“Don’t care what you tell anybody. Here you are, Lady.” They’d reached the legate’s quarters that Trajan had made into his temporary home. The doors had been thrown open, slaves clustered with cloaks for their masters, and inside Sabina could see the tipsy guests saying their languid farewells in the atrium. “I guess they finished refighting Alesia,” she said. “Or maybe they just ran out of chicken bones to build diagrams. You know the Emperor’s declared a march? He announced it tonight at dinner.”

“A march?” Vix halted in the act of turning away. “When?”

“Next week, if he can—how did he put it?” She cast her eyes up to the black, diamonded dome of sky. “‘Put a boot to every legion’s arse in time.’”

“He’ll find the Tenth ready.” The corner of Vix’s mouth tugged upward, no matter how much he tried to stamp it down.

“I wish I could see it,” Sabina confessed. “The legions on the move. I’m sure it will be a sight.”

“Lots of swearing. Lots of mud.”

“Other things too, I’m sure.” She tossed the bundle of palla over one shoulder. “But there’s no room for wives on the march; Hadrian’s made that clear. Even legates’ wives. I’d go back to Rome, but then I’ll have to deal with Empress Plotina. I think on the whole I’d prefer the king of Dacia with his horns and tail.” Sabina looked up at Vix. “Don’t keep safe.”

“What?”

“Don’t bother keeping safe when you finally march off to war.” She clasped her hands in front of her waist, the gold lion cuff catching a gleam from the yellow torchlight. “Safe soldiers don’t win glory. If it’s glory you still want?”

“Yes,” Vix said at once. “And a laurel wreath, and a promotion to centurion, and then—” He caught himself, scowling. “None of your business. Good night, Lady.”

“Good night, Vercingetorix.” She grinned as she turned away, toward the triclinium where Hadrian and Titus still stood debating poets. “It is good to see you.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” he shot back, and took off into the dark.

CHAPTER 12

VIX

I like route marches. Provided the sun is shining and there isn’t too much mud, they’re downright pleasant. My shoulders usually protested the heavy pack for the first hour or so, but after a while everything loosened up and I’d be swinging along in good humor, roaring out the marching songs that helped keep the legion in step. Marching songs varied—if you got a particularly pious or priggish centurion, then the songs all tended to be grim invocations to Mars, or leaden patriotic verses about the glory of Rome. But Emperor Trajan was a legionary at heart, and he liked his marching songs the dirtier the better, so we all had free rein.