‘Do your duty, man, obey the order!’

‘No,’ Domitius yelled, ‘I cannot. I am a Christian.’ He sat up in bed, eyes wide and the sound of his shout echoing from the low ceiling, before slumping back. There did not seem to be strength in any of his limbs. ‘I cannot,’ he mumbled.

‘I know, so you keep saying,’ a voice said. It was a nice voice, warm and feminine and as far from the memories of the tribunal as could be. ‘Are you staying this time, or did you simply fancy a good shout?’

The angel appeared over him, her hair plaited and coiled behind her head. Her eyes were the palest blue, and her nose was as strong as her gaze, although her full lips and slightly receding chin softened her face without taking anything from its remarkable beauty. Angels should look like that, he thought, but surely Heaven did not have a ceiling.

‘I suppose you have a real name,’ she said. ‘If you are going to stay around this time, then I should like to thank you by name.’

‘He’s not dead, so he’s staying,’ said a deep, gravelly voice, ‘so we must honour our debt even to a Gentile.’ They were speaking in Greek, even though Domitius was sure he had shouted in Latin.

‘This is grandfather,’ the angel said. ‘He is the one who hit you with a spade.’

‘You are welcome,’ the deep voice said. ‘I have not hit a Roman for a very long time. Once I was better at it.’

‘What is your name, stranger?’ the angel asked. She leaned forward, mopping his brow with a wet cloth. Her dress was a pale grey-blue, over a long-sleeved tunic, and she gave off a faint smell of jasmine. ‘We know what you are, but that is not the same.’

‘Domitius.’ Even smiling felt like an immense effort. ‘Caius Domitius from Berytus.’

The angel smiled. ‘Good. That is better. Well, I am Sara, and the old fool who enjoys hitting others is my grandfather, who is called John.’

‘John of Jotapata, once,’ the deep voice boomed, ‘until you Romans burned it to the ground.’

‘That was long ago, and they would have saved me a good deal of trouble if they had set you alight with it. Not that there was ever much of you to burn.’ The warmth in the chiding was obvious. ‘Instead you are here, and as a good woman I must have patience and suffer your folly.’ She stepped back and made a gesture like a bow, but more fluid for her knees must have bobbed down. Domitius wondered whether this was the custom of the country, whatever this country was. ‘Welcome, Domitius from Berytus to the house of my father.’

‘In my father’s house there are many mansions.’ The words ran through Domitius’ head and he tried to smile back as he spoke them.

‘He is babbling,’ the deep voice said. ‘I’ll get my spade so that I can hit him again.’