IT WAS LATE AND QUIET in the caravanserai by the time the mules had been unloaded and bedded down for the night, and now the others had finished seeing to their horses. He was alone in the stables. Standing well away from his horse, leaning his weight into the strokes, he brushed its coat, always following the natural direction of the hair. If grooming was neglected, a horse soon lost flesh and condition. Mange and lice were the sure and certain result of neglect. The other men were in the communal dining room. He preferred his own company.

Eventually he was finished. The hide of the animal gleamed like silk in the lamplight. He fussed its ears, looked into its great limpid eyes, spoke gently to it. The whiskers on its muzzle tickled his cheeks as it snuffled his face. Until tomorrow, my friend.

Taking the lamp, he stepped outside into the courtyard. It had already been the third hour of darkness when they had reached the caravanserai. The gates had been shut. The tall, blank walls dark and forbidding. They had shouted. The gatekeepers had been suspicious. The times were troubled. At long last, the bars had been lifted, the bolts drawn, the gates swung open, and the caravan had entered its nocturnal sanctuary.

He stood under the stars. Around him were the shadowed arches of the stables and storerooms. They were built against the outer walls. Above them a gallery ran around three sides of the upper floor, opening onto the rooms for travellers. He noted the two guards up on the flat roof. They were alert, pacing their rounds. The times were troubled indeed.

There were only two other trading caravans, neither large, and a small party of hardy voyagers cloistered here for the night. Their bales of merchandise and belongings were piled in the open, close by where their animals were stabled. The baggage and tack of his own group was neatly laid out. Valens had had the trade goods locked in a secure room.

Light and a muted noise spilled out from where the others were eating. With something akin to reluctance or distaste, he made his way across.

Inside it was smoky, smelt of roasted meat and stale wine. A couple of serving girls, their smiles false and resigned, moved around the patrons. Doubtless they would be busy later. Working in a place like this, they may as well go around with their skirts already hauled up.

Valens waved him over. With a gesture intended to be both polite and final, he declined, and walked to the bar. Ordering a big jug of strong wine, and a small plate of bread and cheese and olives, he turned and surveyed the room.