True to his word, Hadrian and his escort rode off before the sun rose. Crispinus was up to salute him as he departed, for ceremonies must always be observed. He was a little worried that fifty men was not enough to protect so important a man from ambush, for even though Arbandes’ men had dispersed, the convoy escorts reported seeing quite large bands of Arab raiders. Well, Hadrian had made his choice and must take his chance like the rest of them. Crispinus watched the horsemen disappear into the darkness and wondered whether he was more relieved to be back in sole command or weighed down by the burden. Neither really seemed to matter.

A little later he heard the faint sound of the ram resuming its pounding of the eastern wall. Men on the rampart of the camp tilted their heads to be sure that they were not mistaken, and there was some talk. There were no cheers, and Crispinus did not blame them. Everyone knew that they must attack again, and perhaps again and again. If they did not take the city, then those who were left could slink away, leaving so many dead comrades behind them.

‘So be it,’ he said to himself.

Another message had already arrived during the night, but no one spotted it until the dawn and no one realised what it was until another day had passed.

The prison at Nicopolis

Three days later

The forty-first day of the siege

CAECILIUS WAS DYING, his skin pale and clammy, his eyes red rimmed and weak. The arrow wound in his leg had turned bad, as wounds often did, especially in the warmer months. Two days ago they had taken the leg off below the knee, but the poison remained and spread. This morning they had gone higher, and amputated at the thigh. Both operations had been done by the same Jewish physician, who insisted that he treat prisoners as well as their own sick and wounded. The magistrates consented, if grudgingly, while insisting that he deal with the Romans in their cells. Domitius saw him briefly, saw resignation on his face, and when he was allowed to visit the primus pilus in his little cell he could see why.

‘Oh.’ Caecilius was propped up on a mattress made of straw, and the cell was better than the one Domitius had been given back at the start. ‘It is you. I thought I saw that ugly face up on the walls.’

What was he to say? How are you was absurd, even offensive when his condition was so obvious. He had been given a draught, so ought not to be feeling much at the moment, and might even think that this was all a dream.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Domitius asked after some time.

‘Open the gates and let our boys in? No? Pity.’

‘I am sorry things have turned out the way they have done.’

‘Huh.’ Caecilius did not seem impressed. ‘Thought you buggers believe everything is your god’s will.’