Carthage, these days, woke slowly. On the landward walls the sentries’ fires were sparks against a sunrise that towered pink, and carts bearing the dead rolled in doleful caravans, heading for the big, ever-burning pyres. Pyxeas stared at the slow carriages, and his lips moved slowly. He was counting, Rina realised, counting the carriages, perhaps hoping to estimate the number of the night’s dead. And, as they began to climb the Byrsa itself, a series of upright crosses was thrown into relief against the sky, the dangling bodies silhouetted. Thieves, looters, murderers and other criminals, punished in an ancient Carthaginian style. At least the crows didn’t go hungry any more, the Carthaginians bleakly joked.

At length they came upon the cemetery, a place of grand tombs, some of them evidently ancient. Here was an open grave, a wound in the ground. A pavilion of some weighty fabric had been set up beside the tomb. Solemn folk had gathered here wearing heavy purple cloaks, while servants fluttered around bearing trays of drinks and bits of food. A ring of soldiers watched warily, in case any hungry citizens took offence at this display of ostentation by their leaders.

Inside, the pavilion was opulent, with an Etruscan tapestry hanging from one wall, a Persian carpet covering the dusty cobbles. A table had been set up along the pavilion’s axis – and the body of Anterastilis lay on the table, dressed in her finest clothes, washed, anointed with oil, her hair and cosmetics carefully made up. Beside her was an altar of stone laden with food, drinks, and gifts: perfumes, herbs, expensive-looking bits of pottery, amulets. A priest murmured prayers, reading from a scroll. Rina couldn’t help but remember the last time she had seen Anterastilis lying on her back like this. Well, she looked better now than she had back then, even at the peak of sexual ecstasy. They had even put her in a girdle, judging by the prominence of her bosom.

Carthalo of the suffetes approached them. He was a tall, angular man with a high forehead but a full head of dark hair, and blank grey eyes, and an oddly sinister, soft smile. And, trailing him, Rina was astonished to see Mago, Barmocar’s nephew, healthy, well fed – uniformed, but not at the war. He grinned, insolent, when he caught her eye.

Carthalo bowed formally. ‘Rina of Etxelur. Thank you for coming on this sad day. And you are Pyxeas the sage, sir?’ He spoke Greek; perhaps he had prepared for this visit sufficiently to know that Pyxeas could follow Greek but not much Carthaginian.

‘I am he, I admit it.’ Pyxeas’ speech was slurred by his damaged teeth. He rather spoiled the moment by absently helping himself to a biscuit from a plate on the altar.

Rina had to slap his hand to make him put it back. ‘By the little mothers’ tears, Uncle, that’s for Anterastilis!’