The other day in the marketplace who should I come across but Promachus the sapper. The first I knew was someone tapping me on the shoulder as I waited in front of the inkmaker’s stall. “Excuse me, sir. I believe you’re Tyrius the fable-teller.” I turned around to see who it was. “Good morning, centurion,” I greeted him. Red cloak, mail breast-armour, silver scale-pieces, vine-staff … I knew at once that he was a legionary and officer. Presumably from the Eighteenth Phoenician, the legion here in Tyre. Even without the uniform, I would have picked him as a centurion. His…