Crispinus raised his arm in salute as the legion, his legion and the basis for his army, marched past. This was not the first time that he had led a column to war. Back in the first year of Lord Trajan’s principate he had commanded a column setting off from Vindolanda. The scene with its pomp and ceremony – and this being the army more stamping and shouting than anyone would believe humanly possible – had moved him then and it moved him now, more deeply perhaps because this was a far bigger force and he was in overall command. He had been young then, full less of hope than the absolute certainty that he was destined for great things.

Crispinus was grateful to Hadrian for giving him this last chance for some distinction, both for himself and to maintain the family name. Yet the plan was risky, and although he had to wear the mask with everyone else, he could see its many flaws. Crispinus would play his part, out of duty and without much hope. He wondered whether this was how Ferox felt all the time.

Crispinus gave a grim laugh.

‘Sir?’ Rufus asked.

‘Nothing, dear fellow.’ The last cohort was passing them and the baggage train approaching. ‘Let us go.’ Crispinus nudged the mare and led them through the gateway. On their left, just beyond the ditch, a cohort was waiting to fall in behind the baggage train. Tomorrow Crispinus would insist on more precautions for the march, with patrols and flankers. Today he simply wanted to get as many miles behind them as possible. As they cantered past the columns, each six abreast on the main track, no one cheered, but he did not expect that. They were going and that was that, the decision made for good or ill. Legio VIIII Hispana was on its way to Nicopolis. Only the gods knew what would await the legion once they got there.

Nicopolis

The same day, late afternoon

THAT DAY WAS a good day in the house of Simon because after two and a half long years his only son came home from his travels. The younger Simon was a burly man with a thick dark beard, bright eyes like his grandfather and sister, and a broad smile. His face was dark and lined from sun and wind, his gaze that of someone who had crossed through wilderness, always finding his way, and he wore a Parthian single-edged sword on his left hip. With him were two of the family’s servants, who were welcomed almost as warmly, and two other men he had hired along the way. The last two were very short and stocky, with narrow eyes, who spoke few words and those with a strange accent, but who were accepted by the family because Simon trusted them. He had had a good trip, and between them they brought back eight camels and seventeen donkeys, half with panniers of silks and spices, and the rest with iron wrought by a craft unknown in Parthia, Osrhoene or Rome itself. They also brought a princess, although that was by accident.