It was shortly after midday when the baker stepped out of the front door of his shop onto a small side street. He needed fresh air and a moment to himself. It had been a busy night of milling and bread-making.

His last batch of loaves were now in the bakery's oven, and the milling horses were in a nearby stable – still and resting – after hours of clopping in circles to the sound of stone scraping against stone, which informed everyone within earshot, trying to get a good night's sleep, that wheat was being milled into flour for Pompeii's daily bread.