“Orders, Caesar?” To have my head sliced off? To strip me of my rank? To toss me out on some barren rock in the middle of the ocean to die?

“You are to take leave of Selinus at once.”

I breathed easier at that. If I could just take my men to Germania—well, Germania was a long way from Rome. How much would I have to think about Hadrian, from all the way up north? I’d be fighting Dacian warriors again and running my legion as I saw fit. It wouldn’t matter who wore the purple all the way down in Rome.

If Trajan doesn’t recover, I heard Mirah’s voice whisper in my ear, you’ll be serving Rome. Not Trajan.

Trajan is Rome, I’d said, brash and stupid.

Not forever.

I shivered again, but I thrust her words out of my head and took the packet of letters. “Take leave to Germania? Caesar?” Belatedly.

“No.” Hadrian didn’t look up from his slate. “To Rome.”

“… Rome?”

“Yes, you are receiving a promotion. I am making you part of my Praetorian Guard.”

For a moment I couldn’t speak. The secretaries still bustled with their letters, the freedmen still dashed with their baskets, the slaves still hovered with their pen cases—apparently unaware that I’d been turned to stone in the midst of all the activity. “But I have a legion,” I said hoarsely. “The Tenth Fidelis.” My Tenth, mine at last.

“Not anymore.” Hadrian lifted his slate, scanning it as he held out a hand for a new pen. “We will not be needing so many new commanders, as there will not be nearly so many campaigns planned along the borders. Dacia has proven an untenable drain of resources; therefore it will be surrendered back to the rebels and no longer requires the presence of an active legion. Also,” Hadrian added disinterestedly, “the Parthian campaign is to be halted at once. Armenia, Mesopotamia, Assyria, and all other territories acquired are to be abandoned.”

If I’d already turned to stone, I now turned to ice.

Dacia, where I’d killed a king who had the strength of ten and first earned the pride of carrying my eagle. Armenia, where I’d made my mark on my first command. Mesopotamia, where I’d buried Julius by the Euphrates. Assyria, where I’d watched Philip die before my eyes and taken an arrow for Trajan and earned the name Vercingetorix the Red. All gone. All for nothing. Trajan’s ring burned on my finger with its carved title. Parthicus. Conqueror of Parthia.

“Why?” I croaked.

Hadrian looked up at me for the first time, and I saw that his dark eyes were amused. “You think I will debate Imperial policy with a guard?”

That was when I felt the rage start to bank in my stomach.