“Hell’s gates,” I swore, kicking my horse ahead again. The legionary had hauled himself onto the tribune’s horse and was fleeing up the road. The boy was on his knees in the mud, dazed, and in another moment I’d be past him. Leave him, the thought went through my head; how far do you think you’ll get with your horse carrying double? But I put my arm down as I went past, and somehow he got hold of it and came flying up behind me.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

“Keep my sword arm free,” I snapped, and there was no more talking for a while. The Dacians came after us, and when my horse began to labor we had to stop and fight. I killed one, knocked another out of his saddle with a backhand blow of my free arm, and then the others weren’t so keen on catching me. They finally retreated back to the ruined garrison with derisive whoops, but I pressed my horse back into a flat gallop and kept him there till he was white and lathered under the double weight, till we finally caught up with the rest of our party.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled the shame-faced soldier on the tribune’s horse, but I hit him with the boss of my shield and knocked him out of the saddle into the mud.

“We ought to leave you here to die,” I snarled. “Like you left your tribune!”

“Never mind,” the centurion barked. “He’ll get the lash when we’re back in Mog, and no mistake. For now, we ride. Sextus, give the tribune his horse back. You can double up with whoever can stand to have a coward like you at his back.”

“No, he can ride with me.” The tribune slid off my horse, offering a hand to help up the man on the ground, who seemed near tears. “Don’t worry, I’ll speak on your behalf to the legate. You won’t be flogged.”

“He should be,” I grumbled, ramming my gladius back into its scabbard. “You’re letting him off easy, Tribune.”

“Maybe.” He looked around at the centurion, the optio, the other men. “But let’s not discuss it now. I’d like to be as far away from here as possible, frankly, so why don’t we get back to the Tenth as fast we can and tell them we’re being invaded?”

PLOTINA

The Empress of Rome was annoyed. An hour’s work, and the two looms working side by side still refused to get into a rhythm. Her own shuttle passed smoothly back and forth with a rhythmic swish-swish-swish. The other shuttle went swish—pause—swish—pause—swish.

“Rhythm, Sabina,” she said for the fourth time. “You must get your weaving into a rhythm. You are far too easily distracted.”