‘Soldier!’ The voice was in Latin and that made him start when otherwise he would have ignored it. ‘Soldier!’ the man hissed. ‘Come on, we both know who you are.’

Suddenly the street was empty. Old John was right to say Domitius was not careful enough. The voice was coming from around the corner of a junction. He headed towards it, wondering whether he could throw the bale and then fall on the man with his knife.

‘Close enough, soldier.’

Domitius stopped. He did not know what the man wanted or what he really knew. Conscience told him he could not attack so readily.

‘Who are you?’

‘Wrong question, soldier boy.’ There was a shadow on the far side of the alley. Perhaps it was just the lamplight, but the man looked large and burly. ‘You are Caius Domitius Clemens, late of Legio VI Ferrata. You don’t need my name, but I can help you if you help me.’

‘I know nothing important.’

‘We both know that’s a lie,’ the voice said. ‘Thought you Christians were supposed to tell the truth. Guess that’s another lie.’

Two drunken voices were raised in song from further up the street.

‘Think on it, soldier boy. I’ll find you again.’ The shadow vanished as a group of four or five merrymakers lurched towards him. Domitius ignored them and ran for the corner, but there was no sign of anyone apart from a little old woman struggling along with an amphora under her arm.

‘Did you see a man?’ he asked. There was no sign that she understood any Greek, and his halting Aramaic did no better. The old woman ignored him and went on past to be greeted by whistles and laughter from the drunks. It seemed good natured, and she ignored it, so Domitius did not intervene and went about his task.

The next morning, he woke to hear someone pounding on the main door into the courtyard. A servant opened it to admit a tall warrior in scale armour, though bareheaded and the sword at his belt his only weapon. Behind were three unarmoured men, with scabbarded swords, and then four bearers carrying a curtained sedan chair. The warriors all wore Parthian-style trousers and long-sleeved tunics. Domitius had only seen a few sedan chairs in the streets of Nicopolis, although they were common enough in the bigger Roman cities. It suggested someone of considerable wealth.

Domitius watched from the window and could see no sign of threat, although it was obvious that the leader was used to being obeyed, if only because of the name of his mistress.

‘We come from the Lady Azátē,’ the man announced, loud enough to be heard all around the courtyard. He had a slim face that would have been handsome had his mouth not been locked into a permanent sneer. ‘She sends greetings to her friend, Sara, and begs that she come to her at the palace.’ Old John had told Domitius that there was a grand house in the citadel that was usually occupied by the magistrates for official duties, although nominally kept for whenever the king or one of his family visited.