“Or Egypt,” I agreed. “I hear it’s all sunshine there, and sparkling rivers and big temples and women with painted eyes.” Though they couldn’t be as pretty as the girl I had waiting for me back in Mog—she was a beauty and no mistake. And besides, what use was dreaming about Africa or Egypt or the world’s hot places? I was stationed in the cold north, and likely to stay there the next twenty years.

Anyway, Germania was where the heat was, in battles if not in weather. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that. I wasn’t planning on being a legionary forever, but you didn’t climb the ladder in the Roman army without either family backing or glory in battle. I couldn’t do anything about the family backing, but the glory…

My bad-tempered horse took a sideways leap away from a puddle and nearly unseated me. I clung to the saddle, swearing.

“He’s being a bastard, isn’t he?” the patrician boy said tactfully. “Try tucking your foot into the girth on each side; that should keep you steadier.”

“All horses hate me,” I grunted, hauling myself upright. “What’s the point of a horse, anyway? One end bites, the other end shits, and all four corners kick.”

“You can’t ride to save your life,” the optio jeered. “Vix here could get bucked off the wooden horse of Troy!”

I glared. There wasn’t an optio in the Tenth who wasn’t universally hated. Every centurion had one, a second-in-command, and for the most part they were bullying tattling toadying prigs. I was still trying to figure a way to climb the ladder to centurion without becoming optio first. And after more than five years in the Tenth, neither option was exactly presenting itself.

“We can’t all ride like you, optio. To each his gifts.” The tribune smiled. Under the plumed helmet he had one of those profiles that all patricians like to think they have, but so rarely do; the kind that shouts at least fifteen generations of distinguished ancestors. He lifted that aquiline nose and sniffed the clean air appreciatively. “I suppose we’ll all be marching this way again if there’s war with Dacia?”

“Hope so,” I said, wistful.

He grimaced. “I’ll never be a soldier.”

“Then why are you?” I asked boldly. The centurion glowered at my impertinence, but I ignored him again. “Don’t you want a career in the legions?”

I couldn’t help but be envious. Tribune at twenty-two—with his connections, he could be vaulted straight on up to legate in a few years if he showed any aptitude at all. What I’d give for backing like that…