Wahir was too exhausted even to complain. Eventually they made it to a low stone wall on the crest of the hill. Said threw himself over the top, and Benzamir tipped Wahir after him.

A horse whinnied close by, and they all ducked down.

‘Can’t you use your magic to make us invisible?’ Said rolled onto his back and started to pick the thorns out of his legs.

‘Yes, I could, but it’d take too long to explain why I can’t right now. Keeping out of sight is much easier.’ Benzamir risked a look. The whole of the Nile valley in front of him was swarming with chariots chasing individuals on foot and forcing them to surrender. When they stood and fought, they were cut down without hesitation, trampled by the horses or run through by spears.

Some of the diggers were getting away, but only by leaving all their merchandise behind. Those who had stayed to pack up were encircled and rounded up. The ferrymen had deserted their fares: nor could they land on the Misr side. They were stuck midstream, and useless to anyone.

Benzamir sat down behind the wall and pressed his back to the crumbling stone. ‘I can safely say the Ethiopians knew precisely what they were doing. They weren’t after the men as such, more the goods. If it hadn’t been for Wahir, we’d have been caught.’

Wahir hauled air in and out of his lungs and took the compliment as his due.

‘What do we do now, master?’

‘We wait, Said. We wait here until nightfall, when I can get us back into the city. We’ve water, and we can find some shade. Though if that horse doesn’t shut up, it’s going to attract all sorts of unwelcome attention.’

The horse down below their ruined temple was neighing and grunting. Now that the chariots had mostly slowed their thunderous charge, it was all too obvious.

‘It could be hurt, master,’ said Said.

‘In which case I’ll have to go and put an end to it. Great.’ Benzamir put his hand out. ‘Borrow your sword?’

Said slid it out of its scabbard and Benzamir secreted it under the folds of his kaftan. ‘Don’t be seen, master.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ He lay across the top of the wall, rolled off, and was gone.

Benzamir longed for his adaptive armour; anyone he came upon would have had to fall over him before spotting him. The paradox was that it was too obviously different to wear.

Instead he kept low, using what cover he could. The air was still stirred up by the passage of the chariots, everything surrounded in an ochre haze. The Ethiopians had nearly finished with the diggers, and he wondered how Selah had got on.

The horse noises were intermittent, but they came from the same place every time. Benzamir presumed Said was right about the animal being injured: he couldn’t heal it so it would be a kindness to put it out of its misery. He slunk lower into the valley until he could spot the chestnut head tossing this way and that behind a stand of thorns.

He managed to get upwind of the beast and took a good look at it. It seemed at first sight to be unharmed, but its reins were caught in the sharp branches of a bush. He crept closer, and the horse turned to see him, breaking out in a fresh wave of sweat. It shook its head violently from side to side, trying to free itself, and only managed to scratch its muzzle in the struggle. It made even more noise, and Benzamir had to dance past flying hooves and nipping teeth to get hold of the reins.

‘Quiet, you stupid animal,’ he said firmly, ‘or I’ll silence you myself.’ He cut the reins with his eating knife, and the ungrateful horse bolted away out towards the Ethiopians, over a body lying in the dirt.

He recognized the pattern on the headscarf. Alessandra was more or less out in the open, and he’d be dangerously exposed if he even tried to see if she was dead or alive. There was no question of him trying to reach her; it was a matter of waiting for the right moment.

Then it was too late. A chariot wheeled by, and the spearman patted the driver on the back and pointed. The soldier jumped off, the metal plates of his armour glittering, and started towards both Alessandra and Benzamir.

Benzamir froze, and watched breathlessly as the soldier tapped the body with the haft of his spear. He smiled and called back to the chariot as he saw the shape move. Then he took a step back and poked her with more force.

Alessandra stirred and looked up. The Ethiopian saw that she was not only a woman, but a Ewer. He urged her to get up, but it was clear that she had no idea which way was up, let alone how much trouble she was in.

‘This is going to end badly, no matter what I do,’ muttered Benzamir. He rose from his hiding place, sword in hand, and said in his best Amharic: ‘Put her down. You don’t know where she’s been.’

His intention was clear, even if his words were obscure. The soldier immediately took a defensive stance and shouted for help. Benzamir came at him at a run. The spear was levelled at his belly, and at the last moment he slid under the iron point, his feet connecting with the Ethiopian’s shins.

He curved his body round his sword blade, tumbled out of the fall and swung hard and fast. Metal met wood, and the spear shaft splintered and shivered out of the man’s hands.

The soldier hesitated before lunging at Benzamir with both hands outstretched. He spun aside, moved his body behind and kicked out again. Sprawled in the dust, the Ethiopian never saw the double-handed clubbing blow descending on the back of his helmet.

Benzamir jumped up, and the chariot driver turned his long knife in a nervous circle. Then he turned and ran for the horses, Benzamir dogging his footsteps. He caught him, lifted him and threw him. The knife spiralled away. The Ethiopian aimed a fist at Benzamir’s face. He didn’t even bother to dodge it, just crowded forward and jabbed his forearm hard across the man’s windpipe.

Exhilarated, Benzamir retrieved Said’s sword and ran back to Alessandra. She was holding the side of her head and there was blood slipping between her fingers.

‘What . . .?’ she said, slurring.

‘You can thank me later,’ said Benzamir. ‘Right now we have the entire Ethiopian army breathing down our necks.’ He dragged her upright and threw her over his shoulder. ‘Hang on.’

He was halfway up the hill again when he heard Said shout, ‘Master! Archers!’

‘Like this couldn’t get any worse.’ There was a rattling in the rocks to his right, and another behind him. He glanced round, and there were more arrows already in flight. He was invulnerable, but he couldn’t extend his protection to Alessandra. He let her fall to the ground and straightened his arm.

The arid scrub exploded once, twice, three times. He followed up the initial barrage with a series of detonations that forced the bowmen to run for their lives.

Said scrambled down to meet them. ‘Your power is awesome, master. The infidels are routed.’

‘And in a moment they’ll be back with reinforcements. In the meantime half of Egypt will be talking about this. Have your sword back.’ Benzamir scooped up the woman and hurried back to the ruins.

Wahir was busy watching the plain. ‘They have infantry, master, with swords and shields. They’re massing in the valley.’

‘You know,’ said Benzamir, ‘this is precisely what I didn’t want to happen. And I’m ashamed that part of me is wishing that I’d left her to the soldiers.’ He explored the wound on her head, and she moaned and gasped as his fingers probed.

‘Will she live, master?’

‘She’d better, after all the trouble she’s caused. I can’t feel any bones moving around. Alessandra? Can you hear me?’

‘What? Who’s that? Who are you?’

‘Benzamir Mahmood. Your horse threw you.’

She sat up, and dry heaved.

‘You’ve got concussion, but we can’t stay here. There are soldiers coming up the hill, and while I’d like to fight them all single-handed, I’m averse to bloody slaughter.’