It was a tall, vaulted chamber. The only windows, shuttered now against the night, gave onto the courtyard and were overhung by the balcony. The place would be cool in summer, and the cooking fires would keep it snug through the cold Mesopotamian winter.

A thin, ascetic looking man was singing, unaccompanied in a corner.

‘Blasphemy is a stealthy woman;

she commits adultery in the inner room.’

The words were in Aramaic. It was a local song, one designed to instil piety and morality. Beyond the Euphrates the hold of the Olympian gods weakened. The land between the two rivers was home to many competing faiths. Some followed Zoroaster, others the teachings of Mani. The city of Edessa was said to be rife with Christians. In the Island, as the inhabitants called Mesopotamia, true religion and every degraded cult all flourished alike, bound together by mutual animosity.

The innkeeper brought his dinner. Ignoring the jug of water, he poured a generous cupful of wine. A drink to drown sorrows and warm a frozen heart.

It had not been hard to find the bandits. Every band of brigands relied on informants to tell them who was setting out on the roads. All it had taken was a few nights in the waterfront bars in Zeugma, some discreet inquiries, and a handful of coins. A lot more coins had been necessary to secure their services. The bandits had earned their pay. Two of them were dead, but so was Severus. For a moment, in the heat of the skirmish, he had thought they would fail. He had been ready to strike the blow himself, but the treachery might have been spotted, even in all the confusion.

He refilled his cup.

Initially, he had thought that the death of Severus would be enough, but young Valens had surprised him. This morning, during the abortive mutiny, he realised the job was not yet done.

Murena had told him that the mission must fail. Not just fail, but vanish from the eyes of men. Had they returned to the empire, Murena might judge that he had not carried out his orders. The consequences of that judgement would be awful.

He took another drink.

Gods below, he hated that bastard Murena. Almost as much as he loathed himself. Yes, he was a frumentarius, a secret soldier. He had spied, played on the trust of others. He had delivered messages that brought summary execution. Once he had killed an unsuspecting man in cold blood. But he had never yet betrayed his own kind.

That bastard Murena! If only a man could be truly solitary, a misanthrope like Timon of Athens, living alone, shunning all human contact. A brave man could face his own pain and death. But everyone loved someone – parents, wife, children, some woman or boy. No man could endure the torture of a loved one. Once his beloved had been simply discovered, the threat had been more than enough.