They both spoke Hatti and Carthaginian, and aides murmured translations.

Arnuwanda grunted. ‘I don’t deserve that title, and Crown Prince Uhhaziti won’t have it, not until this day is won. Why are we speaking? Why are we not fighting? And what is that grisly contraption? What are you going to do, pelt us with skulls?’ He was rewarded with a ripple of laughter from his own men.

Fabius waited patiently until they were quiet. ‘I am a Roman. But I work within the traditions of my adopted city. And these poor bones represent one of those traditions. It is the molk, the sacrifice. In this lore the gods’ favour is won by the sacrifice of children.’

Arnuwanda paced. ‘What barbarism is this?’

Some of his men were disturbed, and they muttered prayers, and made the symbol of Jesus Sharruma, the crossed arms over the chest. Every eye was fixed on the heap of skulls, which, Rina knew, was its true purpose, to distract.

‘Not barbarism, Prince,’ said Fabius evenly. ‘If I had a son myself I would have given him up willingly, to the gods of the city.’

‘Well, our gods will have something to say about how effectual that has been. What else, Roman?’ He peered at the huge covered casket on the wagon, on which the skull heap stood. ‘I yield to curiosity. What is in the box?’

Fabius smiled. ‘Another tradition of the Carthaginians, sir. A gift. They are a trading people, remember; they would always rather trade than fight. So here is this offer – a gift for you, after the receipt of which, they hope, your will to fight this day will be eliminated.’

‘Are you trying to buy us off? Is it gold, silver, jewellery? Is it so banal? My men can’t eat gold. And besides, every coffer in Carthage will be open to me by the end of the day.’

‘Not that.’

The Roman seemed to be enjoying the game, Rina thought uneasily, and she prayed he wouldn’t push his luck too far. Already some of the men behind Arnuwanda looked suspicious.

Now one tough-looking soldier stepped forward and grabbed Arnuwanda’s arm. ‘There’s something wrong here. Sir, step back—’

‘Oh, be still, Kassu—’

Fabius roared, ‘Now, Gisco!’

In an instant Carthaginian soldiers leapt at the cart and hauled aside the drapes, scattering the skulls carelessly on the dusty ground, to reveal the wooden crate. With a few tugs on rope loops the walls of the crate fell away – and the eruptor was exposed to the air. It was a great bulb of cast iron, reinforced with bound hoops, and with a gaping mouth pointing straight at the Hatti lines. Men huddled around the eruptor, blinking in the sudden daylight; they too had been hidden with the weapon inside the crate. One of them was a young man called Thux, a Northlander engineer who had once worked the pumps on the Wall. The rest were Carthaginian soldiers.