Agrippa was a magus with a gift for seeing the future and once told me I would die in a most unexpected way, which is one of the reasons I keep my eye on this little turd of a chaplain. A strange man. Perhaps Agrippa was the wandering Jew, condemned to wander the face of the earth for ever? I once asked a few Rabbis about this legend. They just looked askance and shook their heads.

(By the way, I like Jews. They remind me very much of the Irish. They love debate, honour, the family, and have a wicked sense of humour. Indeed, I have published a learned treatise in which I argue that the Irish are really the lost tribe of Israel. My main conclusion was as follows: when Moses and Aaron left Egypt, they put all the rogues together at the back of the column. After the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, the lot at the back took a wrong turn and ended up in Ireland. Very interesting, you should read it.)

On that far golden day, however, Agrippa was concerned with more pressing matters. He waited until Benjamin had cleared the hall of servants then slumped down on a high-backed chair before the empty fireplace. As he passed me I caught a whiff of that strange perfume of his – as if some precious ointment had been poured on a burning pan. His eyes changed colour, giving them a black, marble look, and the smile faded from his lips. He stared at Benjamin and myself, sipped the wine and nibbled at a piece of diced marchpane.

'For goodness' sake, sit down!' he said softly, indicating the empty chairs. He stretched and eased his neck to combat the stiffness after his long ride. 'It's begun,' he murmured. 'What has?' Benjamin asked testily.