian secret. Alxa had met Barmocar’s wife, an elegant if arrogant woman called Anterastilis. She wondered what relation Mago was to Barmocar – a son perhaps, or a nephew. The Carthaginians were an empire of merchants who didn’t have kings and princes like other farmer-nations, like the Hatti, say. But just as in Northland, in Carthage family ties were everything when it came to the distribution of power.

And Barmocar spoke, not of rain as in the northern lands, but of drought in the once-fertile plains of North Africa.

‘Years of it. I doubt you can imagine the consequences. The earth itself cracks and dries, and the soil blows away on the wind. The cattle lie in the heat, too listless to brush away the flies swarming around them. And the children too, their bellies swollen, whole communities ravaged by diseases. Yet despite our own privations, we of Carthage ensure that our neighbours do not suffer, if we can aid them . . .’