Tubruk paused again, then sighed before speaking.

“She has a place in the Via Festus, on the far side of the city, near the Quirinal hill. Think hard before you go there. It could disappoint you.”

“No. She deserted me when I was only a few months old. Nothing she could do would disappoint me now,” Brutus said softly, before taking up his axe again and continuing to cut at the old tree.

As the sun set, the oak fell, and they walked back to the estate house in the twilight. Renius was there, waiting in the shadow of the gate.

“They’ve built where my house stood,” he said angrily to Brutus, “and some young legionaries marched me out of the city as a troublemaker. My own city!”

Tubruk let out an explosive shout of laughter.

“Did you tell them who you were?” Brutus asked, trying to remain serious.

Renius was clearly nettled by their amusement and practically snarled, “They didn’t know my name. Pups, fresh from their mother’s milk, every one of them.”

“There is a room here, if you want it,” Tubruk said.

Renius looked at his old pupil for the first time then. “How much are you asking?” he said.

“Just the pleasure of your company, old friend. Just that.”

Renius snorted. “You’re a fool then. I’d have paid a fair rate.”

At Tubruk’s call, the gate was opened and Renius stalked in ahead of them. Brutus caught Tubruk’s eye and grinned at the affection he saw there.

Chapter 11

                  CHAPTER 11                  

Brutus stood at the crossroads at the base of the Quirinal hill and let the bustling crowd pass around him. He had risen early and checked his armor, thankful for the clean undertunic Tubruk had laid out. Some part of him knew it was ridiculous to care, but he had oiled each segment and polished the metal until it shone. He felt garish in the darker colors of the crowd, but he took comfort from the solid weight, as if it protected him from more than weapons.

The Bronze Fist had their own armorer, and like everyone else in the century, he had been the best. The greave Brutus wore on his right leg was skillfully shaped to follow the muscles. It was inscribed with a pattern of circles cut with acid, and Brutus had given a month’s pay for it. Sweat trickled behind the metal sheath and he reached down to try to scratch the skin beneath without success. Practicality had made him leave the plume of his helmet back at the estate. It would not do to be catching it on lintels inside the house where his mother lived.