‘I don’t think that. In some cultures a man may take many wives. Or one may take lovers.’

‘Not in my village.’

‘Well, that’s that. You mustn’t blame old Pyxeas. It’s just that in you he’s only looking for one thing, a certain kind of intelligence, or an openness to new ideas, new experiences – no, not even that. My Northlander is still poor; I don’t have the words to express it. A capacity for wonder, perhaps. That’s what he sees in you. Although he was unable to see the young betrothed man, with a life and responsibilities of his own. Well – what’s done is done, and here we are leaving it all behind, for better or worse.’ She took his hand as they walked; her skin was warm, leathery, a worker’s hand. ‘You may see her again, if we come this way when we return.’

‘Is that likely?’

She sighed. ‘The future is even more unknowable than usual these days. I do know how you feel.’

‘How can you?’

‘I am in the same position.’

He thought that over. ‘You have a lover in Akka?’

‘And others elsewhere. My life consists of long stays in places separated by tremendous journeys, and I seem to give away my heart at each stop. Each of my loves knows about the rest.’

‘And in Akka – who is he?’

‘She,’ Uzzia said with a smile. ‘In my case, it’s a she. But that’s our secret. Ah, we arrive, and there is Pyxeas looking irritable, and Jamil looking greedy, and his horses looking like lazy overpriced nags. Thus it always was. Jamil!’ She strode forward boldly towards the men. ‘Years of famine and you’re still as plump as ever . . .’

Avatak watched her, bewildered, comforted.

Jamil wasn’t all that plump, Avatak thought, although he had the slack face of a man who had once been plumper. He was perhaps forty, about Uzzia’s age, and he wore a loose white jacket, trousers whose legs billowed as he walked, and a small round hat. He had bright merry eyes, as if he was used to laughing at the world.

He was arguing with Pyxeas about the luggage. As Uzzia approached he held his hands out, comically imploring. ‘You explain it to the wise gentleman, please, fair Hatti princess. How these great boxes and bundles will break my beasts’ poor backs!’ He spoke passable Northlander.

Pyxeas stood by a cart laden with his goods, with a protective hand on the heaviest trunk. ‘And you can tell this fellow that I won’t leave a shred behind, not a page, not a bottle of ink. I spent months in Etxelur rendering this down, the wisdom of centuries crammed into a box. If I’m forced to leave any of it behind then you may as well leave me too, leave me to desiccate in the desert like a dead mouse!’