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up ahead. Instinctively he felt for his sword in case robbers –
dacoits
the local people called them – were falling on the mule train. Such attacks often happened at dusk when the enfolding darkness gave cover to the robbers and the merchants were growing tired. Three nights ago at that time Bartholomew had saved a puny carpet seller. The man had stopped in drizzling rain to redistribute the load from a mule that had become lame among his other beasts. He had been struggling with a rolled carpet almost as large as himself when two bandits had trotted up out of the darkness. Jumping down from their ponies, one had kicked the carpet dealer to the ground while the other had begun gathering the reins of the mules, preparing to lead them away. Both were so preoccupied they never saw Bartholomew, galloping out of the murk, until it was too late. Drawing his Toledo steel sword he had almost severed one man’s head from his shoulders and split the other’s skull like a ripe melon. The carpet seller’s gratitude had been overwhelming and he’d tried to force a rug on him. But Bartholomew had already beenregretting his actions. If he was to carry out his mission and win his reward, he must not attract attention.
    But now the reason for the shouts wasn’t
dacoits.
The cries were of relief and joy, not fear. Ahead of him Bartholomew could see watchtowers silhouetted against the remnants of the sunset – it was Gaur. Bartholomew let go of his sword hilt and gave his sweating horse a pat. ‘Not long now, you wretched old nag.’

    What was all that commotion in the courtyard at this hour? Bartholomew wondered irritably as he lay on the straw-filled mattress in the small room he’d rented in a caravanserai just inside the walls of Gaur by the main gate. He sat up and scratched vigorously then clambered to his feet and without bothering to pull on his boots went outside. Though it was barely dawn, merchants were laying out their wares on a great stone platform in the centre of the courtyard ready to begin trading: sacks of spices, bags of rice, millet and maize, rolls of dun-coloured cotton and of garish silks. Bartholomew surveyed them without interest but as he turned away he found the carpet seller he had rescued looking up at him.
    ‘Gaur is a fine city, sir.’
    ‘Very fine,’ Bartholomew said mechanically. He was about to go back to his room – he could do with an hour or two’s more sleep – but then a thought struck him. ‘Hassan Ali – that is your name, isn’t it?’
    The man nodded.
    ‘Hassan Ali, you know Gaur well?’
    ‘Yes. I come here six times a year and two of my cousins are traders here.’
    ‘You said you wanted to repay me for my help. Be my guide. I don’t know this place and my employers in Portugal wish me to send them a full report of it.’
    An hour later Bartholomew followed Hassan Ali across the square courtyard of the caravanserai and out through its high arched gateway into the streets of Gaur. At first with its narrow, refuse-strewn streets it looked a mean place but as Hassan Ali, walking with surprising speed for such a small man, led him towards the centre the streets began to broaden and the houses – some of them two storeys high – to become more handsome. Bartholomew also noted the many groups of soldiers they passed. ‘Where are they going?’ He pointed to a double row of twenty green-sashed, green-turbaned warriors marching by.
    ‘They were the detachment guarding the city’s gates during the night but they have now been relieved and are returning to their barracks.’
    ‘Where are they?’
    ‘Not far. I will show you.’
    A few minutes later Bartholomew looked up at a tall square fortress-like building with a parade ground in front of it. Built of mud bricks, its walls rose about fifty feet. As he watched, a group of horsemen, doubtless returning after exercising their mounts, trotted through the heavy metal-spiked gate that was the barracks’ single entrance.