The Carthaginians themselves waited before the gate, the dignitaries on a spectacular podium under a white linen roof, bright in the sunlight. Perhaps a thousand troops had been drawn up in parade order before the gate, a show of strength; Kassu recognised Libyans, Iberans, Franks, Balearics, in among the Carthaginian phalanxes. But despite this splendour the ground before them was scarred by defensive ditches and berms, and the face of the great wall behind the Carthaginians was blackened by fire. Once there had been fine suburbs out here beyond the city’s protecting walls, the homes of the rich, even hunting palaces. Now all that had been demolished by the Hatti, stripped and burned, any inhabitants caught outside the walls driven off, sold into slavery or slaughtered. Even the Carthaginian army had retreated to within the walls of their city now, despite the crowding inside.

In the Carthaginian pavilion chairs and low tables had been set out on a huge ornate rug. After an elaborate formal ceremonial the Tawananna and her advisers were seated in the pavilion, facing their hosts. Servants circulated with trays of sweetmeats and jugs of wine. Of the Carthaginians, Kassu recognised only Fabius, the Roman general, who had made sure the enemy troops knew his name and reputation. The rest, mainly men, mostly dressed in elaborate robes, were evidently courtiers – or whatever the equivalent was in Carthage, which was a strange city that had no king. The group broke into huddles of conversation, while interpreters and aides murmured in their ears. Around the dignitaries, soldiers on both sides stood with their cloaks held back and their hands hovering over the hilts of swords.

Kassu could hear his own general Himuili speaking to Fabius, and he could understand, for the cultured Roman spoke the Hatti’s Nesili tongue. They made a contrast, though. While a huge ferocious Rus stood behind Himuili, Fabius’ only close companion was a boy, unarmed, who sat on a low stool, scribbling, drawing, writing.

The pyre smoke was the first thing Himuili mentioned. ‘By Jesus’ mercy, Roman, you’re roasting the pork this morning.’

Fabius grinned, not offended. ‘The clear-out of the night’s dead. We’ve long run out of anywhere to inter them, trapped within our walls as we are, and so we burn. As do you, for my scouts have spied out your daily pyres, Himuili, so you needn’t deny it.’

‘Of course we burn to get rid of the plague victims – and you have it in Carthage as well as we do, and you needn’t deny that.’

‘Must it be like this, Himuili?’

Himuili nodded. ‘You and I know what a siege is like. You begin with trumpet blasts and bright banners and dreams of glory. Before long it’s disease and hunger and filth, and latrine trenches running with liquid shit and vomit.’

‘But do our masters know this?’