He was surprised at how lightly guarded the prison was. There was no one on the gates into the courtyard. On the far side, the main door was bolted shut. Domitius told him that the guards knocked three times and called out the name of whoever they thought was on duty inside. He did not have a clue who that would be from one day to the next.

‘Try Callisthenes,’ he suggested.

‘Nah, Callisthenes is no good,’ Vindex said under his breath. ‘Ask for blonde Venus.’

Ferox ignored him, knocked on the door, and did not say anything. When nothing happened, he tried again, much louder, and this time shouted, ‘Hey!’

A voice came from inside, the lock clicked, bolts were drawn back and the door opened inwards.

‘Oh, you’re back,’ the guard said, recognising Domitius and not paying much attention to the others. ‘Later than I expected.’ He stepped away, beckoning them to come in. As he turned his back, Vindex hit him with a club and the man dropped. Another man was sitting on a stool in the corner, and gaped, letting fall the spoon and bowl he was holding into his lap, the hot liquid scorching him.

‘Brother?’ he said. It was the Christian. Bran had his sword out, and was ready to thrust.

‘No!’ Domitius yelled. ‘You are my prisoner now! Drop your sword.’ The guard’s sword was in its scabbard, while the tip of Bran’s blade was inches from his chest. He blinked, confused, and defiance and fear struggled with each other until he gave up, raising his hands.

‘He’s got the keys,’ Domitius said. Vindex gave a wicked grin, enough to terrify anyone, and took them.

‘How many more of them?’ Ferox asked.

‘A couple at most. Call them and no one needs to get hurt!’ Domitius said to their captive.

The man shook his head. Bran edged the blade forward, but still the guard refused. Domitius shouted, ‘Hey, there’s trouble.’ Vindex and Ferox went to either side of the doorway leading off from the main chamber. The scout ducked, and as feet came running he swung the club low. His feet knocked from under him, a guard flew forward to slam onto the floor. The next came shouting, sword in hand, and gave a feeble cut at Ferox, who beat the blade aside and killed the man with a thrust through the neck. As he fell, Domitius realised that it was the one who had beaten him, and grinned, before wondering whether as a Christian it was wrong to enjoy revenge.

‘Where are the Romans?’ Ferox shouted. The captive did not mind showing them, and there was no time to ponder the rules men made, for they needed to hurry. Sentius and his men were in chains, and it took a while to free them. Sometimes, lack of imagination was an advantage, so Ferox gave the centurion orders rather than trying to explain what was going on.

‘We’re ready, sir,’ Sentius said, rubbing his wrists where the shackles had cut. He had ten men fit enough to move and fight. The others could stay and watch the prisoners, locking themselves into the jail because the rest needed every weapon they could scavenge. ‘What about the primus?’ the centurion asked. ‘They say he is down the hall.’