‘So think,’ he had told the men working a light bolt shooter in the tower closest to the Roman siegeworks to the west. Several shots later, all of them missing, and he had taken over and aimed the machine himself. ‘Now wait, wait,’ he had told them, leaning over the machine, watching a gap of no more than a foot where the wicker screen was lower as two ‘mice’ were joined together, so that a man’s head was visible as he passed. A moment before that, men coming from up the slope cast a shadow plain enough to see even at this distance. It would be a lie to say that he did not think anything at the time, that the habits of instruction had taken over, for he knew that curiosity was stronger. After years spent working with all kinds of artillery, this was the first time he had ever been offered a live target and the temptation was so strong to find out whether he really was as good at his job as he thought. The shadow appeared and he pulled the lever without the slightest hesitation, felt it was a good shot and then the sheer thrill of success flooded over him as the helmeted head appeared, the bolt struck and the man was flung down.

‘That’s how it is done,’ he had told the grinning men. Some of them were too young or too old to be in the legions, but in so many ways they reminded him of the soldiers he had known and he felt close to them.

There ought to have been remorse. He had had hours and hours to think about it, but instead of sorrow or guilt there was only the guilt that he did not feel any regret at all. Blame the engineers for leaving that gap – probably for light to help work and save having to use lamps or torches – and blame the damned fool himself for not ducking or at least rushing past an opening. The men nearby did not seem to have learned the lesson, or at least had forgotten it quickly and blamed the strike on bad luck, because when he came back to the tower later in the day the crew was excited because they reckoned that they had hit another man in just the same spot. Domitius had congratulated the bald old man who had aimed and shot the dart, patting him on the shoulder.

Domitius had felt more divided the morning after the first sally, although even then it had been easy to share Simon’s excitement when he spoke of leading one of the groups. One of the guards helping to escort him had chipped in to say that the merchant’s son had cut down four or five Romans as he led the charge. Simon had shrugged and assured him that it was only three and then the other man had joked that a trader like him ought to know better how to sell something.