‘This is Domitius, noble lords,’ Simon said as they were let into a side hall, where three men sat on high-backed chairs at the far end. Domitius marched up and stamped to attention. He recognised Athenodorus, with his round face and small nose that gave the impression of an owl. Beside him was a taller, thinner man much more of a vulture than anything else. Both men had eyes as cold as any flesh-eating fowl, and the third man, the leader of the council, was little better. Memnon did not resemble any bird or beast, and might have been handsome when he was younger, if his expression did not suggest that he did not really see people and instead only their value to him.

‘You have explained what we want?’ The vulture had a surprisingly soft, musical voice.

‘Yes, my lords.’

‘Is he capable of speech?’

‘I am, my lords,’ Domitius said. ‘I shall do my best to serve you.’

‘You had better.’ Athenodorus’ head even moved like an owl’s. ‘Tomorrow shall be the first test. At dawn, you will accompany us to the walls and tell us what you see from them. Answer our questions well and you will live, at least for the moment. You will have to earn any more than that. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lords.’

‘Then confine him tonight. He need not be chained or abused, but the watch must be secure. The guards can lock him in the storeroom. Until tomorrow then.’

Simon said nothing as they went back to the prison and Domitius was not inclined to break the silence. The guards must have been given time to prepare for there was a cot and food and water in the storeroom. Domitius undressed and lay down, thinking that he had too many thoughts for sleep, and then someone was shaking him awake and saying that it was a bright dawn. He barely had time to eat and dress before Simon and some of his men arrived. As they walked towards the walls, Simon told him that the Romans had arrived just over a week ago, and after a moment’s thought Domitius realised that he meant seven days – or just over seven days. That seemed about right for the work done so far.

‘The commander will be in one of the two big camps,’ he explained to Athenodorus and Memnon, the two strategoi. It was an old title, and in many cities had long ceased to mean anything like commander, but the Nicopolitans seemed an old-fashioned bunch in many ways. ‘My guess would be the one to the west. There are more workshops behind it and an unwalled camp for traders and the like. You can see plainly that they plan a ramp down there, he pointed. Are there similar signs near the eastern camp?’

‘Yes,’ Simon answered.

‘They’ll try to reduce the number of towers able to shoot at them. The three other camps are to make it harder for attacks out of the city, and for people and supplies to get in and out. If they get really worried they’ll connect them all with a rampart and ditch.’ None of what he had said so far was not obvious to anyone who thought about it. ‘They’re the Ninth,’ he added, for he had spotted the device on their shields. ‘I don’t know them.’ That was a relief, he had to admit. ‘They came to Syria last year. Been in the far north west for generations. The legions there lack discipline, and half of them are barbarians so they are fierce, but lazy.’ Domitius knew that the soldiers in the west denigrated men like him stationed in the east in much the same way. In fact he had rarely heard legionaries with much good to say about any other legion in the army. ‘Do you know the name of its commander?’ Domitius asked.