They had forded fast-flowing mountain streams, moved through the gloom of deep ravines, and edged along tracks that clung to the sides of vertiginous precipices. When there was a fork in the path, Lucia had guided them unerringly. For several days she had led them almost due south, away from their destination, before turning up yet another river valley to the north-east. They had met a few travellers, and the occasional shepherd and charcoal burner. But without the woman they could have wandered for months in that rocky fastness.

Now they had reached her home, and here she would stay. Valens had instructed Hairan to hire a guide from the headman for their onward journey through the remaining mountains, and down to the territory of the Mardoi and the southern shores of the Caspian Sea. There were merchants in the village who had travelled the route. The expedition had plenty of money in Persian coins, and Hairan was amiable in all the many languages in which he was fluent. Valens did not think that the request should prove a problem.

The diners fell silent, even Valens’s talkative neighbour, when the musician began to sing a high plaintive song. Unable to understand a word, Valens looked at Hairan and the headman. The two were flanked by the local Zoroastrian priest and a huge bear of a man, who seemed to be the chief of the headman’s guard. The leading man of the village kept a numerous body of armed retainers. Despite its idyllic setting, this was still the wild uplands, where every man carried a weapon and had to look to his own protection.

Although still hundreds of miles from their goal, the expedition had done well to get this far. Through all their tribulations only three men had been lost: Severus, Quintus and Zabda. The ten men had become seven. Courage and ingenuity, and a large measure of luck, had ensured their escape from the nomads. For the moment they were safe. While they were fierce, even savage, hospitality was said to be the main virtue of those who lived in these mountains.