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.
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 armour, 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 colours 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 armourer, and like everyone else in the century, he had been the best. The greave Brutus wore on his right leg was skilfully 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 and 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.
It was the sight of the building that had made him pause and take stock. He had been expecting a tenement of four or five storeys, clean, but small. Instead the front was covered in a façade of dark marble, almost like a temple. The main buildings were set back from the dust and ordure of the streets, visible only through a high gate. Brutus supposed Marius’ house had been larger, but it was difficult to be sure.
Tubruk hadn’t told him anything more than the address, but as he took in his surroundings Brutus saw it was a rich area, with a good part of the crowd made up of servants and slaves running errands and carrying goods for their masters. He had expected his mother to be impressed by the son who had become a centurion, but when he saw the house he realised she might think of him as just a common soldier and hesitated.
He thought of going back to the estate. He knew Renius and Tubruk would welcome him without judging his failure, but hadn’t he planned the meeting all the way from Greece? It would be ridiculous to turn back with the grand building in sight.
He took a deep breath and checked his armour one last time for imperfections. The leather laces were tied and there was not a blemish to be seen. It would do.
The crowd parted around him without jostling as he moved forward. Up close, the gate brought back memories of Marius’ house on the other side of the city. He had barely reached it before it was swung open before him, a slave bowing and waving him in.
‘This way, sir,’ the slave said, fastening the gate closed and walking before him down a narrow corridor. Brutus followed, his heart thumping. Was he expected?
He was taken into a room that was as lavish as any he had ever seen. Marble columns supported the ceiling and were gilded at the head and foot. White statues lined the walls and couches were gathered around a pool in the centre, where he caught a glimpse of heavy fish swimming almost motionlessly in the cool depths. His armour seemed clumsy and loud in the stillness and Brutus wished he had unlaced the greave to have a good scratch before coming in.
The slave vanished through a doorway and he was alone with only the soft rippling of the water to distract him. It was peaceful enough, and after a moment’s thought he removed his helmet and ran his hands through his damp hair.
He felt the air move as another door opened behind him and then stood abruptly in surprise as a beautiful woman walked towards him. She was painted like a doll and about his age, he judged. Her dress was of some fabric he had never seen and through it he could make out the outline of her breasts and nipples. Her skin was perfectly pale and the only ornament she wore was a heavy chain of gold that ran around her throat.
‘Do sit,’ she said. ‘You should be comfortable.’ As she spoke, she sat down on the couch he had leapt from and crossed her legs delicately, making the dress move and reveal enough to bring a flush to his cheeks. He sat down beside her, trying to find a scrap of the resolution he had summoned before.
‘Do I please you?’ she said softly.
‘You are beautiful, but I am looking for … a woman I used to know.’
She pouted and he wanted to kiss her with a terrible ache, to gather her into his arms and make her gasp. The image of it made his senses reel and he realised the air had filled with a perfume that made him dizzy. Her hand reached out and touched him just at the top of the greave, where inches of his bare brown leg were revealed. He shivered slightly and then came to his senses in shock. He rose to his feet in a sudden movement.
‘Are you expecting payment from me?’
The girl looked confused and younger than he had first thought.
‘I don’t do it for love,’ she said, a good deal of the softness in her voice suddenly missing.
‘Is Servilia here? She will want to see me.’
The girl slumped into the couch, her flirtatious manner gone in an instant.
‘She doesn’t see centurions, you know. You have to be a consul to have a go with her.’
Brutus stared at her in horror.
‘Servilia!’ he shouted, striding past the pool to the other side of the room. ‘Where are you?’
He heard a clatter of running feet approaching behind one door, so quickly opened another and slipped through, closing it on the laughter of the girl on the couch. He found himself in a long corridor with a gaping slave bearing a tray of drinks.
‘You can’t come through here!’ the slave shouted, but Brutus pushed him aside, sending the drinks flying. The slave bolted away, then two men blocked the corridor at the end. Both held clubs and together they filled the narrow walkway, their shoulders brushing the walls as they strode towards him.
‘Had a bit too much to drink, have you?’ one of them grated as they closed.
Brutus drew his gladius in one smooth movement. It glittered, the blade etched like the greave with swirling designs that caught the light. Both men paused, suddenly uncertain.
‘Servilia!’ Brutus yelled at the top of his voice, keeping the sword levelled at the men. They drew daggers from their belt sheaths and advanced slowly.
‘You
