The voice startled him, and he scrambled back into the shade, clutching his sketch to his chest. He had had enough of his work being trashed by Suniatus and his cronies. But the man who stood before him, silhouetted against a sterile, cloudy sky, was portly, swathed in a grimy tunic, stooped slightly. And the accent, when he had pronounced his name, had been Northlander. ‘What do you want?’ Nelo asked in his rough Carthaginian.

‘Don’t be alarmed.’ Northlander words. The man came forward and squatted in the dirt. His scalp was bare of hair, and he was old, Nelo saw, fifty or sixty at least. He had a leather pouch slung from his shoulder. His tunic and upper arms were splashed with blood, but his forearms and face were washed clean. ‘Do you remember me? My name is Ontin. I used to treat your family. Your mother knew me well. I’m a doctor, you see.’

‘I remember you, I think.’

‘I came down to Carthage after your mother pioneered the way. Left it a bit late – didn’t leave until the autumn, and we were lucky to get through – but it seemed the sensible thing to do. Imagined I would set up a practice like the one I had at home. Instead, I was drafted straight into the army. Strange, isn’t it? Here we are, Northlanders both, you serving in Carthage’s army, and me patching up its wounds, which is why I’m such a mess by the way. Trauma wounds are so much less civilised. Well. And how are your mother, your sister?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, we’re not allowed into the city. My mother writes. I don’t hear from my sister, and my mother doesn’t mention her.’ Which made Nelo fret that something bad had happened to his twin. It was strange to hear himself speak Northlander again; his own voice sounded odd in his hearing.

Ontin nodded. ‘I’m not surprised they keep you out of the city. It’s overfull as it is, stuffed with famine and fear. The last thing the city needs is a bored army roaming the streets looking for trouble.’

He spoke quickly, almost anxiously, as if he was relieved to have someone to talk to as an equal. Doctors weren’t much respected in the Carthaginian army; they could even be killed by the companions of a wounded man if they botched a job. But Nelo could think of nothing to say to the man, and the silence between them stretched.

Ontin pointed. ‘Is that your art? I remember that about you, always scribbling as a child.’

‘What about it?’ he said defensively, clutching his drawings.

‘It’s not a secret, is it? I mean, your sergeant knows all about it. Can I see?’