Behind the palace, Domitius was at the window with Brutus, tying his wrists securely to the piece of waxed cloth that would send him sliding into the arms of the waiting legionaries. Moving five hundred soldiers in strained silence was difficult, but there had been no cries of alarm and the plan was moving without a fault.

As Domitius tugged the knot, he felt Brutus looking at him in the dark.

“We were friends once,” Brutus said.

Domitius snorted to himself. “We could be again, old son. The men will accept you in time, though Octavian . . . well, he might not.”

“I am glad you spoke up for me,” Brutus replied.

Domitius gripped him by the shoulder. “You risked all our lives for your pride and temper. There have been times when I would rather have put a knife in you.”

“If I could change it, I would,” Brutus said truthfully.

Domitius nodded, helping his legs over the edge. “I stood on the white cliffs of Britain with you,” he said. “You killed that big blue bastard with the hatchet when I was flat on my back. That counts for something.” He spoke slowly, his voice low and serious. “I can’t call you a brother, after what you did. Perhaps we can get by without spitting in each other’s bread.”

Brutus nodded slowly, without looking round.

“I’m glad of it,” Domitius said, heaving him off the ledge.

Brutus gasped as the rope sagged and his initial rush was jerked into a slow descent. Halfway down, when there was nothing but yawning darkness beneath him, he spun and the cloth twisted, halting him. His weakened muscles protested as he swung his legs frantically. With an effort, he managed to turn himself back round and the slide began once more. His arm ached worse than he cared to admit, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and then found himself being held by the men on the roof below. They untied his wrists in silence and handed him his sword, which he strapped to his waist. Like him, they wore no armor and carried no shields. Their faces were black with soot, and only the whiteness of their teeth and eyes in the moonlight showed their positions, spread over the roofs like mold. The hulking figure of Cleopatra’s slave, Ahmose, was there with them, unsmiling and silent as he crouched on the tiles.

Before Brutus could step clear, Domitius thumped into his back and sent him sprawling.

“No more to come,” he heard Domitius whisper as he guided Brutus through the men to the front.

The tiles creaked under their feet and they could only hope their progress wasn’t being followed from below, with archers ready to catch them as they came down. The first roof blended into the next without a gap, but the third was too far away to step across.

“I need a man to jump this,” Domitius said.