“But there is, Caesar. I can show you on a map.” Titus shifted from foot to foot. “One of my legionaries discovered it on night sentry duty—where the pipes come out. Smash the pipes; cut off the water supply. Not an elegant solution, but the simplest. Once the Dacians get thirsty enough, they open their gates.”

The Emperor frowned, but thoughtfully. “Get my engineers in here!” he called, and there was a flurry of activity. Titus stood in the middle of it all feeling oddly exhilarated. He’d had to scrape up every bit of courage he had to dare approach the Emperor directly with Vix’s mad plan.

“What am I supposed to do, present it myself?” Vix had hooted. “They’ll never let a muddy-boots legionary like me in to see the Emperor of Rome. You’ll have to do it for me.”

“Me? I can’t do that!”

“You’ve talked to him before, haven’t you?”

“In passing,” said Titus. “Once or twice. Not in depth. I don’t like talking in depth with emperors, or important people in general. They look at me and I start to stutter, and all in all it’s a scene I prefer to avoid.”

“You take it to Hadrian and he’ll just take the credit,” Vix warned. “Then I’ll have to beat you bloody for giving that weasel a career boost on my idea. Be a man!”

“You sound like my grandfather,” Titus winced, and the following day he’d put on his best armor, applied the parade plume to his helmet, scrubbed everything to a shine, and applied to see the Emperor. Who was now looking Titus over with a speculative eye.

“What did you say your name was?” Trajan asked. “You’re one of Hadrian’s, aren’t you—the one who quotes?”

“Yes,” Titus said, resigned. “I’m the one who quotes.”

“Good to see you’ve got more in that head than epigrams. Not saying this plan of yours will work, mind, but it’s worth a try.”

The tent was rapidly filling up now: aides spreading out maps, Trajan’s staff officers already debating hotly with each other, engineers spouting technicalities in that superior nasal drone all engineers seem to have… the Emperor’s quarters were confined to a tent as small and plain as any legionary’s; the interior furnished with nothing more than a makeshift desk, a bedroll, and a few spartan camp stools, but Trajan’s perpetual good cheer brightened any room.

“Hadrian!” he called as Sabina’s husband came striding into the tent. “You’ve been keeping this Cicero-spouting young tribune from me. He shows promise.”

Hadrian frowned. “I’m sorry if he disturbed you, Caesar—”

“Not at all. This notion he has about the pipes works, and I may poach him off you for my own staff. Tell us again, lad—”