The mounted officer looked around. The wagon was piled with supplies. There was always the fear of bandits, and other men, the hungry and the desperate, would kill for food and wine. There was a famine in the province of Bactria. But this was not Bactria. These mountains were empty. The shepherds would have driven their flocks down to pastures in the plains for the winter. At this time of year there was no one at all in this high wasteland.

The officer nudged his horse into a trot. The other five riders followed. The wagon lumbered after them.

The man on the track was a Persian, judging by his square-cut dark beard and hair. His clothes had once been fine, but were stained and torn by hard travel. He wore a sword on his belt, and a bow case and quiver lay near him in the dirt. Evidently the soldier had not been robbed.

The officer swung down from his horse, tossed the reins to a soldier.

The prone man grimaced as he tried to raise himself on one elbow. His face was ashen.

‘Rest easy, brother,’ the officer said. With a groan the man fell back. He clutched his right leg. ‘What happened?’

The injured man tried to speak, but no words came.

‘Get him some wine.’

At the command, three of the soldiers dismounted. The two remaining in the saddle held their reins.

‘Give him some room.’ The officer took one of the proffered flasks. The others fell back a pace. ‘Drink.’ The officer lifted the man’s head, trickled a little wine between his cracked lips.

The man spluttered and coughed. The officer waited, then gave him another drink.

‘My thanks.’ The voice was little more than a whisper. ‘My horse threw me. I think my leg is broken.’

Now he managed to get on one elbow, and reached for the wine. He drank thirstily, his throat working beneath the black beard. He sighed and gave back the flask. There was great pain in his eyes.

‘My name is Narses, son of Rastak of the clan Suren. I am a messenger of the King of Kings.’

The soldiers straightened up, the officer too. This was a man of importance. It was their duty to give him assistance.

‘You are the supply convoy bound for the Castle of Silence.’

‘Yes, Framadar.’ The officer addressed him by the title due to a superior. ‘Can you ride?’

‘No, put me on the wagon.’

All eyes turned to the approaching vehicle. The wagoner cracked his whip above the animals’ ears, but it was still some way off.

‘Let me look at your leg,’ the officer bent over. ‘I can put it in a splint.’

‘Leave it!’ The framadar spoke sharply.

The officer straightened up, as if rebuked.

‘I am so very sorry,’ the framadar said with utter sincerity.

Suspicion dawned on the face of the officer.