A war chariot, a big two-horse machine stolen in a raid from the Hatti, came clattering into view around a bend. With driver and spear man, Fabius was aboard, resplendent in a polished breastplate, scarlet tunic and purple cloak. With his helmet off he was unmistakable, and the men cheered as he approached. A couple of carts followed behind him – and they were laden with severed heads, Nelo saw, dozens of them heaped up like turnips on farmers’ carts. They were all men, all bearded, all red-haired – all Rus or Scand. A guard detail jogged along beside chariot and carts.

Behind Fabius came the crowd, citizens of Carthage. They were a ragged, grimy lot, Nelo thought; not only was there no food to be had but there were no new clothes to buy in the market, not even soap and fresh water to spare to clean the old. But today the great general Fabius was putting on some kind of spectacle, and on impulse the people came out to see what was going on. And it helped, Nelo saw, that a few more soldiers followed behind the guard, carrying satchels from which they threw stuff out to the crowd – peas, beans perhaps, small items that people leapt for and scrapped over.

The chariot pulled up at the gate. Fabius beckoned Gisco over, while Nelo and Suniatus emptied out their own sacks onto the heap on the carts. ‘More fruit for my harvest I see, Gisco.’

‘I’ve spoken to the other commanders, sir. I think we got them all.’

‘Good, good, a thorough job. The city thanks you for it – or it will, before the day is done. Ah, there’s my scribbling Northlander. Up here, boy, ride with me. Do you have your satchel? By the gods, what’s that mess on your clothes?’

‘Sir—’

‘You. Give him your tunic, man. Just do it! He can’t be facing the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four with Rus brains all over his bib.’

The soldier, picked out at random, reluctantly stripped down to his breeches and handed his tunic to Nelo. His companions whistled and mocked.

Nelo climbed onto the chariot, hideously self-conscious. He dared to ask, ‘The Tribunal, sir? What are we going to do there?’

‘You’ll see, boy. Just record everything, Nelo, regardless of how well you understand it. Once again we are going to witness history. No – we are going to make history.’ He stood on his chariot, and turned to face the crowd and the soldiers. ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what I said?’ He had the leathery lungs a commander always needed, and at his bellow the murmur of the crowd subsided. ‘I said that today, we, all of you, are going to make history!’

That won him a ragged, slightly bemused cheer.