Soon the aroma of cooking meat wafted around the little camp. The duck would make an enticing change from the endless meals of bacon, and would help preserve their rations. Valens was hungry. The dripping fat sizzling in the flames increased his appetite.

Hairan had relieved Narses on sentry. He called that there was someone coming from the west, alone and on foot, seemingly unarmed.

His weapons to hand, Valens could not be bothered to get up. The others shared his disinclination.

The figure appeared, staggering down the beach with exhaustion. But his head was up, and his eyes fixed on them like those of a doomed man gazing at salvation. It was the young man from the bar in the settlement by the bridge. He came to a stop a few paces off.

‘What are you doing here?’ Valens said.

The fugitive’s chest was heaving, and he swayed where he stood.

‘Sit down by the fire, before you collapse.’

The youth did as he was told.

‘Someone give him a drink.’

He took a gulp and choked. Once he had dragged some air into his lungs, he tipped the wineskin up again. This time his throat worked furiously as he swallowed.

‘Does your uncle know you are here?’ Valens asked.

The young man stopped drinking, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘The officer asked you a question,’ Clemens said.

‘No, I slipped away.’

‘Why have you followed us?’ Valens asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

‘We do not all think like my uncle. With his native wife, and his new religion, things are different for him. The Christians always talk about turning the other cheek, enduring suffering in silence.’ The words tumbled out of him in a stream.

‘What is that to do with us?’ Valens interrupted. This was heading in an even worse direction than he had feared.

The youth looked at him, as if baffled by the slowness of his comprehension. ‘There are over a hundred Roman prisoners working on the bridge. All of them soldiers. The majority would give anything to return home. There are only twenty guards. We have no weapons, but we have our tools and knives. In the night, we could overpower them with ease. You could lead us back to the empire.’

‘We are here to trade, not fight,’ Valens said. ‘We are a merchant caravan.’

‘My uncle said you were soldiers. The two with you in the bar have military tattoos on their arms. He saw them under their sleeves, when they were drinking. And that one,’ he pointed at Clemens, ‘just called you an officer.’

‘It is nothing but a courtesy. I am a trader, these are my guards. Some may be veterans, but what they did previously in life is not my business, and no concern of yours.’