Imperial Fire

XIII

Wayland sprinted through the downpour and dived into his tent, the dog plunging in after him. He lit a lamp, mopped himself dry and lay down on his pallet. Water ran in streams across the ground and the dog heaved up and flopped onto his chest with a groan. Somehow he managed to make room for it and lay half on, half off his bed, listening to the rain on the roof. Water dripped onto his head. Mosquitoes bit.

He’d told Vallon that he hadn’t joined the expedition out of a sense of obligation, but that was untrue. After sharing the trials and triumphs of the northern voyage, he’d felt duty-bound to hazard this new venture. And he couldn’t deny that the prospect of exploring new lands had made his blood tingle.

The duke’s treachery changed everything, relegating the expedition to a madcap quest manned by soldiers who had no idea what they were up against. Wayland knew the risks better than most. During his long sojourn among the Seljuks, he’d learned something about the territory they’d be passing through — tracts of scorching desert where every oasis lay under the control of a warlord. A hundred men were but a mite in that wilderness, infidel prey sent by Allah to be plucked and bled by the faithful.

Also — he was reluctant to admit it — his relationship with Vallon had changed. On their northern adventures, they’d been a close-knit band who shared everything — food, shelter, decisions. On this journey he was just an individual attached to a small army with its established hierarchy, its own way of doing things. Since leaving Constantinople, he’d had only a dozen conversations with Vallon. Wayland didn’t resent that. The general’s main responsibilities were to his men, some of whom had served under him for almost a decade. Even so…

Wayland grunted as the dog sat up, planting a bony paw in his stomach. Hero stuck his dripping head through the tent flap. ‘What a foul night. Can I come in?’

Wayland shoved the dog off. ‘If you can find somewhere to sit.’

Hero managed to take perch on the edge of the bed and screwed rain from his eyes with both hands. The dog licked his face. Hero laughed and pushed it away. ‘Your hound is certainly kinder than the brute that accompanied us on our first journey. I never dared approach within ten feet of it.’

‘That dog’s temper was framed by years of living in the wild.’

‘So was yours,’ said Hero. ‘You were such a fierce youth when we first met.’

‘Man or dog, we all mellow with time.’

‘I expected you to say more at the meeting.’

‘I don’t speak much Greek. A lot of the discussion went over my head, but I didn’t want to waste Vallon’s time by asking for a translation.’

‘It isn’t just that. You’re not happy with his decision.’

‘It’s not my place to tell him what he should do.’

‘Vallon values your opinion and you know the Turkmen better than anybody. What would you have advised?’

Wayland hesitated. ‘Go back. Vallon wouldn’t be punished for failure. It wasn’t him who chose the duke as ambassador. The Logothete or the emperor is responsible for this mess.’

‘You don’t understand Byzantine politics. The powerful don’t punish themselves for their failures.’

‘What’s the worst they could have done to Vallon? Strip him of his general’s rank. At least he’d be back with his family.’

‘Where you’d rather be.’

Wayland didn’t answer. Hero absentmindedly stroked the dog’s head. ‘Vallon feels the same way, though he has to hide it. He resisted this command with all his will. He even considered fleeing with his family and taking service with the Normans. But now he’s accepted the mission, his sense of honour won’t allow him to abandon it at the first setback.’

‘Being forced onto a hostile shore with no clear way ahead and enemies behind us isn’t a setback. It’s a disaster.’

Hero smiled. ‘The night we first met at that castle in Northumbria, Vallon told Count Olbec that the leader of our quest would have to be a man brave enough to cut through the known hazards and resourceful enough to navigate perils as yet unseen. A man who, if he couldn’t find a path, would make his own. Vallon’s still that man.’

‘I know. It’s me who’s changed.’ Wayland sat up. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I’ll serve Vallon to the best of my abilities. Just don’t expect me to be at the centre of his councils.’

After a moment’s pause, a question framed but left unspoken, Hero crawled towards the entrance. ‘Sleep well, dear friend.’

Fat chance of that. The dog took advantage of Hero’s departure to stretch out on the bed. Wayland shoved up against it, the rain leaking on him in fat drops. ‘Ah, Syth,’ he sighed.

At the sound of her name, the dog sprang up in an ecstasy of expectation that threatened to collapse the flimsy shelter. Wayland grabbed its scruff. ‘Lie down, you soft fool.’

The dog subsided with a whimper and fixed a mournful gaze on Wayland’s face. He quenched the lamp, but darkness couldn’t extinguish his imaginings. A dread echo from the past lodged in his soul — a voice sounding across a fog-bound sea.

You’re all bound for hell.

‘Wake up, Master Wayland. It’s not like you to play the slug-a-bed.’

Wayland heaved himself round and shielded his eyes from the sunlight dazzling behind Wulfstan’s grinning face.

‘What are you so cheerful about?’

‘Rain’s stopped, sun’s shining, and we’re off on an adventure worthy of the heroes of old. What else could you ask for except breakfast? I saved you some pancakes. Stir yourself while they’re still warm.’

Wayland dragged himself out and stood swaying slightly, dizzied by the steamy heat and stunning landscape. A bank of pearlescent mist girdled the foothills to the north. Above it, peaks soared in flutes and folds, fresh snow trailing down the lower slopes. So far as Wayland could gauge, the mountain barrier was no more than three days distant.

He ate the pancakes spread with honey and eavesdropped on the troopers. No grumbles this morning, only the bustle and banter of a well-disciplined army striking camp. But Wayland was sensitive to mood and knew that the men’s joshing disguised apprehension.

He washed his face and brushed his teeth with a twig bashed into a fuzz at one end.

‘Lord?’

Wayland lowered his gaze to bring the speaker’s face into sight. A delicate-featured boy looked up in an agony of shyness. Wayland smiled. ‘Hello, who might you be?’

The boy’s voice quavered between treble and alto. ‘Atam, your Lordship. Master Hero said you needed an interpreter. I speak Greek, Georgian and Turkic. I was born in Armenia and captured by the Seljuks when I was five.’

Wayland had encountered a hundred Atams during his employment with the Seljuks — children taken in war, sometimes wrenched from their dead mothers’ arms, usually treated kindly by their captors, but scarred forever by cruel separation from their families.

‘I’m not a lord, so call me Wayland. How old are you?’

‘Fifteen?’ Atam said after a moment.

Thirteen at most, Wayland decided. ‘Where did you spring from? I haven’t seen you before.’

‘I was a cook’s assistant, Lord.’

‘Have you got a horse?’

‘Master Hero found me a mule.’

‘You’ll need a swifter mount if you’re to keep up with me. I’ll arrange it.’ The lad made Wayland feel protective. ‘I’m sure you’ll do very well and I’m obliged to Hero for his thoughtfulness. You can start proving your worth right away. The column will soon depart and I must discuss my duties with Otia.’

His little squire approached the centurion with such timidity that the officer didn’t notice him.

‘Speak up,’ said Wayland. ‘Tell the centurion that Wayland the Englishman is reporting for duty.’

After listening to Atam’s piping announcement, Otia shook Wayland’s hand.

‘He’s pleased to have you in his unit,’ said Atam. ‘General Vallon told him that nobody can scout a trail or sniff out danger as well as you.’ Atam pointed at the mountains. ‘Lord Otia says you’ll need all your cunning to spot the snares and pitfalls waiting for us up there.’

Menials had stirred themselves well before dawn to prepare the baggage train. It was a long process and the squadron didn’t move out until the sun stood halfway up the sky, the troopers riding with short reins to match the supply column’s pace. Atam at his side, Wayland trotted in company with the reconnaissance squad, the dog loping with lolling tongue in the shadow cast by his horse.

Wayland allowed the hound to make the occasional foray for game. There was much to excite its hunting instincts, including long-tailed fowl with bronze and green plumage and enamelled red heads that stalked the thickets with autocratic tread. Wayland hadn’t seen such birds before. Otia told him they were called pheasants and took their name from the river Phasis and its province.

There rode in the scouting party three Turkmen who snapped shots at the pheasants as the dog flushed them. One of the bowmen — a Cuman from the steppes north of the Black Sea — brought down a bird as it burst into flight and invited Wayland to bend his bow in friendly competition, saying that he’d heard the Englishman was a match for the finest Turkish archers. Wayland kept his bow slung and his challenger whirled away with a disparaging laugh. Watching him, Wayland remembered the Cuman youth he’d slain in an archery duel by the Dnieper nine years before. Since that expedition he’d never shed another man’s blood.

They left the marshlands and struck north on a road leading through pastures and orchards drenched in blossom. They passed wattle-and-daub hamlets thatched with reed, and Otia called out reassurance to the inhabitants clustered at a safe distance. The women wore colourful smocks, pantaloons and head scarves. Some of them half-raised their hands in response to Otia’s greetings. Most crossed themselves or made signs to ward off the evil eye. Their menfolk just peered in hard-eyed suspicion until the invaders passed from sight.

Wayland kneed his horse alongside the Georgian. ‘A handsome race. Proud, too.’

‘Wait until we get into the mountains. Then you’ll see pride.’

With the sun dissolving into the horizon, they made camp by a river called the Inguri and on the day following they reached the highlands. As the road steepened and began to twist, the scouts ceased their idle pursuits and watched the rolling hills and forest margins for signs of ambush. Nor was it long before their caution was justified. On a rise commanding the road, the river hard to the left, a line of armed horsemen reared up. Otia ordered his men to keep their swords sheathed and stood in his stirrups to announce who they were and where they were going, stressing that a larger force was following and that they were just passing through with no hostile designs on this place.

It was like that all day, potential belligerents ghosting out of trees or staring down with bristling hostility from the heights, Otia shouting assurances until his voice had been abraded to a husky croak.

At one pinch point in a sunken way, a sling-stone thrummed past Wayland and struck one of the troopers’ horses on the rump, stinging it into a wild gavotte. The men drew their bows and scattered, searching for their attacker.

‘Leave it,’ Otia ordered. ‘Probably a boy acting on a dare.’

Wayland passed the sweating centurion a leather water bottle. ‘If we didn’t have you to smooth our passage, I think we’d have had a sharp encounter today.’

Otia tilted the bottle and drank deep before handing it back. He wiped his mouth. ‘When I told the general I couldn’t guarantee safe passage, I spoke the truth. I’m a lowlander and the Svans despise lowlanders. For my part, I hate the highland tribes. Every winter they descend from their mountain keeps to steal cattle. The folk hereabouts would love to hang me and burn me hanging, and given the chance, I’d mete out the same fate to them.’

Next day Vallon ordered the scouts to stay close to the main party, the whole force and its supply train climbing at a mule’s plod. The tumbling river carved a path through a beech forest with trees so massive that it took five men with linked hands to encircle one mighty bole. Leaving the wood, the column advanced up a green glen and entered a highland basin that might have been the park and pleasure ground of a wilderness prince. Stands of walnut and oak curved up to grassy ridges overlooked by fanged peaks. On the other side of the river, pines showed as dark cones in a dense deciduous forest. Wayland spotted bears browsing high up in a clearing. Two eagles soared on splayed wings, tuning their pinions to the air currents, the sun striking gold from their heads. One of them gave a yelping cry and locked talons with its mate, the pair pinwheeling through the air.

Otia pointed to the north-east. ‘Over there stands Elbruz, the loftiest mountain in the world. Where Prometheus endured his torment.’

Hero explained the myth, recounting how Prometheus, a Titan, had enraged Zeus by first creating man out of clay and breathing life into him, and then stealing the gift of fire from the gods and giving it to man. For his crime, Zeus had chained him to the icy slopes of Elbruz and condemned him to have his liver pecked out by an eagle in perpetuity.

Warming to his tale-telling, Hero added that it was in the Caucasus kingdom of Colchis that Jason had fulfilled his quest for the Golden Fleece belonging to a magical ram sent by Zeus to rescue Phrixus and Helle.

Otia leaned to touch Hero’s wrist. ‘I’m sorry to spoil your story, my learned friend, but the Golden Fleece has nothing to do with gods. In these mountains the people use fleeces to trap gold in the rivers, weighting them down underwater. Sometimes, after a landslide or flood, the prospectors retrieve the fleece with so much precious dust caught in the wool that the skin appears to be made of solid gold.

At that point the squad cantered over a rise and Wayland reined in, taken aback by the sight of a distant fortified settlement that looked like something from fairyland. Lofty square stone towers capped with turrets clustered around the houses, the limewashed keeps brilliant against the intense green slopes. In a valley to the north, a glacier descended from the mountain chain like a silver staircase.

‘I prefer Hero’s version,’ said Wayland.

The trees thinned to a stippling of firs, the green curve of the valley replicating the blue arc of the sky. The wayfarers passed shrines painted with frescos of four-winged seraphim with wheels for feet, and other oddities rendered in a vigorous folk style. Of the inhabitants of this lofty land, the squadron saw nothing.

‘Where is everybody?’ Wayland asked Otia.

‘Waiting for us,’ the centurion said, pointing at four fortified settlements clumped near the end of the valley. ‘Ushguli. It means “heart without fear”.’

Wayland absorbed the scene — the river cascading through hay meadows, larks trilling overhead, the scent of pine resin wafting on an updraught. The towers — there must have been more than fifty — made the settlements look like miniature cities.

‘A man could live content in such a beautiful place.’

‘Come back in winter, when the snow drifts over the eaves and the wolves howl outside your door and you have to check before you enter a byre in case a bear has forced its way inside.’

Wayland scanned the slopes. ‘So everybody’s inside the towers.’

Otia nodded. ‘News of our coming probably reached them more than a day ago. In Svaneti, all strangers are potential enemies and every home is a castle.’

The centurion directed the force towards one of the settlements. The closer Wayland approached, the more impressed he was. Some of the towers stood a hundred feet high, tapering up to shallow-pitched roofs with arched loopholes at their eaves. But the houses and byres huddled around their bases were squat and windowless, roofed with crude slate tiles and surrounded by dry-stone walls.

‘See how the village forms a compound like a hive,’ Otia said. ‘Any army trying to take it would have to fight house by house, the inhabitants retreating before them, the defenders in the towers pouring down a rain of arrows and rocks.’

Wayland spotted arrows trained on them from every machicolation. Otia identified the defenders’ spokesman and began negotiations, questions and answers drifting back and forth.

Vallon rode up. ‘Is that the chief?’

‘First among a council of leading men. His name’s Mochila and he refuses to admit us. He says we can camp at the end of the valley and he’ll call on us before dark.’

The campsite offered a view of a mountain wall hung with a glacier. By the time the squadron had secured their position, the snow glimmered cold blue and the gold tracery outlining the summits was fading. A sentry called a warning and Wayland turned to see thirty men cantering out of the dusk. At their head Mochila rode a splendid black stallion. He was clad in a felt cape with square shoulder pads as wide as wings. Under this he wore ring mail, his outfit capped by a pointed iron helmet so archaic that it might have been salvaged from a Scythian grave barrow.

He and Otia greeted each other with solemn ceremony, touching hand to heart. The centurion introduced Mochila to Vallon, both men appraising each other for signs of strength, weakness or sinister intent. Mochila had the features of a starved eagle.

‘Victory to you,’ he said.

‘And to you,’ Vallon repeated.

Otia addressed Vallon. ‘General, I think I’ve convinced Mochila that we pose no threat. He invites you and your senior men to a feast. I suggest you take no more than half a dozen.’

‘I know we’re no threat. I’m not so sure about these Svans.’

‘Mochila would treat a refusal as an insult.’

‘I’d rather risk offending the man than handing myself over as a hostage.’

‘General, we won’t get through his domain without his consent. Even if we fight our way through, he’ll raise the next clan against us.’

‘He’ll want payment.’

‘Leave that to me. I think I can negotiate a safe passage without digging too deep into our coffers.’

Vallon and Mochila locked gazes, each looking for a tell-tale blink. Vallon inclined his head in a finely calibrated bow. ‘Tell Mochila that I’m delighted to accept his invitation. You’ll accompany me, of course, together with Wayland and Hero.’

A shout made everyone whirl. ‘Those men are traitors and felons. I’m Duke Skleros Phocas, appointed leader of this expedition by the Emperor Alexius Comnenus. A thousand gold solidi to anyone who — ’

The duke’s guards smothered his outburst. Mochila stroked one finger along his top lip.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘A prisoner,’ Vallon replied. ‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’

Mochila nodded in contemplation, made a last appraisal of the Outlanders and led his party into the darkness.

Vallon watched them go. ‘Do you think they understood?’

‘The duke mentioned solidi,’ said Josselin. ‘Even up here they know what that’s worth. I advise you not to put yourself in jeopardy. If the Svans take you captive, we’ll have the devil of a job to get you back. Let me go in your stead.’

Vallon trained his gaze on Ushguli. Stars wreathed its towers and a tilted moon cast inky contours across the pastures. ‘This won’t be the only time we’ll have to throw ourselves on the mercy of strangers. You stay here. If I don’t return, you’re in command.’

A guide holding a tallow torch led them through lanes ankle-deep in cow shit. Chained mastiffs snarled and lunged from dark entrances. Wayland glimpsed eyes tracking them through shuttered windows. The guide climbed a wooden gallery, opened a door and ushered them into a large and sooty chamber fogged with smoke from a dung-fed hearth. Eyes and teeth glimmered in the light of a dozen lamps. As his vision adjusted, Wayland counted two dozen faces, old and young, many of the countenances as hard as spades. His gaze roamed over carved panels and chests painted with celestial symbols and other arcana. Crosses and icons shared wall space with trophy horns of aurochs, bison and ibex, hanging next to saddles and bridles inlaid with turquoise and silver. Mochila and his attendants had shed their armour and wore loose shirts with crosses or triangles embroidered over the heart. Mother of pearl embellished the seams of their trousers.

Servants showed the guests to their places on shaggy rugs. Wayland folded his legs and sat, placing Atam at his side.

‘What’s the procedure?’ Vallon asked Otia.

‘A long one, I’m afraid. We begin with a formal exchange of toasts, then we feast. Only after that do we get down to business. Mochila will try and get us drunk.’

Wayland put his mouth to Atam’s ear. ‘Tell me everything’s that’s said.’

A steward brought the guests beer. After the second cup, an elderly man rose and struck a theatrical pose.

‘He’s the tamada,’ Atam whispered. ‘The clan’s toastmaster.’

The man declaimed at length, lifting his cup at each toast. Atam summarised. ‘He says how honoured his community is to welcome distinguished travellers to their motherland. He asks you to drink to their motherland. Now he raises his cup in blessings on your motherland.’

The ceremony was interminable and confusing, the toastmaster sometimes raising his cup in invitation to drink, sometimes hoisting it as a prelude to another long-winded speech. Wayland refused the fourth refill, but the steward pulled away his protecting hand and slopped beer to the brim. When he tilted the jug over Atam’s beaker, Wayland wrenched the steward’s arm aside. ‘Enough. He’s too young to take strong drink.’

After the tamada had finished, it was Otia’s turn. Shedding his usual taciturnity, he spoke with a poet’s flourish, thanking the Svans for their hospitality, rejoicing in his return to Georgia, and lamenting the prospect of leaving Ushguli so soon.

As soon as he’d finished, another Svan stood and delivered a tipsy peroration on universal friendship under God. Atam’s voice grew squeaky with the effort of translating. Wayland tapped his arm. ‘Rest your voice for the important part.’

Service with the Seljuk sultan had trained Wayland to endure lengthy audiences, but even he was half asleep when Atam prodded his ribs. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘Me?’

Eyes bored expectantly through the fug. He climbed to his feet and appealed to Vallon. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

‘Whatever takes your tongue. I gave them the twenty-third psalm. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”’

Wayland managed only a few halting platitudes before his voice dribbled away.

‘Recite one of your English poems,’ Vallon prompted.

‘They don’t understand English.’

‘Then you needn’t be shy.’

Wayland remembered a poem called The Wanderer he’d first heard seated on his grandfather’s knee, a January storm moaning through the wildwood outside. His throat loosened.

‘Storms crash against these rocky slopes,

Sleet and snow fall and fetter the world,

Winter howls, then darkness draws on,

The night-shadow casts gloom and brings

Fierce hailstorms from the earth to frighten men.

Nothing is ever easy in the kingdom of earth,

The world beneath the heavens is in the hands of fate.’

Wayland struck his palm with his right hand.

‘Here possessions are fleeting, here friends are fleeting,

Here man is fleeting, here kinsman is fleeting,

The whole world becomes a wilderness.’

He lowered his head and paused. The room hung on his next utterance. He pointed at a gilt cross at the rear of the chamber.

‘It is best for a man to seek mercy and comfort from the Father in heaven where security stands for us all.’

Fierce applause and hoisted cups rewarded his recitation. Vallon patted his arm. ‘That was well done. Do you think our hosts are drinking watered ale?’

Wayland took a glug of beer to ease his throat. ‘I’ve been watching. They’re drinking the same piss as us.’

One more speech delivered by Mochila followed before women sashayed in with the food. Most of them were handsome matrons, strong of feature and weighted with heavy silver ornaments and head-dresses studded with cowrie shells. The one who served Wayland was a maid with slender arched eyebrows and a face as oval as an almond. Her breasts jostled under her homespun shift. A crescent of gold in one ear emphasised the perfection of her features. When her grey-green eyes met his, he had to avert his gaze. Only two weeks since he’d parted from Syth and already he was making eyes at another woman. How could he remain faithful to his wife for two years? How could she remain true to him?

Eyes downcast under long lashes, the girl served him a mess of baked cheese and butter topped with a crust of mixed meal. The sweet-sour mixture stuck to the roof of Wayland’s mouth, but it was a delicious change from twice-baked bread as hard as brick, and he trowelled up the mess with gusto, following his hosts’ example by using his knife to scrape the treacly bits stuck on the pan. Next, the women bore in a smoke-blackened cauldron of broth holding hunks of beef. The room filled with the sounds of tearing and slurping. Mochila personally served Vallon the choicest pieces. All the time the beer kept circulating.

At last the men set aside their bowls, belched, loosened their belts and slumped back. Mochila placed his hands on his knees and inclined his face towards Vallon, his features skull-like in the smoky light.

Atam translated in a forceful whisper. ‘He asks how he can assist our mission.’

Vallon massaged his stomach. ‘You’ve already transformed our journey from painful toil to luxurious pleasure. The only help I require is advice on how to reach the Daryal Gorge.’ He allowed a pause. ‘And if you could provide a man to show us the way…’

Mochila rotated a hand in a dismissive half-circle. ‘You’ll never reach the Daryal. The passes ahead are difficult enough for lightly laden horses. Impossible for your carts.’

‘I have no intention of abandoning our wagons,’ Vallon said. ‘If necessary, we’ll strip them down and carry them over the mountains plank by plank, wheel by wheel. Of course, our task would be made easier if we had extra hands.’

Mochila sucked in his cheeks and shook his head. ‘It’s spring. All our sons are tending the herds in the high pastures, and our women are busy in the fields from dawn to dark. You’ve arrived during our busiest season. In Svaneti, the snows allow only six months to sow and reap.’

‘Naturally, we’ll compensate you.’

Wayland knew the Svans had scented prey by the way they licked their lips, pushed out their cheeks with their tongues and glanced at each other without quite making eye contact. Mochila remained immobile. ‘What are you offering?’

‘For you, my Lord — I’d rather discuss that in private.’

Mochila stilled a buzz of discontent with an upheld finger and resumed his discussion with Vallon. Wayland sensed tension growing.

‘I’ll make allowances for your ignorance of our customs. In Svaneti we don’t strike deals behind our kinsmen’s backs.’

‘Forgive me, Lord. As a general appointed by the emperor, I’m used to treating with great men and rewarding them according to their station and influence.’

Wayland saw a gleam of avarice come and go in Mochila’s eyes. The Svan leader turned his horn drinking cup and looked at it. His tone when he spoke was thoughtful.

‘I ask nothing for myself, but it’s only proper that men diverted from their livelihood should be recompensed.’ Mochila relaxed on his cushions. ‘An expedition as large as yours must be carrying a great deal of gold.’

Vallon uttered a rueful laugh. ‘If only we had enough to spare. Alas, we’re at the beginning of our journey and can’t afford to shed a single coin. I have to pay the men’s wages. They’re mercenaries,’ he continued before Mochila could respond, ‘warriors hardened in some of Byzantium’s bloodiest battles. They serve only for gain, not out of personal loyalty. Dip into their wages and they’ll vent their anger first on me and then on the people they hold responsible for depriving them of their due.’

Mochila’s expression turned malevolent. ‘Then what are you prepared to offer?’

‘Salt.’

‘Salt!’ Mochila’s mouth formed a tube. ‘What makes you think we want salt?’

‘I understand it’s a scarce commodity in these mountains. I’ve seen for myself how your curs follow us and lick our piss. Of course, we have other goods you might find more to your liking — cloth, oil, grain…’

Wayland registered Mochila making complicated calculations. ‘How much salt?’

Vallon consulted with Otia before answering. ‘Enough to furnish your needs for half a year.’

Mochila smacked one hand on his knee. ‘You ask me to provide human labour and in return you offer to reward cattle. No, my honoured guest. Let us go back to the beginning.’

But the deadlock was broken. Wayland dozed through the rest of the haggling. So far as he could tell, when the bargaining was over the Svans were better off to the tune of salt, cloth and cowrie shells — the last a condition imposed by an old woman who’d been lurking by a door throughout the negotiations.

Starlight glazed the summits when Wayland stepped into the night, the grass underfoot crisp with frost. He swallowed breath after breath of pure cold air. A hand gripped his elbow.

‘What did you make of that?’ Vallon said. ‘I know from old experience how sensitive you are to treachery. If Mochila makes you itch, we’d all better get scratching.’

Wayland looked back at the turreted settlement. ‘He wants our gold but doesn’t command enough men to take it by force.’

‘I found a moment to tell him that I’d line his purse as well as giving him the pick of two of the duke’s horses.’

‘It will only sharpen his appetite. I think he intends to exact more than a few bags of salt and a fistful of gold.’

‘I’ve put the squadron on maximum alert.’ Vallon said.

‘Even if we get through Svaneti, we still have to deal with the leeches in the next valley — and the one after that. If Mochila’s the measure of the highlanders, they could bleed us dry before we reach the Caspian.’

Vallon squeezed Wayland’s arm. ‘With God’s grace, we’ll find a way through.’

With that he was gone, issuing orders to his lieutenants. Wayland tilted his face towards the firmament, struck by the thought that the same stars he was viewing shone down on his family.

A husky cough brought him back to earth. He laid a hand on Atam’s shoulder.

‘You did well,’ said Wayland. His dog stood at Atam’s side with ears pricked and eyes bright. ‘You really have no family left?’

Atam scuffed a foot across the ground. ‘None.’

‘We have a long way to go, and all of us will find the going easier if we have friends we can depend on. I’m too young to be your father, but not too old to be your brother.’

Atam’s eyes grew round and the dog wagged its tail.

Wayland cupped a hand around the orphan’s shoulder. ‘It’s late. The sun will soon peep over the mountains, and I suspect a hard day will follow. Stay close to me at all times.’