Renius’s calm expression suddenly infuriated Brutus. With a pair of horses under them, the pursuers from the village would never have come close. It was not in Renius’s nature to regret past decisions, but every pace gained on the footsore Romans made Brutus grunt in irritation.

“How can you just sit there while they climb up to us? The immortal Renius, victor of hundreds of bouts to the death, cut to pieces by a few ragged Greeks on a hilltop.”

Renius looked at him, unmoved, then shrugged. “The slope will cut down their advantage. Horses aren’t much good up here.”

“So we’re making a stand then?” Brutus demanded, feeling vast relief that Renius had some sort of plan.

“They won’t be here for hours yet. If I were you, I’d sit down in the shade and rest. You’ll find sharpening my sword will calm your nerves.”

Brutus scowled at him, but still took up the older man’s gladius and began to work a stone along the edges in long strokes.

“There are five of them, remember,” he said after a while.

Renius ignored him, fitting the leather cup over his stump with a grunt. He held one end of the tying thong in his teeth and knotted it with the ease of long practice while Brutus looked on.

“Eighty-nine,” Renius said suddenly.

“What?”

“I killed eighty-nine men in the bouts in Rome. Not hundreds.”

He rose smoothly to his feet and there was nothing of an old man in his movement. It had taken a long time to retrain his body to balance without the weight of his left arm, but he had beaten that loss as he had beaten everything else that stood against him in his life. Brutus remembered the moment Cabera had pressed his hands into the gray flesh of Renius’s chest and seen the color change as the body stiffened in a sudden rush of returning life. Cabera had sat back on his heels in silent awe as they watched the old man’s hair darken, as if even death couldn’t keep its grip on him. The gods had saved the old gladiator, perhaps so he in turn could save another young Roman on a hilltop in Greece. Brutus felt his own confidence build, forgetting the hunger and exhaustion that racked him.

“There are only five today,” Brutus said. “And I am the best of my generation, you know. There is not a man alive who can beat me with a sword.”

Renius grunted at this. “I was the best of my generation, lad, and from what I can see, the standard has slipped a bit since then. Still, we may yet surprise them.”

* * *

Cornelia groaned in pain as the midwife rubbed golden olive oil into her thighs, helping the muscles to uncramp. Clodia handed her a warm drink of milk and honey wine, and she emptied the cup almost without tasting it, holding it out for more even as the next contraction built in her. She shuddered and cried out.