Fabius walked before his troops, this unit of scrubby reserves. Caught unawares, half of them were barefoot and none wore their helmets or armour. But they raised their spears and swords and yelled a welcome for their commander.

Fabius wore an iron breastplate over a scarlet tunic, with a plumed helmet of bronze and a purple cloak thrown back over his shoulders – but it was the purple of the Roman kings, not the Carthaginian shade. He had a full beard and moustache cut in what was apparently the Roman style. His legs and arms were bare, despite the chill of the day. He was not tall, not handsome, but he was stocky, he looked strong as a bull, and his face bore one deep scar that told of his own experience in the field. Behind him walked his staff, his senior commanders in their own armour and cloaks, and a couple of civilian scribes. The other commanders, Carthaginians all, looked with disdain on the reservists before them. But Fabius grinned widely, and when his glance fell briefly on Nelo, even a Northlander conscript swelled with pride.

As the cheers died down, somebody called out cheekily from the Carthaginian ranks, ‘What’s it like to lose a war, then, sir?’

‘Ha!’ Fabius stopped dead, hands on hips, and scanned the ranks. ‘We’ve got a historian, have we? Who’s your sergeant?’

Gisco stepped forward. ‘Sir. The man is called Suniatus. Tough sort from the back streets. More mouth than brains if you know what I mean. I’ll sort him out later—’

‘You won’t, you know. Because he asked a fair question. Who’s Suniatus? You? I’ll tell you what it’s like to lose a war. You know why I’ll tell you? Because I’ll promise you something. Unless I tell you, you’ll never know, not you or you or you, because no Carthaginian is ever going to learn what it’s like to lose a war, not while there’s breath in my body to lead you, that’s what I promise you, that’s what I promise!’

The end of this invective was drowned out by cheers, and Nelo, borne along, joined in.

‘A boy from the streets, eh?’ Fabius eyed Suniatus again. ‘We’ve all had our journeys. I’m from the back streets of Rome myself. When I was a boy I sold pretty pebbles in the forum by day, and fought to stay alive by night. Yet here I am, standing before you now. Some of you have come even further. Where’s the Northlander?’

Nelo was frozen with shock. Those around him had to shove him out of the line. He stood shivering, exposed.

But Fabius’ smile was like the sun. ‘Here we stand, a Northlander, a Roman, and my good friend Suniatus the historian from Carthage. But wherever we’re from, whatever gods we follow, we’re here, together.