Benzamir took his leave and walked back through the mosque. The first few worshippers had arrived, and the low murmur of voices filled the hall. He was almost out into the light when someone tugged the hem of his jellaba.

He looked down and saw the boy he’d noticed at the side of the road.

‘Salam, little one.’

The boy said nothing, just looked around and stepped behind a pillar. It was hardly inconspicuous, but the boy thought it would do.

Benzamir followed him, and sat on his haunches in the dust and shadow.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Wahir,’ said the boy.

‘Is this about Hassan Ibn Alam?’

‘Yes. I heard him by the stables. He wishes you dead.’

‘Wahir, my friend, this isn’t news. He seems to be a man of great passions. It’d be better for everyone if he had more self-control, but who am I to change him?’

Wahir looked around again. ‘He means to follow you and kill you in an ambush,’ he whispered. ‘He cannot kill you while you are under his father’s roof, but the moment you leave, he will give chase.’

‘I’m not afraid of Ibn Alam. I beat him once, and I’m sure I can do it again. But thank you all the same. I’ll keep a careful eye behind me.’ Benzamir was about to stand when he had a thought. ‘You know your way around, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I need you to tell me some things. Things better said outside, perhaps – we will disturb the men praying.’

They stepped out of the mosque. The sky was turning a bold blue as the sun set, with a streak of orange on the horizon. They sat on the steps, a little to one side, and spoke between the muezzin’s cries.

‘I need to get to Misr El Mahrosa. How best would I do that?’

Wahir thought about matters for a while. ‘By boat,’ he concluded. ‘It is the fastest, and safest. There are pirates, but fewer of them than the robbers who attack the camel trains.’

‘But the only boat capable of making the journey is the sheikh’s, yes?’

‘So you need to travel to a port. El Asnam is not far.’

‘When you say not far, you haven’t actually ever been yourself, have you?’

Wahir shrugged. ‘I am told it is not far. Some of our slaves come from the market there.’

‘A three-, four-day walk?’

‘Walk?’ The boy was surprised. ‘Are you not rich? Only poor people walk.’

‘I’d share my wealth with you if I had any. No, hold on. The sheikh ransomed his ancestor’s sword. So I do have money.’

‘Then buy a horse.’

‘I don’t think I’m quite up to that. These camels – can I get one of those?’ Benzamir had in his mind the picture of a camel, but had yet to encounter the reality.

‘Of course,’ said Wahir.

‘Then meet me here after morning prayers. You can help me choose one.’ He spotted his sandals in amongst the neat rows of footwear at the mosque’s door. ‘Don’t be late.’

CHAPTER 6

IN THE EVENING of the third day Va came to a breathless standstill at the gates of Moskva.

For half a day the dark, smoky haze that hid the great city from view had been visible on the horizon as a growing cloud. For the past hour he had run along a wide, flagged road raised up above the level of the fields that lay dormant, waiting for summer sun. As he finally approached, he could see the endless wall of wooden stakes that ringed the city. Each was cut from a single pine, bound to its neighbour with iron, and sharpened. There were towers – some of stone, some of wood, some of great antiquity and others newly built – that marked the perimeter. At the base of the wall there were bundles of sticks, points outwards, nailed into place. Beyond that, a steep-sided ditch filled with icy water. Further out, a killing ground for archers, where all cover was ruthlessly cut back and back until it was bare earth.

This was Moskva the never-conquered, the ancient still-beating heart of his adopted country, whose gates had been closed against him.

Va had been in the city before, many years ago. They said that all human life was on show in Moskva, and he had seen and heard enough to convince him of that. But on the outside, as he stared up at the massive, tar-painted gates studded with nails, the city showed its other side: not the welcoming embrace of Mother Russia, but the stern, distant father who turned his back on his needy children.

‘Let me in.’ He banged his fist on the rough wood. He couldn’t have been the only man ever to do this, even if he was going to be the first man to be successful. ‘I need to see His Holiness the patriarch, and I need to see him now.’

Of course, he was going to be ignored. The sun was setting in the east and the four gates had been barred for the night; the guards safe behind the walls had no reason at all to open up for some indigent monk. He was going to have to find them a reason, and to do that, he had to get them talking.

He carried on hammering at the gates with his hands, then prised up a stone from the road and used that instead.

‘Hey, stop that,’ growled a voice. ‘We’re trying to get drunk in here, and your infernal noise is distracting us.’

‘Then let me in. I’ve got an urgent message for the patriarch.’

‘Of course you do. Which angel gave it to you? Gabriel?’

‘You can go to hell with your blasphemy. I’ve a message for the patriarch from the monastery of Saint Samuil of Arkady.’

‘Tell you what,’ said the guard. ‘You give me the message, and I’ll make sure I pass it on. You can’t say fairer than that.’

‘You’ll go to hell with your lying too.’ Va was certain he had their attention now. ‘You have to let me in so I can give him the message in person.’

‘Well, there’s a problem, you see. I’m not allowed to. No exceptions. Now you just hurry along – there’s a camp of sorts at the south gate; a bit rough, but someone will have a fire if you can fight your way to it. We’ll let you in come the morning.’

‘Right. Nothing else for it then. I’ll have to break in.’

‘Very droll. You and whose army?’ There was laughter, muffled by the thickness of planking. ‘Go away.’

Va rubbed the palms of his hands on the gates. Certainly no purchase there, and there was no way over the top, either. The timber wall, however, had stumps where branches had been lopped. They protruded only a finger width, but that was more than sufficient for someone like him.

The first of the sharp stake bundles was a distance from the gateway. He walked along the foot of the wall until he reached it, and simply started climbing.

The light was failing fast. He realized he should have chosen the east gate to make his entrance, but there hadn’t been time. He had to feel for each handhold, remember where it was when he needed it for his foot. It was clear that the guards didn’t expect anyone to be able to do what he was doing now, and equally clear that was because they lacked the imagination to do so. His hands were as rough and hard as stone. His feet were strips of leather. It was as if he stuck to the wood, and it was an effort to peel his limbs away from its surface.

He was now halfway up. The distance below was more than enough to kill him if he fell; uncontrolled, he would hit the spikes or plummet into the ditch. He knew of ways of breaking his fall, but he was out of practice.

Better not to fall at all then. He kept on climbing, fingers reaching out for the next grip. His legs, having run so far for so long, started to fail. He felt the first stab of cramp in his thighs.

Then, from behind him, the sound of hooves plodding wearily on.

He didn’t look round. ‘Not now, woman. Please, not now.’ He was nearly three-quarters there. Twice his height left to reach the top of the palisade. If someone spotted him – a guard not down below drinking shots of vodka – he was easy prey. A swift stab with a spear, a swipe with a sword, and it would be all over.