The weaselly assistant bowed. “Caesar.”

  “Speak.”

  “Alas, Caesar, their names are not known to me. Perhaps if we stroll through the camp, I can point them out to you.”

  “Attend me,” he said to one of the sentries at his tent.

  “Without the guard, perhaps. Sir. If you are less formidable...”

  Hadrian stopped Marcus. “I will not go into the camp-follower city without a guard—especially when I am only dressed in a loin cloth and sandals.” Does he think me a fool? Does he wish to thrust a blade into my belly? No guard? Surely, he jests.

  “Perhaps Caesar should don his toga picta,” Marcus said softly.

  “It’s too hot. Come now. Let’s away to the supporters’ encampment. The hour is late, and I am tired, but I would not see Antinous’ name belittled.” Your name, however, I shall trample underfoot if this is as I suspect. A poor attempt at an assassination. Who pays you, Marcus? That’s who I want. “Have you a sponsor in Rome, Marcus? A rich senator who sees to your comforts over and above the pay you receive as assistant overseer?”

  “From time to time I receive a stipend from a group of politicians, though it is not much and there is no praise heaped upon me by their orations.”

  “Who?”

  “I received a small sum and some trinkets from Longinus Marcellus a few moons ago. Before we settled here by the Nile.”

  “When his rider brought me news from the senate?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is Longinus’ plan? Does he wish you to curry favor and become chief overseer so he may fill the ranks with his men?”

  “I suspect so, Caesar.”

  Marcus led the way through the sleeping soldiers and sentries and into the throng of camp followers. The followers’ camp never slept. From whores to hunters, activities of daily life continued. The bakers were awake. Kneading and shaping dough made from good Egyptian grain and Italian oil to be baked in ovens built with stone and mud atop donkey-pulled carts. A thousand loaves baked, ofttimes twice daily. Already hundreds of loaves had been prepared and put to cart and delivered to the legions for their morning meal. The bakers kept a tally, using chalk and slate with notations as to what quadrant of the camp each cartload was headed. Their grain stores were heavily guarded by Egyptian conscripts and preserved in their fashion. Hundreds upon hundreds of large earthenware jars were buried in mud brick storehouses not too far from the camp, but far enough away to avoid the inundation’s reach. It was said the sand surrounding the grain bins smelled of flat bread due to the ambient heat. Hadrian had never taken the time to explore the area. He had given orders that the wheat be kept safe and had never again troubled himself with the matter. His word was law. His orders, divine.

  One woman, old, hunched over, and nearly toothless stood and greeted Hadrian. “Hail Caesar. What brings you to the supporters’ camp at this hour? Can I get you a hot loaf?”

  “Thank you, no. Every loaf should go to my soldiers. I have simple tastes. Porridge and wine are my staples. Posca keeps me humble.” He laughed at his own joke. “I drink with my men, but the good breads and other foodstuffs, I leave for them.” Hadrian paused. “Does this bother you?” He side-eyed Marcus with contempt and disdain. I swear Marcus makes mental notes of my generosity to my men so he may relate the information to villainous ears in Rome. I see him trying so hard to keep calm. Beads of sweat on his brow tell a different tale. Hadrian watched the baker—who was obviously desirous to break words but was holding back. “It’s not a trick question, woman.”

  “I’m sorry, Caesar. I’m not often queried about my preferences by the likes of...well...you. Simply stated, I have no concerns over how you feed your troops. I am paid. I am given grain untainted by rat feces or mold. I follow the armies with my oven and have since the days of your predecessors. I am a baker. This is what I do. The concerns of state are not my affair.”

  Hadrian glanced at the small shrunken form of Marcus. “Well, the woman who provides the bread has no issues with me or Antinous.”

  The baker chimed in. “Antinous is a polite young man. He serves you well as your cupbearer, Caesar.”

  Hadrian chuckled. “So he does. Indeed.” He glanced at his centurion guard. “Have you a copper?”

  The guard nodded.

  “Give it to the baker. I will see you reimbursed.”

  The guard reached inside his belt and then pulled away with a copper coin. He tossed it to the baker. “Caesar.”

  “Thank you.” The woman held the coin up and bowed her head to Hadrian.

  “Tell me, woman, have you heard of anyone speaking ill of Antinous or myself? I come not to punish but to clarify, so have no fear in sharing names with me.”

  A small crowd had gathered. The laundress, the armorer. Two young whores. Brother and sister by the looks of them. The son of the blacksmith and the hunters, no doubt setting off to kill fresh meat. An ibex, perhaps. Or gazelle. Anything but camel. If a wild camel was caught, it was trained, not eaten.

  “Truthfully, Caesar...” The woman glanced at Marcus, then at the small crowd. “Only your aid speaks ill of you and yours.”

  Marcus protested. “Why, you old bat! How dare you!”

  “I sleep little that the bread is ready for the troops when dawn breaks. I hear whispers. And I’ve seen you prowling about like a rat on a moldy crust.”

  “As I suspected. Thank you.” Hadrian reached out quickly and took Marcus by the tunic neckline. “Your dagger, centurion.”

  The guard passed Caesar his blade.

  Marcus squirmed. “No. I have done nothing.”

  Hadrian squeezed the fabric tightly. “Why tell me no when you, yourself, have brought upon my judgement by speaking falsely against Antinous?”

  “I did not mean...”

  “You did not mean what? To interrupt me with fables and lies? I am a busy man, Marcus.” He cut away the blue cloak hanging regally off the liar’s shoulders. “You are hereby demoted to baker’s apprentice—and even that noble task is above you. I will not see your face again.” He turned to the baker woman. “And you, my fine woman, shall receive three coppers a week for training this outcast in the fine art of bread. His life shall be bread. His nights shall be bread.”

  “Yes, Caesar.” The woman stood tall as the centurion placed Marcus into her care. “The ovens need new clay. I’ll teach you that first.”

  Marcus protested. “I am a nobleman and second only to your council of generals.”

  Hadrian laughed. “No longer.”

  MARCUS WENT RIGID AS his world began to collapse. It has all been planned. How can things be going wrong when the plan is perfect? This cannot be.. I am to be elevated by his death, not put to manual labor with the working dregs of society. If I fail now, the senate will have me murdered in my sleep. My mistress will be raped and torn to pieces. My possessions distributed or burned. I must stop Hadrian from further dalliance with that Greek lad and force his attentions to Rome. In a furious rage, he put hand to dagger, and his jealousy seeping from him like an open wound, he forcefully lunged at Caesar. He had a knife—his own short knife often used for meals. He stabbed Hadrian’s ribcage. The emperor gasped and he and Marcus locked gazes as the blade passed through flesh and bone.

  The baker lunged at the attacker and threw herself atop him, though it was clear the dagger had ripped into Hadrian’s side. She spread her weight atop Marcus and pummeled his head with her fists. The knife, she knocked from his hand. “Shall I strangle him for you, Caesar? These hands are strong in your service.”

  “I do not wish the hands that bake bread to be stained by such things. Guard...”

  The guard glanced at Hadrian. “Shall I dispatch him?”

  Hadrian nodded.

  The guard gently bid the woman to move, and he lifted Marcus by the shoulder of his tunic. In one swift move, he broke the neck of the former assistant overseer. The soldier looked at Hadrian. “Too good of a death for an assassin. Better he died slow along the Nile in crucifixion.”

  Though injured and bleeding, Hadrian lifted the baker to her feet. “You are an honorable woman. Your loyalty shall be rewarded. Whatever property this man had, is now yours. From his tent to his horse to his personal stores.” This is a deep wound. I must remain calm. Dignified. I cannot allow this attack to reveal any weakness in me.

  THE GUARD SIDE-EYED the lifeless body of Marcus. It was his job to protect Caesar. He was a bit desensitized to death—and he knew it. “Apologies for not stopping him, Caesar. The little weasel was clever, I’ll give him that. I shall escort you to the medicus.”

  “He stabbed me. He stabbed a living god.” Hadrian pulled away his hand covered in blood. “To attack me is to attack the gods. What gall.”

  The baker stepped forward. “May I, Caesar?” She gently reached out and placed sticky dough over the deep, jagged wound. It essentially sealed the gash. “Leave it there until you can be sewn by the medicus. If he isn’t drunk, he should well be able to hold a needle and thread and perhaps even wash his hands first. Do I still get the money?”

  “Ingenious. The blood flow is completely staunched. And yes, I’ll see to your payment, though you are now without an apprentice. All that was his is now yours.”

  “I have many hands eager to learn my skills. Bread is the staff of life—even lifesaving. Go now, Caesar. I fear for you.” Treating Hadrian as if he were her son, she passed him off to the guard. “Take him to get stitched. I’ll watch over the corpse. Thank you for honoring the promise of three coppers, though this sad little man will no longer learn how to bake. Will your scribe bring me a letter of claim that I may collect his belongings?”

  “Yes, but go now and collect anything of value before vultures descend. My guards will see that the jackals break their fast well this day.” Hadrian allowed the guard to support him as they walked. Another legionnaire ran up. He assisted their emperor to the medical tent.

  “Hail, Caesar,” the woman replied. She pulled on the sleeve of her fellow baker, and carrying empty baskets, they ran off to find the tent of the late assistant overseer.

  Hadrian ambling through the camp followers always gave onlookers pause. At this very early hour of pre-dawn, with blood covering his hands and side, and being escorted bodily by legionnaires, even more so. Some had never seen him up close. The rumors of his great stature and glory were true. Clearly true to those now standing agog.

  The medicus had more scars than a legion of men. His long hair fell into greasy curls at his shoulders, and his tunic had bloodstains. “Caesar.” He genuflected briefly. “Stabbed, were you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, your wound has been sealed neatly, but dough once applied can be tricky to remove without pulling the wound further. It is an old battlefield trick, and one I’ve seen used often. Biting ants can close a wound too. Though we are far from a jungle region where one might find them. Caesar, lay down on your left side that I may tend to this gash on your right.”

  Hadrian complied. “In all my years, I have never seen dough used as a poultice. Ingenious. I owe the baker my life.”

  The medicus carefully lifted the drying poultice of dough. Blood immediately oozed. He did not hesitate to wipe away any residue and stab the gash with a needle and thread.

  Hadrian wasn’t going to allow himself the privilege of crying out, though the pain was intense. Always strong. Always composed. Except in the arms of Antinous—when he could truly be free. “Is it deep?”

  The medicus didn’t pause his needlecraft to reply. “Fairly. And jagged. And in a place that makes healing tricky. Looks like a puglio mark.”

  “Yes. It was. No doubt infected with the ailments of whatever sores that bastard had in his mouth. Thank you for taking care of this,” Hadrian replied. And man...bathe. The Nile is but a short distance from us. He didn’t want to insult the physician by choking on the man’s body odor.

  “Seventeen stitches to close it. Please keep it covered and dry for a week. If infection sets in, send for me. I will reassess soon. You can wash it with posca and keep honey under the linen to avoid infection. I do hope the person who did this to you has been punished.”

  “His body lies cold.”

  “I see. This man was known to you.”

  “Yes. A trusted member of my council.”

  “No longer.” The medicus wrapped a clean linen bandage soaked in honey over the wound and then secured it with another strip of fabric. “The honey prevents infection. It is a sweet blessing from the gods.”

  Antinous burst into the tent of the medicus. “Caesar! Thank all the gods you live. I was told of the attack and feared the worst.”

  Hadrian stood slowly. He withheld a wince as the stitches pulled. “Nothing short of death will keep me from your side and even death could not hold me. This little scratch is nothing.”

  “I don’t know if I should slaughter a goat to thank the gods or just weep at your feet.”

  “The gods don’t need another goat, and I would rather hear laughter from your lips than see tears fall from your eyes. Go back to our tent, Antinous. I have matters to which I must attend. Such as appointing another assistant overseer. It seems my trust may have been misplaced in Marcus.”

  “He served you for years without incident.”

  “He wished me harm. I must devise his loyalties and quash them. I took note of his new sandals—Egyptian, quality handmade. Finest leather. His tent has some new embellishments. He’s been paid off.”

  “I would sharpen my dagger on the throats of any in collusion.”

  Antinous and Hadrian shared a thoughtful moment. Hadrian sighed. “I would not see your hands bloodied.”

  “I would kill for you. I would die for you.”

  “Let’s hope these things do not come to pass.” Their hands briefly clasped. If the gods celebrated love, then their revelry never died when toasting the love of Hadrian and Antinous.

  Hadrian broke from his gaze into Antinous’. “Centurion, see Antinous safely to our tent and double the guards. Rouse the aeneator to summon my most experienced legionnaires. I want the decanus to meet me in the clearing. Full dress. Pikes, swords, and shields. Awaken the generals.”

  The centurion pounded fist to chest and then motioned for Antinous to follow him.

  “I will fight for you, Caesar,” Antinous said as he stepped from the medicus’ tent.

  “I know. If it comes to that, I will give you my sword to wield against my enemies.” Hadrian called after to the centurion. “Have my dresser bring my armor and posca. The torch bearers should set up along the parameter. We have hours until dawn but this cannot wait.”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  Hadrian sat, reeling. He ran over the events leading to the present moment. His actions. His orders. I have called out a formation, in the wee hours of the morning, because one man threatened me. One man. I have been hard pressed by other assailants and won. He touched a scar across his belly. I won. I shall win again. That little weasel used Antinous against me. I will not stand for that. Antinous is the earth upon which I rule and the heavens which are my divine right. No. I shall not see his name sullied.

  “Opium, Caesar? The pain will be significant once the adrenaline wears off.” The medicus motioned to a collection of small vials in a box.

  Hadrian shook his head. “I’d rather not until the need calls for it.”

  A legionnaire—a very young man of not more than sixteen years, fresh faced with a uniform too large—appeared at the entrance of the medical tent. “Caesar.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your overseer, Caesar...he was found dead but moments ago. His throat and his...”

  “Go on. If you wish to be a true man of the republic, you must be able to orate well in times of peril.”

  “His throat was cut and his member, Caesar...it had been sliced off and placed inside the gash.”

  “Well, that’s one way to rid yourself of a problem. Have the body bound in linen and given to the dissignatore. He honored the gods of Rome—so I will bury him thusly. I will be along presently.”

  The youth pounded his fist against his breastplate. “Caesar.” He turned before he hurried away.

  “It appears you are in need of an overseer and an assistant now, my liege.” The medicus fussed with the bandage across Hadrian’s torso.

  “There are many who seek to increase their status. I need only reach out and ten men will rally to the positions. I will not choose from among them. I seek only a man of humility. A man who stays in the shadows yet knows all.”

  “You seek a sorcerer.”

  “I may. Yes.”

  “Can I escort you to the clearing where your troops gather?”

  “Stay close, physician.”

  “As you wish, Caesar.”

  Chapter Five

  Dressed in a tunic and robes of state, his wound painful, yet bound tightly to prevent seepage, Hadrian forced his way into the center of the small but elite gathering of his troops. “An attack on me is an attack on the empire. Tonight, words were levied against Antinous by a once-trusted man, and when I investigated the matter, I was cut. His body is now outside our fires in the high desert where jackals may feed upon it.”

  A harried woman with hennaed hair and gaudy rouge—a whore—appeared from the shadows. “May I speak, Caesar? And though my words might be my last, they must be said.”

  “You are his woman?”

  She nodded. “And now without a home since the baker took all that Marcus had.”

  “Do you seek compensation for his death?”

  “No. I want nothing from you, except to break words.”

  “Explain yourself.” Hadrian’s command echoed through the enclave.

  “Marcus was sorely aggrieved by your practices. Since I am to die this night as I stood in his confidence, then I shall speak on his behalf. You spend more energy with your consort than you do with your troops. You do not love Rome. You love him. Marcus wanted only what was best for the legions. A leader who stands first for Rome.”