Hammers banged briskly around the inside of Titus’s skull, but he found himself on his feet. Don’t be sick, he told himself, swaying. You’re already the tribune who got himself beaten up by thugs and rescued by a sentry because he was too stupid to take his sword along stargazing. Don’t throw up too. He swallowed hard, and the hammers redoubled.

“What were you doing wandering around the Dacian border in the middle of the night?”

Titus wished the man wouldn’t speak so loud. “The rain stopped for once. I thought I’d go outside and look at the stars.”

“You’re in Germania now.” The legionary sounded more amused than contemptuous. “No stars. Just rain. You should have taken a guard with you. It’s my head on a plate if something kills you on my watch, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Titus said, before he remembered an officer should never apologize to his own men. “Was it footpads?”

“Maybe not.” The soldier found the shield one of Titus’s attackers had dropped, cursed the lack of light, felt over it instead. “Plenty of footpads in these woods, deserted legionaries and robbers and the like. They don’t usually carry round shields, though.”

“Dacian rebels carry round shields,” Titus said. “Not that I’ve ever seen a Dacian rebel, but reports say—”

“Better come back with me, Tribune.” The soldier rose, hardly more than a dark bundled shape in the shifting rain. “We reach the first of the Dacian garrisons tomorrow; you can stargaze safely there.”

“Agreed,” Titus said, and fell into step beside his rescuer. The road was black and quiet—in the driving rain, clearly no one had heard the shout of alarm and armed themselves for a rescue.

“You probably saved my life, legionary,” Titus said after a moment’s silence. “What’s your name?”

“Vercingetorix of the Tenth Fidelis. Most call me Vix.”

Titus paused. “Do I know you?”

“Took you long enough.” Definite amusement in the soldier’s voice now. “Five years back I was a guard in Senator Norbanus’s house. You were a sprat with an armload of violets come courting his daughter.”

Titus raked his memory. “That was you? The one who fought a mock bout with Emperor Trajan at a party?”

“You nobles never remember pleb faces.” Vix pointed out a pothole in the road before Titus stumbled in it.

“I remember the name, anyway,” Titus said. “Anybody would remember a name like yours.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well—it’s not a name, really.” In Latin, vix was just a nebulous adverb, something along the lines of slightly or hardly or barely. “I don’t meet too many people named Slightly.” The hammers in Titus’s head were starting to subside, but the lump behind his ear was already the size of a plum.