At least we are seeing the world now, Sabina thought. With every slow, ponderous creak of the wagon’s wheels, they were retreating farther and farther from Rome, from duty, from Plotina’s lecturing. Sabina had spent hours hanging out the window of the wagon, chilled to the bone but too fascinated to close the shutters, watching as tilled green fields and tidy vineyards slowly gave way to craggier rocks, deeper pines, darker shadows. Hadrian said they had passed into Raetia now, perhaps halfway to Moguntiacum and the legion that awaited him. Germania. What would it hold?

Hadrian made a face at the cup Sabina passed him as he settled on the bench opposite her. “What is this?”

“The local mead. I like it.”

He passed the cup back. “I’ll stick to Roman wine, thank you.”

Sabina took another swallow, unrolling a new section of her scroll. “Lucius Nystericus didn’t like the mead either, according to this.”

“Who’s Lucius Nystericus?” Hadrian sat reading through the correspondence that had already followed them from Rome. They hadn’t been two days on the road before messengers on lathered horses began appearing with letter cases.

“Lucius Nystericus was a legate who served here under Augustus. I found a copy of his diaries; thought it might have something useful on the region.”

“Anything interesting?” Hadrian reached out absently, scratching the dog’s belly as she rolled on her back.

“‘The natives are surly,’” Sabina read in a pompous bass. “‘But ferocious fighters.’”

“They do look surly. I noticed as soon as we crossed the mountains.” Hadrian’s hand on the dog’s belly slowed; she nosed him until he began to stroke again. “Let’s hope they’re not still ferocious. Leave the book out for me, will you?”

“Of course.” Sabina curled her feet up onto the bench, tucking the fur lap robes in closer. “Any letters in that pile of correspondence for me?”

“From the Empress—”

Sabina took the scroll with Plotina’s seal and tossed it out the window unopened. “Anything else?”

He slanted a disapproving brow but let it go. “A letter from your little sister, judging by the straggly handwriting. Perhaps I can leave you to it? The dogs flushed a stag in the woods earlier; magnificent rack of antlers, and since we’re paused for another hour—”

“Go hunt.” She waved him on. He dropped a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, and she felt the scrape of bristle. “You’re growing your beard again?” So many senators had mocked him in Rome that he’d finally shaved it. He’d been out of temper about that for a full week.

Hadrian passed a hand over the stubble. “I think it will pass in the provinces.”

“A beard suits you. Very philosophical.” And it hid the acne scars he’d acquired as a boy—the real reason he’d grown a beard in the first place. You’re vainer than I am, husband.