Ferox would do his job, and do it well, if not quite in the way you expected. He had proved himself time and again and was a useful man to have with Crispinus in the months to come. There was not much time left, although thankfully he had received word of yet another delay before the new legatus arrived to take charge of Syria. There was still a chance left to achieve something and Nicopolis was the only real prospect. Hadrian desperately needed a big success, for Trajan was dying. The stars pointed in that direction, although nothing was quite certain and it could prove to be anytime in the next five years. Far more than that, Hadrian had spent a lot of time with Trajan in the winter months at Antioch and had been shocked by how much the man had aged.

Trajan had been friendly by his standards, even to Hadrian who was invited to accompany him when he visited a number of shrines. Together they had climbed the mountain path near the mouth of the River Orontes to the temple of Zeus Casius, Trajan rushing ahead even though the steps were steep. Hadrian had composed a dedication on his behalf, ‘from the ruler of the earth to the ruler above’ to accompany the offerings of spoils from Dacia. Two slaves carried these, one with a huge golden bowl and the other with several ornate helmets. No one else was with them, and the slaves did not count, so only Hadrian saw the emperor’s eyes begin to flicker, and his speech slur as he prayed. Trajan was not the sort of man to make a show of religious passion, even of the mildest sort, let alone the ecstasies associated with the more exotic and vulgar cults. He slumped down, sitting hard on his bottom, and if Hadrian had not caught him by the shoulders he would have fallen flat. There was a stench as the ruler of the earth fouled himself, and Hadrian wondered whether the emperor was dying.

The slaves did not seem surprised.

‘Hold him, my lord,’ one said softly. ‘The fit will pass.’

Hadrian did as he was told and before long the emperor’s eyes became steady if unfocused. Then he started to sing. It was an old song, a marching song of the legions about the misadventures of a randy centurion. The ruler of the world was soon bawling out the verses, keeping to the time that helped men stay awake even while fatigue and the rhythmic crunch of boots lulled them to sleep.

‘Lift his arms, my lord.’ One of the slaves had produced a clean tunic and underwear from a satchel. ‘We must be quick.’ The haste was not in case they were discovered, but because the emperor was still unaware of what was happening and easier to handle. Hadrian did little, save to take Trajan’s weight, and the two imperial slaves swiftly stripped and re-dressed him. By this time the emperor was sitting up strongly and did not need supporting.