She was, but since the day of the battle Nelo had learned more of the truth. The eruptor that had fired its fatal shot at the Hatti ranks that day was only the fifth to be successfully constructed by Pyxeas’ conspiracy of Northlander engineers here in Carthage – and only the third to have been fired without blowing itself up, turning its firing crew to an expanding cloud of blood mist and bone shards in the process. Although Nelo supposed that in itself would have been a spectacular demonstration. Most of the eruptors that had been pushed to the crest of the walls of Carthage had been harmless dummies. Some weren’t even cast iron.

Himuili grunted. ‘These big iron beasts are all very well, but I see no sign of their lethal breath. I mean this substance you call the fire drug.’

Pyxeas smiled. ‘That’s kept under lock and key elsewhere. I, Pyxeas, offer my apologies. It has been a state secret of the Northlanders for centuries, and now is a secret shared only with Carthage.’

‘I do know it came from Cathay originally,’ Himuili said, probing.

‘That’s true,’ Pyxeas said. ‘In fact Cathay scholars discovered it entirely accidentally. They were seeking an elixir of life, a drug to banish death for ever. Well, what they came up with is an elixir of death, I suppose. A quirky gift of their gods. And that is why it is known as a “drug” to this day.

‘General, I heard you talking of symbols to my great-nephew. Of course you’re right. Carthage seeks to impress you today. You are a military man. Think of the future, sir. Imagine a more powerful eruptor, capable of smashing down a city wall with a single stone. Imagine an eruptor that can fly through the air like a bird. Or imagine an eruptor small enough to hold in the hand of a single warrior. You think this is fanciful? Soon Carthage will have all this, as you never will.’

‘We know we are beaten, scholar,’ murmured the old priest. ‘Speak gently.’

Now, after the weapon manufactory, the party was led past another workshop where a much more positive symbol was under construction. In a lofty hall a dozen artisans worked on a tremendous statue of Jesus Sharruma, the Hatti god. For now it was a rough marble form, but Nelo knew the plan was to decorate the god as richly as had been the holy image brought from Hattusa. Old Angulli made the crossed-arms sign of the palm leaves, and bowed down, muttering a prayer.

Carthalo said smoothly, ‘You can see how we labour to heal the wound we inflicted. The new god will include the smashed fragments of the old.’

‘It’s true,’ Angulli said. ‘I supervised the collection myself, especially of the remains of the core wooden sculpture created by the hands of Him. The fragments are splashed with the blood of our soldiers – but that only sanctifies them further.’