Rina whispered to Alxa, ‘I never liked Carthaginians. Arrogant, bullying and manipulative. I’ve been warned about the sophistry this one’s to come out with. He’ll make a case that Carthage is a great nation, a giving nation, all the while wheedling under his breath for fish and potatoes, so he has it both ways – oh, I can’t listen to this.’ She stood and said loudly, ‘With your permission, Cousin Ywa. Good Prince Barmocar, I am confused.’ Her words were hastily translated into Barmocar’s own thick tongue. ‘This tale of woe you recite – are you here to beg for bounty? Begging like these others, the Franks and Germans and the rest, these “poor rudimentary farmers”, as I have heard you describe them? And a bounty from us, whom I have heard you describe as “a thin godless smear of ignorance and incompetence on an undeveloped landscape”?’

Barmocar glared, his face suffused with red.

Ywa sighed. ‘Sit down, Cousin. The man is an ambassador.’

Rina complied. But Alxa could see from the look on her face that she was satisfied with the work she had done.

Barmocar continued, ‘On the contrary, madam. If you had not interrupted me I would have explained that we are here solely to offer what succour we can to our neighbours and allies.’ He smiled, arms open in generosity, and spoke on about gifts and giving.

But Alxa, relatively innocent in this kind of duelling, saw that her mother had forestalled whatever subtle request for assistance he had intended. His humiliation was apparent, as was the barely concealed gloating on the faces of the Hatti, long-time rivals of the Carthaginians. Alxa wondered how many children in Carthage would go hungry because of this nasty little exchange.

Nelo whispered, ‘Good old Mother, she always has had a tongue like a poison dart.’

Still the delegates came forward with their tales of agony, one after another. Pyxeas made endless scribbles, and his pile of notes grew to a heap of papers and slates under his seat.

Only the gruff Albians sat unmoving, massive men in furs of bear hide, neither pleading poverty nor boasting of riches. They were known across the Continent; their priest-warriors travelled the northern lands, through great belts of land that had once been farmland and were now given back to the forest, preaching of the return of the old northern gods. Everybody knew they were all right. These bulky, powerful men were here only to remind the representatives of the starving farmer folk that any attempt to share the bounty of their rich, ancient forest would be met by uncompromising force.

Alxa murmured to Nelo, ‘Remember what Giving days used to be like, when we were little? Races on the beach. Swimming. People coming from all over with exotic fruits and stuff, and all those spicy meat treats we weren’t supposed to eat. Swordfighting and cavalry charges . . . Now this.’

Nelo shrugged.

But it was true. The world’s slow collapse into cold, flood and drought and famine, had coincided with Alxa’s own growing up, her own journey into the complicated years of adolescence. Sometimes she wondered if she was just projecting her own mixed-up moods onto the world. But no, the world really had been getting worse, and it was just her bad luck to be growing up in the middle of it.