He still stood square before the tent flap, looking down at her. She’d forgotten how tall he was. He bent, rummaging briefly in his pouch, and lobbed something at her. “Take that with you.”

Sabina looked down at the heavy silver-and-garnet earring in her hand. “I thought you’d have sold it by now.”

“No one would pay me what it was worth.” He scowled. “Tried giving it to my girl, but she didn’t see the point of just one earring. You might as well take it. I sure as hell don’t want it.”

Sabina felt something small and warm in the pit of her stomach.

“Why are you here?” he blurted out.

“I told you. I want to see the world. Maybe change it a bit for the better too.”

“No, I mean—” Vix raked a hand through his hair, almost snarling. “Why are you here? Why do you keep bothering me?”

“If I’m going to see the world,” Sabina said, “I’d rather see it with you.”

He reached out and took her by the shoulders in his big hands, lifting her up so her eyes were on a level with his own. His face was cold and hard.

“I’m going to regret this,” he told her grimly.

Then he kissed her.

“Hello,” Sabina greeted the rest of the contubernium as she and Vix emerged from the tent. “I’m Sabina. I’ll be sharing your tent in the evenings sometimes, but I’ll always pay for the privilege. Let me know what I owe you. We’ll try not to be too loud, at least not in future. Is that lentil stew? I’m hungry. Boil, however did you get that nickname?”

She helped herself to two bowls of stew, handed one to Vix, and settled cross-legged by the fire. The rest of the contubernium looked at her, then at Vix.

“Not a word,” Vix warned, and put an arm about her shoulder as he settled in at her side.

TITUS

A week on the road marching with an army, Titus thought, and most legates were starting to show signs of wear. Mud on the boots, perhaps, or a stubble of beard on a once immaculately shaved chin, or puddles of water tracked into a tent. Most legates—but not Hadrian.

“If you will see these letters delivered, and then collect the next batch of correspondence,” Hadrian told Titus, not looking up from a wax tablet where he was jotting rapid figures. “Send the prefect of the camp to see me tomorrow before march; I don’t like the situation with the grain stores. Someone’s skimming, and if it’s not him, he’ll know who.”

He’d better. “And the report for the Emperor?” Titus reminded him, juggling an armload of slates and scrolls.

“I’ll copy it out myself. Lucius, that report from the chief centurion about insubordination in the fourth cohort—”