“Amounts like that don't mean a great deal to Crassus. The gossip says he could buy half the Senate if he wanted to,” Tubruk said, pausing to lean on his axe. The wind swirled leaves around them. The air they pulled in bit at their throats with cold that was almost a pleasure.

“I know. My mother says he already owns more of Rome than he knows what to do with. Everything he buys makes a profit, which is all the more reason to wonder where the profit is in buying Primigenia.”

Tubruk shook his head as he raised his axe again. “He hasn't bought it, or you. Don't even say it. Primigenia is not a house or a brooch, and only the Senate can command it. If he thinks he is raising his own private legion, you should tell him to set a new standard on the rolls.”

“He hasn't said that. All he does is sign the bills I send him. My mother thinks he is hoping to secure her approval with the money. I want to ask him, but what if it's true? I won't prostitute my own mother to that man or anyone, but I must have Primigenia.”

“It wouldn't be the first time for Servilia,” Tubruk remarked with a chuckle.

Brutus placed his axe carefully on a log. He faced Tubruk and the old gladiator paused as he saw his angry expression.

“You can say that once, Tubruk. Don't do it again,” Brutus said. His voice was as cold as the wind that wrapped around them, and Tubruk rested again on his axe as he met the piercing eyes.

“You mention her a lot these days. I didn't teach you to drop your guard so easily with anyone. Neither did Renius.”

Renius snorted softly in reply as he kicked a piece of branch from under his feet. His pile of split logs was barely half the size of the others, though it had cost him more.

Brutus shook his head. “She is my mother, Tubruk!”

The older man shrugged. “You don't know her, lad. I just want you to be careful until you do.”

“I know enough,” Brutus said, picking up his axe again.

For almost an hour, the three men worked in silence, cutting the wood and piling it onto the small handcart that stood nearby. Finally, seeing that Brutus wasn't going to speak, Tubruk swallowed his irritation.

“Will you go to the legion field with the others?” he asked without looking at Brutus. He knew the answer, but at least it was a safe topic to continue their conversation. Every year in winter, all the boys who had turned sixteen went to the Campus Martius, where new legions planted their standards. Only the lame and the blind would be turned away. Freshly restored to the rolls of the Senate, Primigenia qualified to plant their eagle with the others.

“I'll have to,” Brutus replied, the words grudgingly wrung from him. His frowning expression eased as he talked. “With the ones from other cities, there could be as many as three thousand there. Some of them will contract with Primigenia. The gods know I need to raise the numbers, and quickly. Those barracks that Crassus bought are practically empty.”

“How many do you have already?” Tubruk asked.

“With the seven that came in yesterday, nearly ninety. You should see them, Tubruk.” The younger man looked into the distance as he saw their faces again in his mind. “I think every man who survived the battle against Sulla rejoined. Some had gone to other trades in the city, and they just threw down their tools and walked away when they heard Primigenia was being re-formed. Others we found guarding houses and temples, and they came without any argument. All for the memory of Marius.”

He paused for a moment and his voice sharpened. “My mother had a guard who was an optio in Primigenia. He asked her if he could rejoin and she let him go. He'll help Renius to train the new ones as we get them.”

Tubruk turned to Renius. “You'll be going with him?” he said.

Renius laid his axe down. “I've no future as a woodcutter, lad. I'll do my part.”

Tubruk nodded. “Try not to kill anyone. You'll have a hard enough job getting them in as it is. The gods know Primigenia isn't one they dream of joining anymore.”

“We have a history,” Brutus replied. “The new legions they're raising won't be able to match that.”

Tubruk looked sharply at him. “A shameful history, some think. Don't glare at me, that's what they'll say. They will have marked you as the legion that lost the city. You'll have a hard time of it.” He looked around at the piles of wood and the full cart and nodded to himself.

“That's enough for today. The rest will keep. There's a hot cup of wine waiting for us back at the estate.”

“Just one more then,” Renius said, turning to the boy at his side without waiting for a response.

“I think my swing's a little smoother than when I started, don't you, boy?”

The slave rubbed his hand quickly under his nose, leaving a silvery smear along his cheek. He nodded, suddenly nervous. Renius smiled at him.

“One arm isn't as steady as two with an axe, mind. Bring up that branch and hold her still while I cut her.”

The boy dragged a piece of oak to Renius's feet and began to stand away.

“No. Hold her steady. One hand on either side,” Renius said, his voice hardening.

For a second, the boy hesitated, glancing at the other two, who were watching with silent interest. There was no help there. Wincing, the boy placed his hands against the rounded sides of the log and leaned back out of range, his face terrible in anticipation.

Renius took his time finding a grip he liked. “Hold her tight, now,” he warned, beginning the swing as he spoke. The axe head came round in a blur and split the wood with a crack. The boy yanked his hands under his armpits, clenching his jaw against the sudden pain.

Renius sank into a crouch at the boy's side, resting the axe on the ground. He reached out and gently pulled one of the hands out to be inspected. The boy's cheeks were flushed with relief, and as Renius saw there was no wound, he grinned and ruffled his hair cheerfully.

“It didn't slip,” the boy said.

“Not when it mattered,” Renius agreed with him, laughing. “That was courage in you. It's worth a cup of hot wine, I'd say.” The boy beamed at this, his stinging hands forgotten.

The three men met each other's eyes in memories and pleasure at the boy's pride as they took the handles of the cart and began walking back down the hill to the estate.

“By the time Julius gets back, I want Primigenia strong,” Brutus said as they reached the gate.

Julius and Gaditicus peered through the bushes on the steep mountainside down at the distant, tiny ship moored below in the calm island bay. Both men were hungry and almost unbearably thirsty, but their waterskin was empty and they had agreed not to begin the trip back until it was dark.

It had taken longer than they expected to climb the gentler slope to the peak, where the ground fell away sharply. Each time the pair thought they had reached the summit, another was revealed, and in the end dawn had stopped them moving just after beginning the descent. By the time they caught their first view of the ship, Julius had been wondering if his pirate informer had been lying to save himself from the sharks. For the whole of the long journey to the island, the man had been chained at the oars of his own ship, and it looked as if he had earned his life with the details of Celsus's winter mooring.

Julius sketched what they could see in charcoal on parchment to have something to show the others when they were picked up. Gaditicus watched him in silence, his face sour.

“It can't be done, not with any certainty,” Gaditicus muttered as he took another look through the low foliage. Julius stopped drawing from memory and rose up onto his knees to view the scene once more. Neither man wore armor, both for speed and to prevent the sun flashing off it and giving away their position. Julius settled back down again to finish his sketch, looking at it critically.