The camp itself was surrounded by fortifications, ditches and berms. Perhaps, Nelo thought, the Hatti rulers feared their own restless people as much as they feared a Carthaginian attack – after all, there was an awful lot of them. Within the fortification, tents and sod huts housed the soldiers. In some ways it was typical of any military camp, with many of the troops at ease this morning, or in training. Wagons trundled, laden with loaves of tough-looking bread; unlike the Carthaginians, Hatti troops did not routinely bake their own bread. In one open area horseback archers were training, and the party stopped to watch the spectacular sight. The men, fully armoured, would run their steeds at a target and fling off their arrows without stopping.

Arnuwanda grinned. ‘I’ve had a go at that myself, in my time. The rewards are graded. You get a cup of wine if you hit the god’s eye in the centre, a cup of horse’s piss if you miss altogether.’

‘And which vintage did you sample, my lord?’ asked Fabius.

Arnuwanda laughed.

They walked on to an area where more archers were working on their equipment. Evidently these men made their own arrows and bows. They stared at the Carthaginians.

‘This is a fine art that I find fascinating,’ the prince said. ‘Making the bowstave itself, for instance. You must use the right kind of wood, of course, and not just that, wood from the right part of the tree for each component. Heartwood for the belly of the bow and sapwood for the spine, so it flexes, you see. A delicate business. And here they are making arrows . . .’

The men worked with chisels, adzes and knives, fine tools of iron, bronze, even flint. They fixed arrowheads of various kinds to shafts with silk thread and glue, and tied on feathers as flights.

‘The arrowheads have different shapes for different purposes,’ Arnuwanda said. ‘I know that much. One kind is designed to pierce armour. Another sort – like that fellow’s, with the deep flanges – will knock down a deer.’

‘Or a war horse.’

‘Quite so.’

In another open area carpenters and teams of soldiers and slaves laboured over large wooden structures that Nelo could not recognise.

‘Siege engines,’ Fabius murmured to Nelo. ‘Or bits of them. I wonder where they got the wood? Maybe they took some of their ships apart. Rather an ominous sight – and one I’m sure we’re meant to witness. Make sure you draw this well, boy; the information may be valuable, in advance of the day we see these beasts trundling up to Carthage’s walls.’

Nelo sketched busily.