The bridge spanned a ditch some twenty feet wide and almost as deep. It was dry, man-made, but dotted with bushes and scrub because no one bothered to clean it out. Ferox could see a couple of patches were the bank had worn away and frequent use had made a path, but even so it was still a major obstacle. From here it was hard to see whether it stretched all the way around the city. Beyond it the ground rose a little towards the walls, some twenty feet back. He could not see any sign of obstacles fixed or dug into the earth, but someone had cared enough to keep this ground clear of bushes and even the piles of rubbish and filth you often saw dumped from the tops of city walls and then forgotten. Several men, and an old woman, were squatting on the edge of the ditch, clothes hitched up over their waists, so it seemed that using the ditch as a latrine was perfectly normal.

There was a squeal from beside him. A youngish, rather plump woman was rubbing her behind through her dress, while Vindex winked at her. Ferox guessed that the warrior had tapped the woman with the blunt end of his spear. She spat at him and yelled a word he did not understand, but could easily guess.

‘Behave yourself!’ Philo shouted back. ‘No, off there, off!’ Some urchins were around his mule, and fiddling with the harness. Vindex kicked his horse forward and yelled at them, which was enough to make them slip off into the crowd. They were over the bridge now, but the press only eased a little because everyone had to go through the arch of the gate. This was high, of a pale yellow stone, and on either side of the open gateway were tall towers that thrust forward. They were round, or at least round on this outer side, for Ferox could not see the back as yet. There were towers all along the wall on either side, although these were square, but like the ones at the gateway projected out from the curtain wall. He reckoned the walls were close to thirty feet high and the towers double that, and the slope would make them seem taller unless you were right underneath. The stone was well crafted and neat, each block large, but with few concessions to decoration. About halfway up the walls was a row of wooden shutters, which made Ferox wonder.

City guards were stopping everyone, which added to the jerky progress of the crowd. They had two Brigantians riding behind the waggon, which was driven by another tall warrior in armour and helmet. Five guards put them among the stronger parties queueing to enter the city. Most of the other armed men were Arabs, with a few from further afield mixed in, and most likely a couple of army deserters.

‘Who are you?’ A city guard demanded of Philo.

‘Demetrios of Alexandria, with my wife and escort.’ They had come up with the story before crossing the Euphrates. Hadrian and Crispinus had suggested that they pose as Arabs, with Ferox as their leader and purchase a few slaves to sell and take money to buy more. It was just the sort of fool idea aristocrats would dream up, presumably on the basis that one barbarian would look much like another barbarian if given the right clothes. ‘The head-scarves will cover anyone whose hair is light,’ Crispinus had assured him. Ferox had said yes, sir, thank you, sir, taken the money, bought no slaves and instead invested a third of it in good Italian wine, something rare in this part of the world. The rest was to buy inscribed gemstones from one of the workshops in Nicopolis.