The sun-hammered beauty of the mountains concealed a poor soil that attracted few farmers. The only signs of life were the small figures of the hunters making their slow way up. Brutus knew they could not stay ahead of horses for much longer and as soon as they reached the plains below the Romans would be run down and killed. Both of them were approaching exhaustion and the last of the dry food had gone that morning.
Brutus eyed the vegetation that clung to life on the craggy slopes, wondering if any of it was edible. He’d heard of soldiers eating the singing crickets that haunted each tuft and clump of grass, but it wouldn’t be worth it to catch one at a time. They couldn’t go another day without food and their waterskins were less than half full. Gold coins still filled his belt pouch, but the nearest Roman city was more than a hundred miles away across the plains of Thessaly and they’d never make it. The future looked bleak unless Renius could come up with an idea, but the old gladiator was silent, apparently content to while away an hour rubbing his stump. As Brutus watched, Renius pulled one of the dark flowers and squeezed its juice onto the hairy pad that hung from his shoulder. The old gladiator was always testing herbs for their soothing effect, but, as usual, he sniffed with disappointment and let the broken petals fall out of his good hand.
Renius’ 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’ 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 grey flesh of Renius’ chest and seen the colour 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.
The midwife continued to lather oil over her in wide, slow strokes, holding a cloth of the softest wool in her hands, which she dipped into a bowl of the liquid.
‘Not long now,’ she said. ‘You are doing very well. The honey and wine should help with the pain, but it will soon be time to move you over to the chair for the birth. Clodia, fetch more cloths and the sponge in case there’s bleeding. There shouldn’t be much. You are very strong and your hips are a good size for this work.’
Cornelia could only moan in response, breathing in short gasps as the contraction came on fully. She clenched her teeth and gripped the sides of the hard bed, pushing down with her hips. The midwife shook her head slightly.
‘Don’t start pushing yet, dear. The baby is just thinking about coming out. It’s dropped down into position and needs to rest. I’ll tell you when to start pressing her out.’
‘Her?’ Cornelia gasped between heavy breaths.
The midwife nodded. ‘Boys are always easier births. It’s girls who take as long as this.’ She thanked Clodia as the sponge and cloths were placed next to the wooden birthing chair, ready for the last stages of the labour.
Clodia reached out and took Cornelia’s hand, rubbing it tenderly. A door to the room opened quietly and Aurelia entered, moving quickly to the bed and taking the other hand in her own tight grip. Clodia watched her covertly. Tubruk had told her all about the woman’s problems so that she would be able to deal with any difficulty, but Cornelia’s labour seemed to focus her attention and it was right that she should be present at the birth of her grandchild. With Tubruk gone from the house to complete the business they had discussed, Clodia knew it would fall on her to remove Aurelia if she began her sickness before the birth was over. None of her own servants would dare, but it was not a task Clodia relished and she sent a quick prayer to the household gods that it would not be necessary.
‘We think it will be a daughter,’ Clodia told her as Julius’ mother took up station on the other side.
Aurelia did not reply. Clodia wondered if her stiffness was because she was the lady of the house and Clodia only a slave, but dismissed the idea. The rules were relaxed during a labour and Tubruk had said she had trouble with the small things that people took for granted.
Cornelia cried out and the midwife nodded sharply.
‘It’s time,’ she said, turning to Aurelia. ‘Are you up to helping us, dear?’
When there was no answer, the midwife asked again, much louder. Aurelia seemed to come out of a daze.
‘I’d like to help,’ she said quietly and the midwife paused, weighing her up. Then she shrugged.
‘All right, but it could be hours. If you’re not up to it, send in a strong girl to help in your stead. Understand?’
Aurelia nodded, her attention again on Cornelia as she got into position to help take her weight over to the chair.
As Clodia too began to lift, she marvelled at the confidence the midwife showed. Of course, she was a freedwoman, so the days of her slavery were long behind, but there was not an ounce of deference in her manner. Clodia rather liked her and resolved to be as strong as was needed herself.
The chair was built solidly and had arrived on a cart with the midwife a few days before. Together, the women walked Cornelia to where it stood, close to the bed. She gripped the arms tightly, letting her whole weight fall on the narrow curve of the seat. The midwife knelt in front of Cornelia, pushing her legs gently apart over the deep crescent cut into the old wood.
‘Press yourself against the back of the chair,’ she advised, then turned to Clodia. ‘Don’t let it tip backwards. I’ll have another job for you when the baby is showing her head, but for now, that’s your task, understood?’
Clodia