And more guards. Mmph. Alas, then, we shall shelve the possible stabbing for a more opportune moment. Big fellow, legionary, apologetic face. I think I recognise his shoulders: I think he carried me across them in the first mad rush from my house. I sniff in his direction, but all legionaries smell of rust and armpit, there’s nothing to choose between them by the nose. He has the grace to look—if not abashed—at least professionally neutral.