It was afternoon before we got in, and by then the anvil chorus in my head was thumping double-time. But I couldn’t help a grin as I saw the Emperor—brown, broad, dressed in an ink-spotted tunic, jotting figures on a tablet as a team of secretaries hovered about him. And damn me if he didn’t grin back.

“Vercingetorix of the Tenth!” Trajan flung down his stylus. He remembered everyone’s names, even to the lowest soldiers—another reason the legionaries loved him. “Gods’ bones, aren’t you a centurion by now?”

“When the next opening comes along, Caesar. Or so I’m told.”

“Good, good. I told the legate to boost you up as soon as you were dry behind the ears. You’ll make a good centurion.”

Would I? It was all I’d dreamed of for years—the side-to-side helmet crest, the embossed greaves, the sword worn on the other side because I’d no longer have to draw my weapon locked in formation. I’d ached for promotion ever since I’d first been made aquilifer, and now the thought made my palms sweat. Eighty men under my command. Would they have rude nicknames for me behind my back, call me a flogger or a pudding? Would they grumble when they saw me coming, or straighten eagerly? Brag me up among the other centuries, or make obscene gestures and spit?

Never mind. Trajan thought I’d make a good centurion, and for him I’d become one. Even if I had to turn myself inside out to do it. “I’m very grateful, Caesar,” I started to say, but he cut me off with a wave.

“Nonsense, I need good officers. Especially now I’ve got my eye on Parthia. Want to come get it with me?”

His eyes were warm and steady, impossible to look away from. “Just say the word, Caesar.”

“Good, good. You’ve got dispatches? Let’s have ’em.” He broke the seals and began scanning lines rapidly. “Not too dull in Mog, I trust?”

“Not too dull, Caesar.” I’d feared stagnating in the German mud once the Dacian campaign was done, but there had been just enough raids from the sullen Dacians over the past few years to keep things interesting. “I managed to get a few scars.”

He insisted on seeing them, and I shoved back my sleeve to show off the broad weal where I’d taken a short spear through the arm two years before. Trajan admired it. “Good old Dacia. We’ll have to see if Parthia proves as much fun.”

“Take the Tenth, Caesar. We’ll win it for you in six months.”

He waved me out shortly afterward, telling me with a wink to take my time before heading back to Mog. “Take a month’s leave here in the city. I’ll have dispatches for the Tenth, eventually, and you might as well carry them back for me.”