Another half-day’s march. Emperor Trajan rode past the column, splendid in a red cloak, his face cheerful and boyish under the plumed helmet, bawling out the bawdiest marching songs with relish. His singing checked when we marched past a burned garrison just like the one Titus and I had reported at the end of… could it be just last fall? The Dacian king had sent raiders deep into Germania, thumbing his nose to show us how close he could get, and the garrison was hardly more than a heap of blackened timbers and scorched tiles. There was a skull set up in the ruined gate, a skull in a carved niche with sprigs of something stuffed in its eye sockets and rags below it tied in queer knots. Simon muttered a prayer in Hebrew as we passed, and I touched the amulet around my neck. The marching songs stilled of their own accord as we marched by, and in turn every aquilifer in his standard-bearer’s insignia dipped the pole bearing the legion’s eagle. From down the line the word passed that the Emperor had stared for long moments at the skull in the gate of his ruined fort, then speared it out of its niche with his javelin and crushed it under his horse’s hooves. My heart nearly burst with pride. That was an emperor. That was my Emperor.

Nightfall saw us well past the ruins, out of reach of the ghosts, and there was a certain jockeying to see which legion could set up their camp the fastest. In my training days we’d done long aimless route marches through the hills to set up practice camps, tearing them down and setting them up again as many as three times before our time was satisfactory, but the Tenth had been in a fort too long and we were out of practice. Simon retrieved our tent from the wagons that came lumbering behind, Philip was herded off to start digging the camp’s protective ditch, I squatted to lay a fire, and Boil went trotting away with an armload of long stakes to help lay the tall surrounding fence. He came back huge, perspiring, and disgusted. “Fourth got theirs up already.”

“We’ll get it tomorrow.” I blew on the little flame I’d coaxed on the kindling. “Anyone got a wineskin?”

“Not so fast; they need more men for the fence. You want to be the last camp up? Better second than last.”