But here was Palla, the priest, wrapped in a military cloak, even wearing a steel helmet. Standing with Himuili himself in the huddle! When he saw Kassu the recognition jolted Palla, there was no mistaking that. Evidently he’d not expected his lover’s husband to show up, not today. Palla was a slim, tall man, a few years younger than Kassu – closer to Henti in age, in fact, and that was probably part of the problem. His hair was dark, but his eyes were a pale blue, blue as a Scand’s. He wasn’t particularly handsome, Kassu thought. But his face bore no scars, his nose hadn’t been broken even once – his face was that of a soft city dweller’s, and so what Henti was used to, that and his evident learning. When Kassu looked at him now there seemed no harm in him. He was not the kind Kassu would ever seek out as a friend, but he was the kind Kassu had sworn to Jesus Sharruma to protect, the kind that made New Hattusa what it was: literate, intellectual, civilised. He seemed likeable. But Kassu had seen this likeable young man kiss his wife.

Inwardly he cursed his fate. Why must life be so complicated? Why couldn’t whatever malicious angel was toying with him have sent him a rival he could cheerfully hate? Because, he realised, thinking about it, such a man would never have been good enough for Henti, as, perhaps, he had never been good enough. And that was a true measure of the angels’ spite. All they had to do was to turn your own weaknesses against you, and your heart was smashed.

The priest looked away and visibly tried to concentrate on the conversation around Himuili. But then the group broke up, for a newcomer approached, walking around the curve of the city walls, and Kassu immediately understood who this shipment of bread was for, why it needed to be so closely guarded.

The newcomer was a Rus.

With his aides, Himuili walked forward to meet him. All the Hatti save Himuili himself had their cloaks pulled back so their weapons were free, though for now their swords stayed in their scabbards. The Rus was, after all, a representative of a force that had sent assassins into the heart of the capital to murder the King.

The Rus, though, came alone. He was a big man, with the blue eyes and red hair every Hatti associated with his people. He wore a loose cloak over a long tunic and baggy trousers, and linen wraps around his legs over long leather boots. He wore a cap rather than a helmet, and had one weapon, a single-bladed axe a Scand might carry, slung over his shoulder by a leather strap. His hands were empty.

Himuili grunted to his men. ‘Ugly enough to be a Rus. That rust-coloured hair.’