The war was coming soon. All that he had seen confirmed his suspicions, and made him realise that there was less time than he had thought. No one else of high rank seemed to see what he saw, but that was all to the good for Dacia was a bonfire waiting for the torch to ignite it. The image reminded him of the fire at Piroboridava, of those desperate hours as they brought it under control. Once it was raging you had to channel and starve a blaze, which meant sacrificing some buildings to save others, tearing them down so that there was no fuel for the flames. Now it was a question of controlling, slowing and preserving what mattered. A mere legatus legionis like Hadrian could not extinguish the inferno that was soon to erupt – nor would the emperor thank him for doing so. Dacia had been Trajan’s victory three years ago and making that success final was his task and his alone. Hadrian’s task was to prevent the start of the war being too much of a disaster.

Men would die whatever he did, probably many of them, for the garrisons across the Danube were scattered and vulnerable and nothing could be done about that. A few small disasters were both inevitable and useful to prove the seriousness of the situation to those far away. What he needed to do was make sure that the losses served a purpose, channelling the blaze and giving him the chance to slow it and then stop it, while making sure that all could see what he had done.

A slave entered and coughed, in case his arrival had gone unnoticed.

‘What is it?’ Hadrian asked. The masseur continued his work, knowing his master’s preferences.

‘The noble Lucius Marcius wishes to see you, my lord.’

‘Let him come in,’ Hadrian said, suspecting that the tribune had come on business.

If Marcius was surprised to see his commander naked and being rubbed by a slave, he did not show it. ‘Half of the waggons are now across the river, my lord. The remainder will have to wait for tomorrow as the ferry is needed for a caravan of merchants who have the permission of the legatus Augusti to cross.’

Hadrian sniffed.

‘Once the rest are across there will be forty-seven waggons and two hundred pack mules, carrying a mix of wheat, flour, salted bacon and wine,’ Marcius said. ‘The detailed list is here.’ He passed a writing tablet to the slave who had ushered him in. ‘It is a great deal, and I cannot help wondering whether they have the space for it at Piroboridava.’

‘They will make the space, my dear fellow. I doubt that they have rebuilt any of the lost granaries, but I am sure that they can find somewhere for everything to go.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You still appear troubled, my dear Lucius.’

Marcius gulped nervously, but to his credit persisted. ‘It is the escort, my lord. Fifty infantrymen and a dozen cavalrymen all under a mere duplicarius and from a ragbag of different units. It seems too few for such a large convoy.’