Pompey had ridden, fenced and thrown javelins like a stripling, and his soldiers had cheered him to the skies as well. Still, after a promising start, he had also lost the war in a single day when his much larger army was routed by Caesar at Pharsalus. Hadrian wondered whether that was a bad omen.

‘Ah, you are the emperor’s cousin,’ Arbandes said, breaking in on his thoughts, ‘so of the royal blood.’

Lusius Quietus turned his head to watch, paying close attention to how Hadrian responded.

‘Not quite, lord prince. My late father was a cousin of the Lord Trajan. I am his kin, but distant. And in Rome we do not have a royal family.’

‘Nor a king,’ Quietus cut in. ‘The Lord Trajan is princeps, the first among us and the chief servant of the res publica, chosen to lead us in peace and war.’ Quietus smiled, showing his neat teeth, which were very white against his deep brown skin. ‘You will have to pardon Romans our pride, but it explains so much about us.’

Hadrian often thought that Quietus was the finest looking man that he had ever seen, although like the emperor he was not particularly tall. Unlike Trajan, his was a light frame, perfectly balanced, so that he was almost a human version of the ponies so loved by the Numidians. He was prince of that wild African people – king perhaps by right – and Hadrian suspected that you could see the marks where his ears had been pierced as an infant, but from the age of six he was raised as a Roman aristocrat by a father who had proved his loyalty to the res publica and been rewarded with citizenship. Domitian had made the son an eques and an army officer, decorated him several times and then cashiered him. Trajan recalled him to the army, promoted him, decorated him and eventually enrolled him in the Senate. Now this ‘Roman’ senator was telling an eastern prince about Roman pride. Perhaps one day Arbandes would follow a similar path and tell others what it meant to be Roman, for that was how the empire worked.

‘My apologies, I meant no offence,’ the young prince assured them.

‘None taken, my dear boy,’ Quietus’ grin was infectious, ‘none at all. Romans are not given to apologies, either, so we don’t expect ’em from others.’ Hadrian suspected that Quietus’ face would not quite meet the standards set down by the famous sculptors so revered in Athens, but had an animation that few artists could ever have captured. He must be well into his forties, but did not look it, for his skin was smooth as a child’s. That animation gave him charm and whenever he wanted Quietus could be very likeable. ‘The point is,’ he continued, ‘that the Lord Trajan steers the ship of state because he is the best of us. One day – though with the gods’ blessing not for many years – he will pass into the Heavens and he, helped by the Senate, will choose the next best man to succeed him.’