Fiction

Clean

He stood in the centre of the pool, the copious hair on his thick torso plastered to his wet, glistening skin. She studied him. Aelius; Mestrius’ right-hand man and confidante since the dominus was but a youth. Grey hair and expanding girth hinted at Aelius’ age, but his broad shoulders and thick arms also betrayed his strength; not for nothing was he rumoured to have killed at least three men—Mestrius’ rivals all—with his bare hands and whatever blunt objects lay to hand.

Summoned

A streak of silver flashed from the folds of Leontine's tunic as she threw a dagger toward Valeria. The knife clattered harmlessly off a wall as Valeria ducked under its trajectory. With a dive and a roll, Valeria closed the gap between herself and Leontia before springing to her feet and seizing the startled Leontia by the throat. Gone now was Valeria’s denarius, and instead she held a dagger. Knuckles white as she clutched her weapon, she drew back her hand, ready to thrust her blade into Leontia.

At the Pomegranate

“Only four of you this time?” Bruttia said as she put down her cup and wiped muslum from her mouth. “Your boss is either getting soft or running out of men.”

The four gangers paused and looked at one another, frowning. Then they looked at the assembled mass of drunks, whores and ne’er-do-wells that constituted the Pomegranate’s clientele. Maybe now, thought Bruttia, as they stand in one of the Subura’s most infamous tavernas whilst surrounded by the worst scum and villainy Rome has to offer, they realise they’ve bitten off more than they chew.

The Price of Failure, by Paul L. Mathews

Valeria had been fighting on the streets of Rome since she was a child and she did not consider herself squeamish. But Talavus scared her. Having failed to safeguard the statue of Apollo at Senator Caius’ temple to the sungod, the Gaul had been castigated by the senator and discharged from his employ … only to be snapped up by Hostilius. The Gaul now acted as the dominus’ bodyguard and enforcer. Her throat tightened and a pit opened in her stomach as she watched the Gaul seize the imploring Durio by the arm.

A Long Walk Home, by Paul L. Mathews

Durio staggered through the Subura, breathing as best he could with a broken nose and a throat full of blood. He cursed under his breath as—seeking some respite from the blazing sun—he leant against a wall beneath a balcony, grateful for the shade. How stupid to underestimate Eurysaces, he thought. Everyone knows him to be a big man, more than capable of defending himself.

The Warning, by Paul L. Mathews

The Subura’s plebeians claimed the smell of Eurysaces’ freshly baked bread made the sun rise, Apollo himself eager to savour the baker’s new loaves. Indeed, Eurysaces—aware of this local legend and eager to please the deity—made a ritual of leaving one of his new loaves on his bakery’s doorstep every morning as an offering to the god. Granted, he wasn’t entirely sure Apollo took it, but it always vanished, nonetheless.

Underworld, Part Two: The City of the Dead, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

The horses whinnied and pulled up, eyes widening. A huge figure stood in the middle of the road, barring their progress. The moon reflected on the figure’s pale, gaping mask. Stasius and Linus glanced at one another, reaching for their weapons. They knew this man; everybody did. Everyone knew Faustus the Colossus…

Underworld, Part One: The Sons of Orcus, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

At the end of the street of booksellers and cobblers known as the Argiletum there lurked a courtyard, and that courtyard seemed unnaturally dark whatever the hour, whatever the season. At its centre stood a shrine to Orcus, Lord of the Underworld, and the darkness of the Stygian depths seemed to pour from its gaping mouth. A doorway into a condemned insula stood behind the shrine. A curtain of black hessian stirred in the evening breeze as it hung over that doorway.

The Mob is Rome, by Chris Bones and Paul L. Mathews

Marcus Scribonius Furius stood upon the rostra, gazing upon the crowd as they gathered before him in the Forum. His bald pate burned in the midday sun, brow tickling as sweat gathered on his face and soaked into his toga. Not that the heat is uniquely responsible for my perspiring so heavily, he thought as his nervous gaze flicked back and forth between the nefarious individuals which lurked on the periphery of the crowd.

He recognised them as street enforcers of the Hostilii clan. He bit his lip. How could he not recognise them? Their notoriety proceeded them by miles since they’d so brutally and so brazenly butchered Laelius, And the deeds since attributed to their leader, Hostilius; would they not shame even Orcus and his issue?

Promises, by Paul L. Mathews

Felix licked his lips and rubbed his earlobe as the stranger unwrapped the gladius. Its blade gleamed even in the darkness of the alleyway, as did the bull’s head motif on the pommel.

“Do you like it?” asked Felix. His eyes widened as he tried to compensate for the gloom of the alleyway, but for nought. All he could see of the stranger—silhouetted by what light crept into the alley—was a bald head, a beard, and a cloak.

Pub Crawl, by Paul L. Mathews

“I need new fighters.”

Ajax, startled, almost wet his bed as Celsus shook him awake. Crying out like a child, he grabbed at Celsus’ thick arms.

“What...?” he said, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m telling you I need new fighters,” said Celsus, stepping away from the bed and scratching his massive belly. “We’ve just lost Dordalus, Labrax and Petrus.”

Ajax frowned. What did he just say?

“What do you mean ‘lost’?” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

“Lost. Dead.” An impatient tone crept into Celsus’ voice. “They were ambushed trying to sell insurance to Hegio…”

“Labrax is dead,” said Ajax. He frowned as he turned the implications over in his head. If Labrax was dead, didn’t that mean—?

“…Which means I’m in charge now,” said Celsus, celebrating with a loud belch and an even louder fart.

Domina, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

Flavia Graecina Flacus cast her gaze around the triclinium. This evening’s dinner party—and the smooth running thereof—was of the utmost importance. There were important guests to flatter and impress. Her friend the orator Furius, for example, was bringing some key players, including both the plebeian aedile candidate Titus Aufidius Orestes, and his father, the noble senator Gnaeus Aufidius Bassus. These were good men. No … great men. Men who could help her turn back the tide. She ground her teeth. Men who could do something to counter the rampant criminality and corruption that continued to drown Roman society.

Fiction

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