Both the man and woman were on the ground, and the woman’s hands were behind her back as if tied. The slaver lay flat on his back for a moment, then groaned as he sat up and his hand flicked forward, flinging a small rock he must have found. Domitius dodged, but was not fast enough and it smacked into his left shoulder, starting a wave of pain. The Roman swayed, then went on again and a decade of training meant that, even without realising, he had his gladius back and ready in an underarm guard as taught by the manual.

The slaver pushed himself up, one hand clutching his side, while he searched for another stone or anything else he could use as a weapon. Domitius took two paces forward, then another, and as the slaver raised his fists like a boxer, the Roman jabbed straight and hard just as he had practised so many times. Whoever had owned the gladius had tended the blade well, even though he had left it lying around for a deserter to snatch. The stubby point was sharp and, in spite of the resistance of thick and waterlogged wool, slid through the slaver’s tunic and deep into his belly. Screaming, the wounded man pulled away and somehow Domitius kept a firm enough hold not to lose the blade as it ripped a gash in the slaver’s stomach. The man fouled himself, adding to the stench as some of his entrails fell out. He doubled over, clutching at his belly and sobbing louder than the woman had done.

Domitius stabbed him in the throat and the noise stopped. It was the first time he had killed a man, but whether it was the fever or something else, he felt nothing at all. Turning he looked for the woman. She had rolled on her back and was trying to wriggle and push herself up. Her clothes were torn and her dress over her knees from her struggles. Her face was pale in the moonlight and she had lost whatever head covering she had worn, so that her long dark hair was wild. Domitius thought of a beautiful fury from a painting and it was the first real thought he had had for many hours. The woman was staring up at him, wild eyed and defiant.

‘It is all right,’ Domitius said. His voice was little more than a croak, and for all the drenching in the storm, he had not drunk anything for many hours. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

The woman was sitting up, and instead of trying to stand she wriggled away from him, pushing with her legs.

‘Friend,’ Domitius told her. ‘I am a friend. Amicus,’ he added, even though the chances of someone out here speaking Latin were remote. What was the Aramaic? ‘Racham,’ he tried.

The woman stopped trying to escape and looked at him properly for the first time. Then her eyes flicked to the side and she screamed. Something hit him hard on the back of the head and the night swallowed him in darkness. As he fell the last thing he heard was the woman screaming words he did not understand.