The chariot rolled up a broad avenue towards the summit of this central mound, passing through the Hannibal Quarter, a district that Nelo had heard of but had never visited before. There were shops, temples and grand government buildings here, all in shining stone, some faced with marble, and in much better order than the lower city. Yet as in the rest of Carthage those shops that weren’t selling essentials, such as shoes, clothes, food and oil, seemed mostly to have been turned over to habitation. These days even the Byrsa was crowded with nestspills. As Fabius passed, some of these folk came out to follow him too, joining their grubbier counterparts from the lower city. Whatever Fabius was up to, this was a chance for them to make some noise, to vent their frustration, and maybe to smash a few windows and crack a few skulls in the process.

Soon a great tide of people was washing up the slopes of the Byrsa, carrying Fabius to the house of the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four at the summit. Nelo sketched and sketched.

Fabius glanced at what had been drawn, smiling, folding the pages back. But he frowned when he got to one sketch, of himself holding up the severed head before the crowd of the lower town. ‘What’s this?’

‘Sir?’

He had to shout above the noise of the crowd. ‘The head of this Scand – he’s looking at me. And the heads in the barrow too, all turned – all looking at me!’

‘It’s what I saw, sir. I mean—’

‘What your heart saw?’

‘The dead Scand and Rus are asking why you betrayed them.’

‘Betrayed?’ His voice was deep, ominous.

Nelo knew he was talking himself into trouble. But he said, ‘One of them spoke to me, sir. Before we managed to kill him. He told me—’

‘That I had invited them in.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And so, you conclude, this is all got up by me. A stunt to impress the rabble.’

‘Yes – no, sir—’

‘It’s all right. I took you under my wing because I believe you see the truth, where other men fail. I can’t complain if you see the truth about me, can I? But it is only a partial truth, Nelo. Only a necessary lie. Greater truths lie beyond.’

‘Sir?’

‘These fellows, with their ridiculous red hair and their inability to hide, are of course a fiction, a plant. But the city is riddled with spies, informants, would-be traitors. That’s the greater truth. And it’s only my strict control of the city, my soldiers’ thorough rooting-out of it all, that keeps us safe. It’s hard and it’s not pretty, but it’s the truth.