The next morning the guard who brought his food and drink laid it down carefully on the floor beside Domitius. Then, just as carefully, he spat into both vessels.

‘Bastard,’ he said. When he returned a few moments later with food for the other captive, he simply placed them beside the man, without comment or additional seasoning. Clearly madness commanded better treatment.

Domitius lifted the bowl of gruel to his lips, since food, after all, was food. The guard stepped over and kicked him hard in the stomach. Domitius doubled up, the bowl and its contents flying everywhere as he spat out the mouthful he had taken. A second kick slammed into his leg, followed by a third, which seemed to satisfy the man for the moment.

The day, assuming it was day, passed slowly, and Domitius felt hungrier than he ought to have done though missing one meagre meal. His beard was growing ever thicker, adding to the sense of filth all around him. To keep his mind occupied, he tried to remember stories of Christ and his ministry. Once, just over a year ago, Pausanias had shown him a borrowed scroll of the book written by Matthew, one of the disciples, and a few other times he had heard men read or quote from other books, some of them the ancient Jewish Scriptures. Domitius tried to remember all the stories, and put them in order, but the madman was disputing with himself once more, far louder this time, and laughing out loud no longer dissuaded him. Wishing the man would hold his peace or do the decent thing and die, Domitius decided that he had better pray for the man instead. Once he had done that he began to think back over his years in the army. He repeated out loud drills learned by rote, half remembered rollcalls and orders. After a while he ran through the commands for marching, changing formation, and fighting, bawling them out at the top of his voice. It felt good, so he kept on, repeating anything he could remember. Try as the madman might, he could not match the power of someone who had made a centuria of legionaries sweat on the parade ground, and eventually gave up.

That evening, assuming it was evening, a different guard brought their food. He spoke to the madman in what was probably Aramaic and got no response.

‘How are you?’ he asked Domitius in Greek. It seemed a strange question to ask a man in prison, so he struggled for an answer.

‘Hoarse,’ Domitius said at last.

‘Hmm. Yes, I heard some shouting when I came on duty.’ The man glanced at the half-open door. No one seemed to be there. ‘Take heart, brother,’ he whispered. ‘We are praying for you.’

‘Oh.’ Domitius saw the man frown as he passed him a bowl. There was the slightest hint of bacon in the aroma, and when he drank there was far more substance and taste to it. Domitius used his hand as a spoon to scoop it into his mouth. The bright light vanished as the door was closed.