Weeks on the road, and it never stopped raining until the day they crossed into Dacia. “We’ll raise the first garrison tomorrow,” the centurion announced, “so get some sleep.” But Titus wandered out of his tent that night instead, away from the guttering campfire, feeling the mud squelch under his boots. He raised a hand in greeting to the shadowy shape of the legionary standing the dawn watch, getting a salute in return, and wandered farther down the muddy track that passed for a road. Are there stars in Dacia? If only the clouds would roll back for once…

The attack came silent, black, and sudden.

Stars exploded, not in the sky but in Titus’s head as something clubbed him behind the ear with shattering force. He was facedown in the mud before he even knew he was falling, and booted feet were buffeting his side. He let out a yell and choked on mud. Someone hissed a warning in words he didn’t know, and he felt a blaze of pain as a spear haft thumped into his belly. He fought to breathe, his mouth full of muddy water; he tried to curl around his belly but a knee pressed into his back. He felt fingers in his hair, yanking his head up, and then there was the touch of steel at his throat.

There was a sudden yell, and a clatter of blades.

The knee disappeared from Titus’s back. He heard a shout, more rushed words in a language he didn’t recognize. Two shapes were lurching across the muddy road, hardly more than shadows in the moonless night. A grunted curse; they both went down, and one shape got its hands into the other’s hair and banged his head into the ground. Titus’s breath froze as one of the men staggered upright, but then he saw the outline of a Roman legionary helmet. Another shadowy figure lunged, and the sentry who had been on duty drove his gladius up under the man’s sword arm. There was a crack of thunder overhead, drowning the scream, and suddenly the rain began to drench down again. The sentry lifted his sword, but the two black shapes were disappearing into the rain, dragging their wounded friend between them. Titus blinked water out of his eyes, and they were already gone.

“Damn,” muttered the sentry, and turned to Titus. “You alive, Tribune?”

“Hopefully not.” Titus prodded cautiously at the lump he could already feel throbbing behind one ear. “But I believe I hurt too much to be dead.”

“Try standing up,” the legionary suggested.

Titus tried to gather his legs under him, froze, and sank back down. “Oh, gods. That was a bad idea.”

“It’s a very good idea, unless you want to lie here as bait for more Dacian savages.” The legionary put a hand out, found an elbow, and gave a haul. “Up you go, Tribune.”