Simon appeared, hatless and with his hair rather wild. ‘It is early, my lord. Perhaps…’

‘My mistress apologises profusely for the inconvenience.’ The officer’s expression suggested that speaking the words pained him. ‘She wishes to speak with your noblest of daughters, and is aware that this is a Holy Day for you and your kin, so would speak to her now, so that she can return before the morning is out.’ Again, the expression suggested that the officer viewed the gesture as foolish indulgence of worthless people. ‘We have brought the chair to carry her, and my men are escort. You surely do not wish to keep the Lady Azátē waiting?’ There was more than a hint of threat about the last words.

For some reason Domitius remembered Caecilius assuring him that a woman would always make a man wait, but in this case the veteran centurion was wrong, for Sara appeared, elegantly dressed, head covered and veiled. A servant followed carrying a bundle, and when Sara bade the officer to get one of his men to take these samples with them, the man obeyed. Domitius wondered what it must be like to have such charm, for not only did the officer do what he was told, but his sneer almost vanished.

Domitius smiled to himself, poured water into a basin, washed, shaved, brushed his caligae and then dressed. All was done mechanically, the habit of all those mornings waking to the trumpet calls. The same routine saw him check the blade of his gladius, before adding a little oil and sliding it back into the scabbard.

Then there was fresh pounding on the gate. This time Simon was relatively tidy, at least by his standards, although he was surprised to see more armed men. These were city guards, four of them altogether, and one with a plume on his high bronze helmet. This mark and his inclination to shout loudest suggested that he was in charge.

‘There is a Roman here! We have come to arrest him! Bring him out!’ His speech was short and abrupt. Domitius had seen plenty of his type in the legions. The man was old, his beard dyed black and dyed badly, face round, skin pockmarked and nose red from drink. An old sweat, but one without the brains or just too prone to going on drunks and breaking rules to rise very high.

‘I am sure there is a mistake,’ Simon said. His son appeared, and Domitius could see that for all that he was unarmed and eating a peach, the younger Simon made the guards wary.

‘What is going on?’ he asked.

‘They want Domitius,’ Simon explained.

‘The Strategos Athenodorus wants the Roman! We are here to take him!’ The leader still shouted, but was less confident.

‘Why?’ the younger Simon asked.

‘Orders, sir!’

Domitius grinned. Yes, he knew the type.

Father and son whispered together, before the younger Simon called. ‘Come on out, Domitius! I am sure that we can soon sort out this misunderstanding, but these men want to take you to the magistrates.’