I saluted as I came into the little study with its makeshift luxuries. Hadrian leaned back in the most comfortable of the cushioned chairs, bearded and busy in a black toga, reading a letter and at the same time dictating another to a hovering secretary. Freedmen scurried to and fro with armloads of correspondence, slates and scrolls, gifts from officials eager to show the new Emperor their loyalty. Hadrian managed to direct the stream with flicks of his free hand, never missing a beat in either his reading or his dictating, gently rubbing one foot along the back of the dog sleeping at his feet—and he still had an eye to spare for me as I entered.

“Sir.” I came to parade rest.

“—about the gardens outside Antioch. I want the Castallian Fount blocked up with a stone. It predicted I would become Emperor, and I won’t have it predicting the same for anyone else. Sign it, Hadrian, son of Trajan Caesar.” He gestured the secretary to carry on, and raised his eyebrows at me pointedly. “‘Sir?’”

“… Caesar,” I managed to choke out, saluting again.

“Better,” he said, and held out his hand for the secretary’s scroll. “I’ll sign that now, thank you. Bring me the packet for Vercingetorix, please.”

I fixed my gaze somewhere over Hadrian’s shoulder as he signed a series of documents. I couldn’t look at him without the gorge rising in my throat. He had arrived yesterday on what was undoubtedly the fastest ship that could leave from Antioch. He had disembarked from his black-sailed trireme, head covered in mourning, and bowed before the rise of cheers started off by Empress Plotina—former Empress Plotina—and her ring of toadies. I had not clapped once, from my spot in the back of the crowd of officers. All I wanted was to get out of this barren ghostly little town and back to my men. Back to route marches and battles and the clash of javelins and the swearing of my legionaries. Back to the things I understood.

I hadn’t expected to be summoned. Surely a new Emperor had better things to do than demote old enemies? And my record spoke for itself. Hadrian might be a cold bastard, but cold bastards are practical men. Surely he would let me continue the work I’d done so well for Trajan?

But I remembered the cool murderous gaze Hadrian had leveled on me in a feasting hall in Germania, a gaze I’d given back in full furious measure, and I couldn’t help a shiver.

Hadrian didn’t seem very interested in me now, though. He wrote something else on a fresh scroll and made a gesture to one of the dashing secretaries, who presented me with a thick packet of sealed letters and passes. “Your new orders, Vercingetorix.”