Taking a piece of bread from last night's supper with him, he gnawed the loaf and walked again to the square he had visited the night before. The city looked far different in the morning light, but no better for it, he thought. Most of the back streets were beaten earth, and powdered dust coated every surface, making the bottom half of all the buildings the same pale, yellow-grey colour.

As he passed one house, an old woman emerged with a bundle of twigs and began sweeping off the step before her door. She stared at Murdo as he walked by, muttering at him, and crossing herself with the bundle of twigs in her hand.

Although the sun was newly risen, he could feel the heat of the day already mounting in the square. The valley beyond the walls was hung in a thick bluish haze, and the sun, white as a hot poker, burned through a dead pale sky. Even as he stood looking out across the city, the first of the merchants began arriving to erect their stalls in the empty square. Murdo watched as the men and women went about their work, and quickly found himself admiring the clothing they wore. All of them were dressed in billowy flowing mantles that reached from neck to feet, gathered at the waist with a girdle of winding cloth – and all in a wild profusion of colours: blood red and blue stripes; glistening emerald green; deep yellow the hue of egg-yolk; rich brown with purple stripes and tiny silver threads between; pale ivory white, and sky blue; rose pink, and scarlet, and gold, and indigo so blue it was almost black.

Their extravagant clothes made Murdo aware of his own drab appearance. He looked down his length at what he was wearing. Both siarc and breecs were threadbare, and showing through at elbows and knees. Boots and belt were in good condition yet, but his once-handsome red-brown cloak was now faded and travel-stained, and ragged at the edges.

While far from persuaded to adopt the attire of the inhabitants of Antioch, he decided that perhaps he might buy a new siarc at least, and so lingered at the edge of the market while more and more merchants arrived and began busily erecting their cloth-framed shelters, and arranging their various wares, which they placed in baskets, or on mats of woven grass, or strips of cloth on the ground. Many of the traders had donkeys to carry their burdens, others lugged the baskets themselves. Murdo had never seen a donkey before, but thought the small, fuzzy horselike creatures absurd and amusing.

As the marketplace began to fill, Murdo strolled into the square for a closer look at the various wares, and was instantly assailed by a dozen or more brown children, who ran up to him and began tugging on his clothing, and gibbering at him in a strange, chirpy tongue. Some merely held out their hands in gestures of supplication, but others rubbed their stomachs and pointed to their empty mouths.

As he had no intention of giving them anything, he resented their noisy insistence, but tried to extricate himself gracefully-to no avail. The diminutive mob followed him, clinging to him, grasping at him. When he felt a small hand inside his shirt, snatching at the knife Ragna had given him, he became angry.

'Get away from me!' he shouted, seizing the hand and squeezing it hard so that it released the knife. 'Get away!' He stomped his feet at them, and they scattered, only to watch and follow him a few paces further away. His outburst succeeded in drawing the notice of some of the merchants, who likewise began clamouring for his attention. The closer ones came running to him, beseeching him in their strange language, vying for his patronage.

'No! No!' he shouted, walking briskly away. This merely provoked them all the more, and they shouted even more loudly, putting their hands on him, touching him, tugging at him.

Murdo could not abide the commotion. Desperate to flee, he rushed from the square down the nearest street, and kept running. When he was certain he was no longer followed, he stopped to look around and found that not only had he lost the grasping merchants and his beggar escort, he had lost himself. Nothing looked familiar, nor could he tell in which direction he had come, or which way he might be going.

No matter, he told himself, he could easily retrace his steps to the market square. So, he turned around and started back, but soon came to a place where the narrow way divided; the paths diverged to the left and right of a huge stone water basin, now dry and empty. Both pathways looked exactly alike to Murdo, and he had no idea which one he had used before. He chose the right-hand path and proceeded down it with the idea that if he did not recognize it, he could quickly retrace his steps and take the other way. But the street wound around and, upon retracing his steps, he returned only to find that it was not the place he remembered at all.

The divide was gone, and in the place where he imagined the water basin should be was a small domed hut with a crude wooden cross above its door. He turned around and stared down the narrow street, but it all looked strange to him. Had he passed this way? Two men appeared and came towards him. Murdo hailed them in his best Latin, and asked if they could help him find his way. Both men frowned at him and passed by quickly.

Disgusted – as much with himself and his own foolishness, as with Antioch's unhelpful citizenry-he turned and began walking back the way he had come. Again, the street turned on itself somehow and, after a time, Murdo found himself once more before the little chapel.

Frantic now, he set off down the opposite path, almost running. After a time, he heard what he thought must be the sound of the marketplace-the confused babble of voices as the merchants squabbled over customers, and buyers haggled with the sellers. He rushed towards the sound, turned one corner, then another, proceeded down a street that looked somewhat familiar, and… found himself standing yet once more before the tiny hut-like chapel.

Fighting down the rising panic, he turned away, intending to retrace his steps yet again. He had not taken more than five steps, however, when he heard a bell chime behind him. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The low wooden door was open now, and appeared inviting. He walked to the door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, save for a single small window above the tiny altar. He stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

'Pax Vobiscum,' said a kindly voice. 'You are welcome here, friend.'

'Pax Vobiscum,' Murdo answered, much relieved to hear a language he could understand. He looked into the darkened interior and a man emerged from the shadows behind the altar. Dressed in monk's robes of white, the figure beckoned him.

'You are new to this city,' the priest observed, moving closer.

'Yes,' Murdo replied. 'We arrived yesterday.'

The man stepped nearer. Murdo saw that he was a young man -at least, his appearance was youthful-with a kindly face. His black hair and beard were cut short, and their curly texture reminded Murdo of lamb's fleece. The teeth revealed in the smile were white and straight. His dark eyes glittered in the weak light from the door; his glance was keen and disturbingly direct.

He regarded Murdo for a moment, then said, 'What is it that you want, my son?'

Absurdly, the first thought to spring into his mind was that he wanted to be home-in Orkneyjar, at Hrafnbu, with Ragna, and the rest of his family around him, and all of them safe and happy for ever. In that instant, he saw himself amongst people in a cool, green valley surrounded by high, handsome hills under a wide open northern sky. Though occupying the briefest of instants-the small space between one heartbeat and the next-this thought produced a pang of yearning so powerful that it took his breath away. He stared at the priest, unable to speak.