“My father gave it to me,” Vix admitted. “Mars—he said the god of war would keep me alive in a fight. Truth is, it’s my father’s face I see every time I touch it. He was a gladiator too; survived eight years in the Colosseum. I’d rather have his luck than any spear-toting Roman god’s.” Vix tucked the little disk back under the neck of his tunic. “So far it’s kept me safe.”

“Father and son gladiators?” Titus wondered.

“Well, there was an emperor who hated both of us…”

They made it back to Mog at dusk after a full day’s gallop, barely squeezing through the gates before they closed for the night. The centurion was already striding away toward the legate’s quarters. “Come along, Tribune, he’ll want a report.”

“What do you need me for?” Titus wondered. “I don’t have anything to contribute. All I did was get yanked off my horse.”

“Come along!”

By the time the legate was through with them, it was full dark. Titus trudged into the principia, wondering tiredly about dinner. Messengers ran back and forth across the hall, slaves were trotting to and from the records room, legionaries paused to scan the wall for new announcements. New barracks were to be raised, Titus read; a detachment was to be welcomed from Thrace on temporary assignment; a stern reminder had been posted that local women were to be visited off-duty and outside fort walls only… no sign here that anyone knew what Titus had seen in Dacia. No sign they were all soon to be at war.

Titus felt a tingle in his belly, like the first tendril of smoke to creep up from a pile of kindling. Why did I complain about a year of boot polishing and boredom? he wondered. Better boot polishing and boredom than battles and blood.

“Well?” Vix lounged against one wall beside the bust of the Emperor that presided over the principia of every fort in Rome. Even in stone repose, Trajan looked friendly. “What news? What did the legate say?”

“To me, nothing.” Titus took off his helmet, raking a hand over his hair. “All I did was stand there nodding while the legate grilled the centurion on the details. Then he told me to get out and go eat, and started dictating dispatches.”

“I knew it.” Vix socked one fist into the other. “War for sure—Trajan won’t stand for assaults on his garrisons. That Dacian king will be sorry he was ever born.”

“Not as sorry as I am that we missed dinner.” Titus winced. “Not that dinner from those hacks the legion calls cooks is much to miss.”

“Burned barley and boiled pork,” Vix agreed. “Not much like roast dormice and minced flamingo from Rome, is it, Tribune?”