The journey had been long. After the battle, and the death of Clemens, they had ridden through the winter, across the entire extent of the domain of Naulobates: around the northern shore of the Caspian, across the Volga, and down the Tanais; endless miles of windswept grassland. The Heruli had been generous hosts, if eccentric. The soldiers had become accustomed to a diet of meat and milk and kumis. From the town of Tanais they had taken passage on a ship across Lake Maeotis to the city of Panticapaeum, and from there across the Black Sea to the Bosporus. The regular sailing season had not opened, but the gods had been kind. At Byzantium the governor had issued diplomatic passes to requisition horses, food and lodgings. They had not hired a carriage. Sasan, as a Persian, preferred to go on horseback. Following the great military road through Serdica and Naissus and Mursa, they crossed the Balkans. At long last they had negotiated the Alpine passes, and descended to the north Italian plains.

Today, the Praetorian Prefect had formally welcomed Prince Sasan with a ceremony in the Forum of Aquileia. Tomorrow, Volusianus would see the four survivors of the mission in private. Valens hoped he had made the right decision back in Byzantium. None of them knew anything about the family of Clemens, but they all knew who had issued the orders that had sent them to the Castle of Silence. Valens had sent a message by the fast imperial posting service direct to Volusianus. The danger was that Murena, as head of the frumentarii, took his instructions from the Praetorian Prefect.

‘Another drink.’ Hairan waved the girl over. ‘For who knows what tomorrow holds.’

*

Valens waited in the big basilica off the Forum. Through the open doors came the noise of the market: traders selling wine and olive oil, slaves and cattle and hides. His head ached from last night’s wine, but he did not regret the indulgence. The mission had changed him. Nowdays he drank for the camaraderie, to prolong the evening, not to drown his misery. His parents were long dead. It had not been his fault. Eventually a man has to look things in the face, has to shoulder the unhappiness life brings.

Valens flexed the wrist of his right hand. The wound had healed, but sometimes it still pained him.

Narses came out through the hangings that screened the private room.

Valens felt his heart lift. The Persian had been the first summoned by the Praetorian Prefect, and he was leaving as a free man.

‘Volusianus wants you next,’ Narses said to Valens.

The Praetorian Prefect was seated behind an inlaid desk. Although clad in a fine tunic, Volusianus’s face looked as if it should have been following a plough. But he was alone, and unarmed. That was what mattered. This was going to be alright. Valens had made the correct choice.

Volusianus gestured Valens to a chair. ‘A drink?’

‘No thank you, sir.’