92 AC
The silence behind them broke slowly, like a tide returning to the shore. As the chariot rumbled past, the citizens of Ctesiphon dared to raise their heads, capturing fleeting glimpses of the man who held their world in his palm.
Hadrian offered them a small, amicable smile—a calculated grace that offered hope without promising intimacy. The chariot surged forward, its iron-rimmed wheels thundering against the paved road. It was a masterpiece of engineering, a Via Regia paved with interlocking slabs of grey basalt that cut a straight, unyielding line through the chaotic heart of the city.
The procession moved deeper into the district. The Praetorians maintained their formation, moving as a wall of black steel that separated the divine from the mundane.
Hermione tugged at the velvet of Hadrian's cloak.
"Why do you not address them, Pater?" she asked, her voice small against the noise of the city.
Hadrian glanced down. His electric green eyes met the matching emerald of his daughter's innocent and curious ones.
"And what would we converse on, Hermione?"
She chewed her lip, thinking, her brow furrowing in that way that reminded him painfully of why he had christened her Hermione.
"Their woes?" she ventured.
"Is that a question or an answer?"
"An answer," she affirmed, straightening her posture.
Hadrian looked out over the sea of tiled rooftops stretching toward the horizon. "There are over two hundred thousand souls living within the walls of Ctesiphon, little one. Were I to grant a single heartbeat of time to listen to each of their woes, I would not sleep for days."
Hermione lowered her head, the logic dampening her spirit. Hadrian shifted his grip on the rail and placed a warm hand under her chin, tilting her face back up to the light.
"You are right to ask, my child. Empathy is a tool, just as mighty as steel is. But it is not the Imperator's duty to mend every broken fence or soothe every crying child. For that, we have governors, prefects, and magistrates."
He swept his hand toward the distant walls.
"My duty is the realm," Hadrian said, his voice dropping to a low rumble that only she could hear. "My burden is the safety of the realm entire. The Shepherd watches the flock for wolves; he does not stop to carry every lamb that stumbles. That is your burden to shoulder as well."
"I understand, Pater," Hermione said softly, though her eyes lingered on the people watching them pass.
"Come," Hadrian said, shifting his tone, letting the weight of the crown slip for a moment. "We are within reach of your destination."
The wind changed. The scent of the city—dust, spices, and unwashed stone—was replaced by the earthy, musk-heavy smell of hay and excrement of large beasts.
As the chariot rounded the final bend of the Via Regia, the Elephant Yards sprawled out before them. It was a city unto itself—a labyrinth of massive stone enclosures and wide, dusty paddocks. And there, towering above the fences like hills come to life, were the beasts from beyond the Jade Sea.
Dozens of them. Their trunks curled searching for hay, their tusks gilded with bands of bronze, their ears flapping with a sound like snapping sails.
Hermione's solemnity vanished. Her eyes ignited with pure, childish mirth, and a smile bloomed across her face that outshone the sun.
"Look!" she squealed, pointing a shaking finger. "They are even more brilliant than the paintings!"
Hermione darted toward the paddocks, her laughter trailing behind her like a kite string. A contingent of Praetorians peeled away from the main formation, following her with the lethal grace of black wolves shadowing a cub.
Hadrian remained by the rail, his attention turning to the man standing with head bowed at his side. The Chief Caretaker, a thick-set man named Varro with skin like tanned leather and hands scarred by rope burns. He was the Magister for the yards and waited for the Imperator to speak.
"The herd is as I expected," Hadrian observed, his eyes tracking a massive elephant testing the strength of the ironwood fencing. "But they are restless."
"The journey was long, Deus," Varro replied, his voice rough with the dust of the yard. "The climate of Sarnor is drier than the humidity of the Jade Sea. They are acclimatizing, slowly. It is the mothers of the newborns that give us pause. They are unruly and overprotective. They perceive the walls as a threat, not a shelter."
"They will learn the difference," Hadrian said, his voice flat. "Docility is a product of routine. Ensure the routine is continuous and they will adapt to it."
"It shall be as you say, Deus."
Hadrian turned his gaze from the beast to the caretaker. "How many are battle-ready? If the legions marched on the morrow, how many could carry a siege tower?"
Varro hesitated, doing the mental tally. "Of the two hundred... perhaps forty. The training is brutal, and the beasts are resistive. Breaking them takes time we have not had."
"Forty is not nearly enough to form a wing, Varro. It is not a vanguard." Hadrian's green eyes narrowed slightly. "I need sixty within the year."
Varro paled beneath his tan. "Deus, to push them so hard... we risk breaking their spirits entirely. Sixty is—"
"Sixty is the requirement," Hadrian interrupted. He did not raise his voice; he merely stated the fact with the immovability of a mountain. "Find a way, Magister. Or I shall find a Magister who can."
Varro bowed low, fear sweating through his tunic. "Thy will be done Deus."
A shriek of delight cut through the heavy air.
Hadrian turned just as Hermione came sprinting back from the far paddock. She was a vision of disarray—her sandals muddy, her hair wilder than usual, and her fine linen tunic completely sodden, clinging to her small frame. Water dripped from her nose and chin, but her face was alight with joy.
"Pater!" she gasped, skidding to a halt before him. "Did you see? The little one! He took the water from the trough and—whoosh!" She threw her arms up, mimicking the spray. "He got the guards wet too!"
Behind her, the Praetorians stood rigid, though droplets of water glistened on their black armor.
Hadrian looked down at his daughter, the stern mask of the Imperator cracking into a genuine smile. "I see he has marked you as one of his own."
"It's cold!" she laughed, shivering slightly as the breeze caught her wet clothes.
"Let us rectify that."
Hadrian waved his hand. It was a casual gesture, a simple flick of the wrist, yet the air pressure in the yards dropped instantly.
The water clinging to Hermione's tunic, her hair, and her skin did not dry; it was ripped away. Thousands of droplets peeled off her simultaneously, rushing upward and converging in the air between them. In the space of a breath, Hermione was perfectly dry, her hair fluffy and warm.
Hovering at eye level was a perfect sphere of undulating water, the size of a melon, suspended by nothing but will.