Beyond the city wall the North African countryside opened up. They were heading west, towards the setting sun. The road ran dead straight across the plain, and was well built, properly drained — a good road, but there was no sign of an iron rail, and Rina coldly relished that fact. A sandy dust covered the roadway, just like the dust that had blown over the Carthaginian boat from the dried-up plains of Ibera.
Beside the road stood handsome properties, estates of well-constructed stone buildings clustered in rectangular plots. The estates were surrounded by carefully defined fields, and Rina recognised vines, olives, fruit trees. This hinterland, so close to this major route into town, must once have been a lush and prosperous place to live. But the vines looked withered, the fruit trees barren, and the few animals, sheep and cattle, cropped desultorily at sparse, yellow grass. There were some hastily heaped-up stone barriers, with threatening signs hand-painted in the angular local script. On the road there wasn’t much traffic — carts laden with produce heading back towards the city, a few carts heading out. And there was a thin trickle of nestspills, all heading to the city, all on foot. It was a sight Rina had become inured to in Northland. It was something of a shock to have come to the other end of the world to see the same thing.
Jexami’s property turned out to be a particularly large and well-built group of buildings set back from the road. In scraps of shade, servants watered orange trees. As Rina clambered down, the carriage-man stood by, eyes bright in a dusty face, waiting to be paid. He was thin, evidently underfed, dressed in dusty rags.
‘Typical of that crook Barmocar not to pay you in advance,’ she murmured in her own tongue. She switched to Greek. ‘Thank you. . I don’t know your tongue, I am sorry.’ She dug her purse from a fold in her robe and withdrew Northlander scrip. ‘Is this enough? I’m sure you can convert this to your own currency in the counting houses. .’
He took the handful of coins, stared at them, then tried to hand them back, speaking in his own tongue.
She closed his fingers over the coins. ‘This is your fee. If it’s not enough-’
He grew angry. He threw the coins on the ground and held out his empty hand, all but shouting.
‘I’ll take care of it.’ The voice was cultured Etxelur. A burly, expensively dressed man came walking quietly from an opened gate, a servant at his side. Rina, with relief, recognised him: it was indeed the Jexami she remembered, cousin to Ywa Annid of Annids, on Ywa’s father’s side, and so a remote cousin of Rina too. He snapped out questions to the carriage-man and gestured to his servant. Pay him. Jexami was shorter than Rina and a little younger, with thinning black hair cropped in the local style, and he wore a purple tunic and tight-cut trousers. He looked like a Carthaginian. Even his accent, when he spoke the language, sounded authentic to her. She would not have recognised the man if he had not spoken to her.
She bowed in the formal Etxelur style, ignoring her own grubbiness, and the scattering of coins at her feet. ‘Cousin Jexami. Thank you for meeting me.’
‘Barmocar sent a runner to warn me you were coming.’ He grinned. ‘Barmocar! That old rascal. How is he? Haven’t seen him for too long. Come in, come in, I have no manners left, it seems.’ He led her through the gate. The man collected her bundles from the road. ‘You look exhausted, if you don’t mind my saying it. Things have become so difficult, haven’t they?’
The gate clanged shut behind them. The estate was a series of independent buildings set around a central courtyard. The walls were of stone, with big upright slabs infilled with rubble and neatly finished. In the courtyard a fountain ran, feeding miniature orange trees in pots. The servant stood by.
‘Rather impressive, isn’t it?’ Jexami said, as they crossed the courtyard. ‘Originally built by an Arabic prince, in the brief interval when this country was overrun by that sort, long ago. They left behind some exquisite architecture. This place is much transformed in the centuries since, but we’ve restored the hydraulic system. Do you know, this fountain hasn’t run dry once, despite the drought. Mind you the air’s so arid the oranges haven’t flourished even so.’
She felt bewildered, even oddly dizzy. She found herself staring at the little orange trees. ‘Jexami, I’ve come to you because-’
‘First I must show you some hospitality,’ he said smoothly, deflecting her. ‘Himil — come here.’ The servant hurried over, and Jexami gave him brisk instructions. Then he led Rina into the courtyard. ‘Of course dear Ywa is still in Etxelur, is she not? It’s some time since she wrote.’
Rina frowned. Was he really so out of touch as he seemed? ‘Things are difficult at home. Ywa is under a lot of pressure.’
‘Well, of course she is. I’ve urged her many times to do what you’ve done, to pack her bag and come here. To fly south for the winter, like a swallow! Look, I insist you relax before we talk. Any of these houses may suit. They all have their own baths, you know, and most have their own bread ovens! For this is the Carthaginian way. You must wash, change — my wife has plenty of old clothes, I’ll send a girl to help you. Perhaps you’d like to sleep?’
She felt that if she got to a soft bed she could sleep through a full day. But she must not, not yet. She told Jexami of her children. ‘Perhaps you could send for them? I was going to send back that oaf of a carriage-man.’
It was a simple enough request, and not much of an imposition on his hospitality. Yet he hesitated, to her surprise. At length he said, ‘Of course.’ He snapped his fingers and gave Himil brisk instructions. ‘As soon as he has you settled he will deal with it.’
She chose a building at random. As Jexami had promised it was like an independent house, with its own kitchen, bedrooms, a bathroom just off the vestibule — even its own water supply, from a toy fountain in the bathroom. A girl brought her buckets of water and fresh clothes.
She stripped off her dirty travel garments, which the girl took away, then stepped into the bath. She knew little of Carthaginian customs. Perhaps this bathroom beside the door was meant as a gateway, between the grime of the outside world and the purity of the home. Whatever the symbolism it was a luxury beyond belief to sponge the hot water over her bare skin. There was even soap, which from its scent appeared to be of Northlander manufacture.
Soon she was warmed through, and scented, and was pulling on the clean clothes the girl had brought her. The need for sleep seemed to wash over her in a flood. Yet she must not succumb, not until she had dealt with Jexami and his odd reticence, not until the children were safely with her.
The man Himil was waiting for her when she emerged. He led her across the courtyard to a west-facing building dominated by a big, airy room. Here Jexami sat behind a desk covered with scrolls and slates, with a scribe to one hand, a clerk to the other scribbling numbers. When she came in, Jexami raised a hand, one finger in the air, without looking up.
The instruction was unmistakable. She waited in the doorway, motionless. She had become used to fielding such slights from the Carthaginians. She had not expected this discourtesy from a Northlander — a friend, a relative. Yet it was so. She began to feel uneasy.
At length he sat up straight, smiled at Rina, and clapped his hands to send the clerks away. He waved her to a seat before the desk. ‘Are you hungry? Would you like some fruit juice, wine, tea?’
‘A little wine would be welcome.’
Himil was despatched to fetch it.
There was a bundle on the desk, neatly wrapped in linen. He pushed it over to her. ‘Your dirty clothes — properly laundered, of course. Your baggage is outside. Oh, and the coins are in there too.’
‘The coins?’
‘The ones the carriage-man dropped in the dirt. Not worth much of course, but you may as well have them back!’ He laughed, as if he’d made a joke.