Those labouring on the stone bridge stopped and stared at the riders when they came close. Dressed in work tunics, the majority were fair skinned, several sunburnt. Valens regarded them in turn, with a sad and mounting certainty. Hairan led the column across the native bridge. Its boards rattled under the hooves of their horses.

When they were trotting towards the settlement, Valens asked what had been said.

Hairan stroked his long moustaches, much amused.

Before he could answer, Narses broke in. ‘The officer said I looked Persian. When I told him that I was of the clan Suren, he said my mother must have been some Cilician slave lucky enough to be raped by a Persian warrior, the impudent ill-bred fucker.’

‘Very proud, these Persians,’ Hairan said. ‘He also asked about Lucia. I said she was no slave girl, but the wife of our esteemed leader, Marcus Aelius Valens, the merchant from Antioch. He said you were lucky not to have been at home when the Persians sacked the city.’

‘Narses is right, he is a very impudent fucker.’

‘And he also said there was no accommodation free in the village, and we must camp outside. Finally he told us not to talk to the prisoners working on the bridge, I think you can work out why.’

* * *

Valens went into the settlement with Aulus and Hairan to buy provisions. Aulus was the quartermaster, and none of the others could haggle, seemingly in any language, as well as Hairan. As had become usual when the party was divided, Valens left Decimus in charge of the camp. The horse master was a sober and reliable man.

When they had made their purchases, Valens thought they could do with a drink. Hairan was always amiable company, and Valens’s relations with the previously mulish Aulus had been much improved after their experiences with the ‘daemon’ in the caves.

As in every village, there was a tavern opening onto the square. The afternoon was cool, with a hint of rain in the air. They left the animals loaded with food and fodder tethered to the rail outside. The bar was small and dark and rudimentary, and smelt of stale wine and old cooking. A bored-looking, slatternly girl stood behind the rough-jointed wooden bar. There were only two customers, sitting side by side at a table by the stairs at the rear of the room, facing the door. One was an older man, the other much younger. Both wore clean and respectable tunics, trousers and boots. On the right forearm of each was a tattoo.

‘You are a long way from home, brothers,’ the older man said.

Although, since the bridge, he had half expected such an encounter, it took a moment before Valens realised that the man had spoken in Latin.

‘And you, brothers,’ Aulus replied.