The three young Romans faced the crowd stiffly, and Renius looked surprised as Brutus drew him a few steps out of their hearing.

“Cato will go berserk,” Brutus muttered. “Of all legions, he won't want his son in this one.”

Renius cleared his throat and spat on the dusty grass of the field. “He won't want him branded a coward, either. It's your choice, but you'll gain nothing by letting them go now. He may try to buy you off or he may endure it. We'll know in a day or two.”

Brutus looked closely at the old gladiator and shook his head in disbelief. “You've forced this on me now, so I'll see it through.”

Renius glanced at him. “If you'd hit him, his father would have killed you.”

“You didn't know who he was when you stopped me!” Brutus retorted.

Renius sighed. “I taught you better, lad, I really did. What else should I think when a boy wears his father's crest on a gold ring big enough to buy a house with?”

Brutus blinked at him, then walked over to the three new recruits and examined Germinius's hand for a moment without speaking. He was about to return to Renius when three more boys detached from the crowd and approached the Primigenia eagle.

“Sign your names on the scroll there and stand with the others, lads,” Renius told them. “We'll give you the oath when there's enough of a crowd.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he waved them over.

CHAPTER 22

Between the heat of Greece and the excuses, Julius was finding it hard to keep his temper. He was desperate for recruits, but the walled Roman city had forgotten its founding duty and every demand was met with delay and discussion.

“I have the young men. Now bring out the veterans,” Julius said to the city elder.

“What? Would you leave us defenseless?” the man spluttered in indignation.

Julius remained silent, waiting a few moments before replying, as Renius used to. He'd found the small pauses gave weight to his words like nothing else.

“My men are going directly from here to attack Mithridates. There is no one else for you to defend against. I do not have time to train more farmers to be legionaries, and from what you say, there is no other Roman force within a hundred miles of here.

“Every man within these walls who has ever held a sword in service of Rome, I want out here, armed and armored as best you can.”

The besieged elder began to speak again and Julius interrupted him, raising his voice slightly. “I do not expect to have to mention the conditions of their retirement. It would be an attack on their honor for me to remind them that they were given land on the understanding that if Rome called them, they would answer. She calls. Fetch them out.”

The elder turned away, almost running back to the council hall. Julius waited with his men standing to attention at his back. He had suffered enough of the council's delays, and part of him had no sympathy at all. They were in a conquered land and the constant worry of rebellion had occurred. Did they expect to sit it out behind their fine walls? He wondered what might have happened if Mithridates had reached them first. Hardly worth betting that they would have declared loyalty to him out of fear for their families, throwing open the gates and kneeling in the dust.

“Someone's coming up the main street,” Gaditicus said behind him.

Julius turned to his left and listened to the measured step of at least a century of legionaries. He swore under his breath. The last thing he needed at that moment was to come face-to-face with another officer from the regular legions.

As they came into sight, Julius's spirits leaped.

“Legionaries… halt!” came a graveled voice, its bark echoing back from the walls of the small square.

One of Julius's men whistled softly in surprise at what they saw. The men were old. They wore armor that dated back almost fifty years in some cases, with simpler designs of plate and mail. Their bodies showed the results of decades of war. Some lacked an eye or a hand. Others showed ancient puckered scars on their faces and limbs, poorly stitched, seaming their skins in long crescents.

The commander was a burly man with a shaven head and a powerful set of shoulders. His face was deeply wrinkled, but he still gave an impression of strength that reminded Julius vaguely of Renius as he saluted, judging Julius's command instinctively by the distance he kept from the others.

“Quertorus Far reporting, sir. We thought the council would talk all day, so we sent out the call without them. The veterans are ready to be inspected, sir.”

Julius nodded and followed the man, watching as more and more of them entered the square and lined up in neat formation.

“How many are there?” he asked, trying to judge the worth of the whitebeards he saw standing straight in the winter sun.

“Altogether, nearly four hundred, sir, though some are still making their way in from outlying farms. We should be all in by dark tonight.”

“And the average age?” Julius continued.

Quertorus stopped and turned to face the young officer before him. “They're veterans, sir. That means old. But they're all volunteers and they're as hard and tough as you're going to need to smoke out Mithridates. They need a few days to drill together, but remember, they've all been tested and they've all come through. A lot of men have died for Rome over the years. These are the ones that won.”

The man had an insolent expression, but Julius could hear the belief in his words as he tried to reassure the stern young officer who had come to their city for an army.

“And you, Quertorus? Do you command them?”

The bald man laughed, a short chop of sound, quickly cut off. “Not me, sir. The council thinks it does, I suppose, but these men go their own way and have done for a long time, most of them. Mind you, when Mithridates took the port, they began polishing their swords again, if you understand me.”

“You don't talk as if you were one of them,” Julius said, turning it into a question.

Quertorus raised his eyebrows. “Didn't mean to, sir. I did my twenty years with the First Cyrenaica, ten of them as optio.”

Some instinct prompted Julius to ask, “The last ten?”

Quertorus cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “More like ten in the middle, sir. Lost my rank toward the end for excessive gambling.”

“I see. Well, Quertorus. It seems we're gambling again, you and I,” Julius said quietly.

Quertorus beamed at him, revealing missing teeth in his lower jaw. “I wouldn't bet against them, sir, not if you knew them.”

Julius eyed the massed ranks with less confidence than he showed. “I hope you're right. Now step into rank yourself and I'll address them.”

For a second, he thought Quertorus might refuse and he wondered if the man had lost his rank for more than just gambling, a fairly common occupation of legionaries not on duty. Then the bald man stepped into the ranks and came to attention, his eyes on Julius with interest. Julius filled his lungs with air.

“Veterans of Rome!” he bellowed, making those closest to him jump. He'd always had a powerful voice, but part of him wondered if it would be enough if some of them were deaf.

“My men and I passed two villages to the south before we came here, collecting recruits. The news we heard is that Mithridates is camped about a hundred miles to the west. You can be sure that fresh Roman legions will be on the march as I speak, coming east from the coast ports at Dyrrhachium and Apollonia. I intend to force him toward them; to be the hammer for the Roman anvil.”

He had their interest, all right. Every eye was on him, from his own men and the grizzled veterans. He thanked his gods for the decision to march ten miles north to recruit at the city.