Quietus had insisted to the young prince that the Romans would not tolerate a king. Hadrian wondered whether anyone really believed that lie after more than a hundred years of Caesars. Perhaps some did, in the face of all the evidence. Lying in public was essential to civilisation, but only a fool lied to himself in private, and Quietus did not seem a fool, nor did any of the other men Trajan trusted. They knew that Trajan was a monarch, king in everything but name, and decent enough in his way if scarcely the best of them. After all, who was to judge which senator was more capable or more moral than the rest, let alone choose a successor on that basis? Trajan was a king and kings had courts, and when the king was childless, the succession was a matter to be arranged. So far, the princeps had shown not the slightest interest in the matter, which meant that someone else must decide. Quietus and a few others were riding high at the moment, so might well influence Trajan or perhaps dream of rising just as high. The very nature of a royal court was that influence waxed and waned and a man’s fall might be very sudden. Laberius Maximus was proof of that.

Hadrian barely listened as the afternoon’s events played themselves out. Trajan sat on the podium, with Quietus, Hadrian and half a dozen others beside him. Each ala marched past at the walk, trot and then gallop, and each in turn then halted directly in front while the princeps spoke to them about their performance. There were the usual platitudes about each commander and the care he had taken to keep the men and horses in the finest condition.

‘Your prefect Julius has done his duty undauntedly.’

Trajan talked about drill, leavening the praise with occasional instructions for change or improvement.

‘I do not care for too much speed where order is sacrificed. If a rider cannot see where he is going, or cannot rein back his mount at will, then he may come a cropper from ditches or traps he has not seen. Nothing must ever be done recklessly.’

The style and the delivery were very familiar by now. In the last month they had reviewed the troops waiting outside Antioch for the coming campaign, before each contingent began its march to the concentration area in Cappadocia. Most units had a lot of recent recruits, and many had not served in a major conflict for decades, apart from the detachments sent to Dacia. The army boasted of its high standards of training, but there were always so many other tasks for soldiers to perform, especially here in the eastern provinces, with their multitude of unruly cities. Eight days ago the emperor and his staff had watched Legio VIIII Hispana march, build a camp, and stage a mock battle. It was the weakest performance so far, and the advice had been fuller and more detailed, without preventing praise of ‘Crispinus, my legatus, and his diligent work in training you all’, which given that the man had only arrived at the very end of last year was generous. The Hispana was to stay in Syria as the only complete legion left in the province, for even Zeugma and Samosata were to be held by skeleton garrisons. Crispinus and his men were staying behind because Trajan wanted only the best for the real effort.