That night Domitius was woken by distant shouts. There was a tiny window, high up on the wall of his cell, and through it the light was tinged with red. He wondered whether the Nicopolitans were launching another sally to burn the siege works, and figured that it was about time. The ramp to the east was very high now, which at least meant that it was easier for the artillery in the wall and towers to aim at the Romans there; earlier on, the enemy were so much lower down that the angle was too steep to let them strike that close to the walls.

In the morning Simon was grim faced. ‘Be on your guard more than ever,’ he said when they were out of earshot of anyone else for a short moment. ‘There was a fire last night, houses burned and people dead, food stores destroyed. It does not look like an accident.’

‘I was locked in. What do they think I am, a magician?’

‘They might not think clearly. Frightened people rarely do.’

There were some bitter glances, men who stood in his path glaring, only moving to let him by at the last minute, but they were just a few and most of those doing the fighting, including all of the crews he saw that day, welcomed him as enthusiastically as ever. As in the past, they shared fruit and wine with him. Afterwards, on the way to the workshop set up for major repairs to springs and anything else needing retooling, an urchin dodged past Simon and spat at Domitius. A guard swung his open hand at the boy, who ducked and escaped. Before he had gone he had pressed something into Domitius’ hand.

‘Are you all right?’ Simon asked.

Domitius kept his fist clenched to hold the rough object as he wiped his face. He grinned. ‘Never happier.’

The craftsmen showed not the slightest change in their attitude. Most were careful, precise men, and they dealt with life as a series of little problems to be solved, and of improvements to make. For the moment, this meant ensuring washers fitted precisely so that sinews could be twisted and the power stored in the springs until released. Mainly they got on with their jobs quietly, only dimly aware of each other’s presence, although now and then they would joke and laugh. There was a lot of amusement when someone said that he had heard from someone else that the magistrates were considering asking women to cut their hair short so that it could be used to make ropes for the artillery.

‘Be more use if they let them talk the Romans to death,’ one said.

‘No, if you’ve ever seen my wife in a rage, you would be more frightened of her than any warrior!’

‘Well, she’s angry, poor lass – after all, she has to put up with you every day!’

As soon as he had taken a proper look, Domitius had crushed under his boot the little ostracon passed to him by the boy, and as they laughed he happened to be nearby and ground down the last fragment into dust. The flatter fragments of a broken amphora were a good substitute for paper when a man did not want to waste money.