‘Makes sense,’ Simon conceded, and eventually the strategoi agreed. ‘You’ll have to stay close and direct them.’

‘Fine. I don’t have anywhere else to go.’ Domitius wondered whether he had found out which side he was on.

He spent the whole day working hard, every now and then glancing over his shoulder in amazement because the wall had not fallen yet. They hauled artillery onto the roofs, using ropes, cranes and a lot of sweat, and put up the rows of stakes to cover the alleys.

The shadows were long, when a stone fell from the front of the wall, followed by another, then another and with a great rumbling slide a wide stretch of the curtain.

Simon appeared. ‘How long before they come?’

‘An hour, perhaps a bit more. Take them that long to form the assault columns.’

‘Then go.’ He gestured to two of his men to form the escort. ‘They won’t trust you here, so best get out of the way.’

‘What about you?’

‘This is my city – my home.’

Domitius went with the men, only to stop when he heard a call.

‘Thank you!’ Simon waved to him.

The alleys were already dark, and the guards took him away from the main routes because they were filling with men, moving towards the new breach or the old. They were thin, tired, quite a few already bandaged or limping, but there was something inspiring about their determination, of men with grey hairs and beardless youths going to defend their home.

Less inspiring was the pair of soldiers in one of the alleys, obviously drunk, for one was leaning against the wall, talking half to himself, while the other crawled on all fours, his shield and spear lying in the dust.

‘I tell you, there’s no gold down there,’ the one just on his feet assured the other, every word slurred. ‘It’s just stone and mud, like all the other streets.’ His companion muttered something incoherent in reply.

‘What are you playing at?’ one of the escorts yelled. ‘The bastards are coming for us. They need you, now!’ He moved to grip his spear with his left hand, still holding his shield, and reached down to pull up the crawling drunk, who sprang up and thrust with a sword no one had seen until then. There was movement behind, a hand grasped the other guard’s head, pulled it back, so that a knife blade could slice through his throat.

‘Remember me, boy?’ The drunk snarled, but he was not drunk at all, even if his clothes reeked of wine. He was Ferox.

‘Oh shit,’ Domitius said before he could stop himself. Two men were behind him, and apart from Ferox the other one had pushed himself off the wall and was striding towards him.

‘You have a choice and must make it now.’ The voice was familiar and it took a moment to remember the shadowy figure who had tracked him all those nights ago.

Ferox interrupted. ‘The legion is coming. Better for everyone if it’s over quickly and they take the whole city, including the citadel. We want you to take us to the prison. There are Roman prisoners there, a couple of centurions and a dozen or so men. Once we are there, we are going to let them out and together we’ll seize the gate by the market, the one that leads into the citadel. So take us to the prison, help us get in, and it’s up to you what you do after that. If you want to stay, then I’ll do my best for you, but you know how the law stands. If you want to go, then take our goodwill and whatever else you can carry and go fast. There will be a way out of the city in all the confusion, and it should be possible to slip through the outposts without too much trouble.’