Prisca had visited one of Rome’s many public baths at least once a day since she was a teenager. Even now, as she entered the tepidarium and smelt the fragrant oils and incense, she could remember the first time she’d stumbled into one of these buildings. Covered in a man’s blood, she’d been desperate to wash away both the damning red gore and her shame. So many years since that first kill, she still made a ritual of bathing to cleanse herself of her enemies’ blood. No longer, however, did she feel the need to cleanse herself of guilt or shame; there was none to wash away.
The violence and bloodshed had become her life. She wasn’t the same, frightened girl who had frantically scrubbed the blood from her skin every time she killed; she served the dominus Mestrius now, paid to wash away his enemies like so much dirt. Now she came here for pleasure and vanity, to keep her skin pristine and her hair gleaming. So regularly did she attend baths, in fact, that she had earned herself a unique nomenclature…
“Prisca the Clean? To what do I owe this honour?”
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.
“Well,” he said, laughing, “Will you answer, or do you intend to merely stare at me? Had I known you found me so captivating, I would have invited you to my villa years ago.”
He laughed, and, on cue, his bodyguards laughed also. Silent, hands folded in her lap, Prisca studied those bodyguards as she stood beside the pool. She recognised one as Aelius’ oldest—and most trusted—bodyguard, Valens. Naked, he also bathed in the pool’s heated waters. The other two bodyguards stood beside the pool. Although fully clothed, even their skin glistened, wet from the steam of the heated pool. All three were scarred veterans with years of violence in their wake.
“Speak now,” Aelius said. He expression—like his tone—darkened. Short was his temper, as Prisca knew. Only last week he had beaten Drusilla half to death for failing to kill one of Mestrius’ rivals. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve been sent by Mestrius.” She began to undress, loosening the belt around her tunic. “He has sent me to bequeath you a gift…”
Her tunic fell to the floor, and Aelius licked his lips as his bodyguards whistled and leered at the naked Prisca. Only Valens seemed unmoved by her nakedness, expression dark and agitated.
“And a fine looking gift it is too,” said Aelius, his eyes devouring her naked form. “And what have I done to deserve such a generous token?”
“You’ve been selling Mestrius’ secrets to his enemies,” she said as, unarmed, she stepped into the pool. “But, out of respect for your past service, Mestrius has instructed me to grant you a swift death. That is his gift to you.”
Aelius’ expression hardened, and his lascivious smile became a sneer.
“Kill her,” he said to his guards. “Slowly.”
She looked from one guard to another. As she studied them, she saw them exchange glances, narrow of eye and grim of expression.
“Well?” shouted Aelius. “What are you waiting for?”
One drew a dagger, the other a gladius. Valens looked at Prisca, then at his brothers in arms, and back at Prisca again. He backed way from Prisca as she moved languidly through the water and toward Aelius.
“What are you waiting for?” Aelius shouted, voice echoing about the pool. “There are three of you and one of her! Kill her now!”
“There’s the thing, Aelius,” said Prisca, voice low and calm. She paused, taking time to wash her face and shoulders. “You forget these men are in Mestrius’ employ. Just as he had previously paid them to protect you, so now he pays them to obey me.”
Aelius’ eyes widened, and he stared at his erstwhile bodyguards as one threw his gladius to Valens, and the other stepped into the water, dagger at the ready.
“Remember,” Prisca said, addressing the three men, “Mestrius has ordered a swift death.”
“Whore of Orcus!” The water parted over Aelius’ torso in two bow waves as he surged through the pool and toward her, hands reaching for her neck. “I’ll destroy you!”
She snapped her fingers, and Valens threw the gladius to her. She snatched it from the air and turned it on Aelius in one swift, fluid motion. Unable to arrest his momentum, he lurched onto the blade. It slid smoothly into his chest. Eyes rolling up into his skull, he gurgled as blood flowed from his mouth. The pool turned red as he sank down and under the water, gladius protruding from his torso.
“Take him from here and deliver him to his family,” Prisca said to the three bodyguards as she turned away and walked back toward the edge of the pool. “Mestrius has already arranged for Aelius to be buried with all due ceremony.”
She climbed out of the pool and bent down to retrieve her clothes. Seeing the blood on her skin, she paused, bile rising in her throat.
“And what shall you do?” asked Valens.
“She shall bathe, no doubt, and then she will come with me; I have a new job for her.”
Prisca and the three men turned to see Bruttia stood in the doorway. Hands on her broad hips, her massive frame filled the door as she studied Prisca.
“Job?” asked Prisca, gathering up her clothes. Her chest tightened at the sight of Bruttia; to see her could mean only one thing. “What ‘job’?”
“We’re killing my brother and the rest of his gang,” said Bruttia. “So prepare yourself, Prisca the Clean…
“…Because my brother fights dirty.”
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“You’re quiet tonight,” Leontia murmured in Vermio’s ear. She’d lowered her voice so as to not disturb the rest of the small, attentive audience. “What’s bothering you?”
He glanced at her, and smiled as best he could. He was rewarded with an arched eyebrow as Leontia folded her arms, drumming the fingers of one hand on her bicep in anticipation.
“It’s nothing,” he whispered to her. “I’m fine.” He nodded at the poet. Stood in the centre of the small room, the youth continued with his earnest performance. “What do you think of the oratory?”
“It bores me,” Leontia whispered as she took Vermio by the arm and led him toward the door. “If you’ve heard one poem about the Aeneads, you’ve heard them all.”
She steered Vermio through the door and out onto the street. An involuntary chill ran down Vermio’s spine; it was much cooler tonight, bordering on cold.
“I grant you that wasn’t the best odea I’ve taken you to,” he said, avoiding Leontia’s searching gaze. “He was much better when I saw him recite his piece on Apollo and Cassandra.
“Don’t change the subject,” Leontia said as she hooked her arm through his and guided him down the street and toward the Piazza della Subura. “What’s on your mind?”
He bit his lip. Where to start?
“Just start at the beginning,” Leontia said, her tone softening.
He looked at her, and she smiled a rare smile. He smiled back. How fortunate I am, he thought, to have such a good—not to mention intuitive—friend.
“It’s Hostilius,” he muttered, looking down at his sandals. “His campaign to be elected to the plebeian aedile is becoming more and more vicious.
“So I hear,” said Leontia. “What he did to Laelius was brutal.”
Vermio shuddered. He was there when Hostilius’ men had raided Laelius’ bakery, when they’d put Laelius and his men to the sword. All that blood, all spilt for the sake of Hostilius’ ambitions…
“I can’t fault his logic, though,” said Leontia. “Seize the city’s bakeries to control its bread; gift that bread to the plebeians to buy their votes.”
“He’s hell bent on being elected to the aedile,” said Vermio. “He sees it as his first step on the way to the senate and he’ll kill anybody to do it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It makes me sick to my stomach, Leontia. To fight in Hostilius’ gang against another gang is one thing; to slaughter bakers to steal their bakeries is totally different.”
“Well, there’s simple solution, Vermio,” Leontia said. Vermio almost grimaced; he’d heard that tone of voice before, and it usually heralded the arrival of some home truths. “Leave Hostilius’ gang. There are plenty of other gangs in the city. Hell, you could even join mine.”
“Join your gang?” Vermio almost laughed. Almost. “The Daughters of Sappho?”
“Why not,” she said with a broad grin. “You’re more effeminate than the rest of us, your makeup’s better, and, in Urganella’s case, you’re a lot prettier.”
“He can’t leave our gang; he has a job to do.”
Vermio and Leontia turned, startled, as Valeria emerged from the darkness of a nearby doorway. She studied them intently even as she rolled a denarius across her knuckles. Vermio’s heart sank. For Valeria to be here could only mean one thing: it was time to go to work.
“Hello, Vermio,” said Valeria. Her smile was as devoid of warmth as her voice. “Have you had a pleasant evening? Did you enjoy the recital?”
“What do you want?” said Leontia as she stepped between Vermio and Valeria.
“It’s passed Vermio’s bedtime,” said Valeria. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Leontia, and Vermio wondered if she were sizing up her chances against this feared fighter. “He has to be up early in the morning.”
“Early?” Vermio’s voice wavered and rose an octave. “Why?”
“Hostilius wants Eurysaces’ bakery, and we’re taking it at dawn.”
“But—”
“And what if he doesn’t want to take Eurysaces’ bakery,” asked Leontia before Vermio had the chance to finish his sentence.
“He has no choice,” said Valeria. Her voice possessed a bored tone. “Vermio owes Hostilius his life, and Hostilius owns Vermio’s body and soul.”
“No man owns—”
“Be quiet,” Valeria said, interrupting Leontia. “No one cares what you think, especially Hostilius. If he—”
A streak of silver flashed from the folds of Leontia'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.
Teeth bared, Vermio slapped the knife from Valeria’s hand before seizing her by the wrist and dragging her away from his friend.
“Enough!” he shouted. “There is no need for this. I will come with you…” His voice lowered as he hung his head. “...I always come with you.”
“No, Vermio!” Leontia said as she pushed Valeria to one side. “Don’t let this vile creature bully you! She can’t make you fight for Hostilius! Come with me—”
“No. It’s no use,” said Vermio, head bowed and eyes closed. “Hostilius owns me. When he bids, I must obey.”
“Then touch up your makeup, pretty boy…” said Valeria with a sneer. “…And wear something that doesn’t clash with red.”
]]>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.
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“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.
“Bruttia!” shouted the landlady, Nona. “I’ve told you before, if you want to entertain your men friends, you do it outside; I’m still replacing chairs from the last time!”
The Pomegranate’s patrons laughed raucous, guttural laughs made almost hysterical by their inebriation. Some jostled for a better view, others leered at the quartet of gangers. In one corner, noted Bruttia, the massive slab of scar tissue known as Faustus exchange a bet with his handsome friend, Little Hades. In another, the pirate Zenobius watched the unfolding confrontation even as he fed grapes to his parrot.
“Silence now, Nona,” said Bruttia as she rolled up her sleeves and squared up to her new victims. “This won’t take long…”
#
“I think this one is broken,” said Nona as she bent Bruttia’s bruised and bloodied finger upward.
“Really?” Bruttia hissed with barely suppressed pain and snatched her hand away. “If it wasn’t before, it is now.”
“Stop complaining,” said Nona as she dabbed at Bruttia’s split lip with a filthy rag dipped in wine. “At least you didn’t put money on the four gangers.”
Bruttia frowned and said, “You bet on those four idiots?”
“Of course I did,” said Nona with a smile. “Your luck has to run out soon, lady.”
The Pomegranate was almost empty now. The sun had gone down, and most of the regulars had either fallen asleep on various tables, benches or—in one lowlife’s case—the counter. Some had dragged Bruttia’s quartet of unconscious foe’s out and into the night, and what fate awaited the insensible fighters remained unknown. Other customers staggered outside with some prostitute or other, and one young, drunken actor had been selected by the grizzled Creon as tonight’s bedfellow. Now the empty taverna—with its chipped cups, blood-stained floor, smashed benches and broken tables—could be seen in all of its stygian glory.
But the Pomegranate—even in this, the twilight of its days—looked vibrant compared to Nona. Delicate and dry like an autumnal leaf, she rustled when she moved and rattled when she breathed. Presently she began to bind Bruttia’s swollen, bloodied knuckles.
“Seriously, Bruttia,” she said as she wrapped the dirty cloth about Bruttia’s hand, “You can’t live like this anymore. How old are you now?”
“I don’t know,” said Bruttia with a brusque, dismissive tone. What business is it of yours anyway, she thought. “I can’t remember.”
“You’re thirty five.”
Bruttia glared at the old woman and asked, “So what?”
“So you’ve lived about fifteen years longer than most people in your … what shall we call it? Profession?”
“That’s because I’m good at what I do,” said Bruttia. “Just ask those four gangers.”
“It’s because you’ve been lucky,” said Nona.
“Strange how the harder I fight the luckier I get.”
“And how long can that body of yours keep fighting?”
“As long as it has to.”
“As long as it takes to kill Vermio?”
Vermio. Just the sound of his name made Bruttia’s throat tighten and heart beat faster. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Oh Vermio, she thought as, fists clenched, she pictured his face. Slender, effeminate Vermio, with your makeup and beautiful hair, with your pretty lies and ugly betrayals. Oh, little brother dear…
She ground her teeth, fists clenched even tighter.
…How I want to kill you.
“What did he do to make you hate him so much?”
Bruttia opened her eyes and glared at Nona. The crone had never asked her outright before. Why ask now?
“Does it matter?” said a new, strange voice. “Making sure she kills him, that’s all that counts. Isn’t it, Bruttia?”
Bruttia and Nona turned as one to see the newcomer as she stood in the doorway. Leant against the doorframe, she danced a denarius across her knuckles whilst smirking at Bruttia and Nona.
“Valeria?” asked Bruttia. She winced slightly as she stood. Why is she—one of Vermio’s gang and a fighter supposedly loyal to Hostilius—here? she thought. It could be for one of only two reasons…
“What are you doing here?” asked Nona.
…One was to declare war…
“I came with a tip-off for you.”
…The other was to sell information.
“Then deliver your news and leave,” said Nona, her voice edged with scorn and heavy with menace. “Before I bring the wrath of Orcus upon you.”
“No need for threats when currency will do,” said Valeria. She pocketed her coin before holding forth the flat of her empty hand. “The information is yours for one solitary denarius.”
“Then take your money…” Bruttia took a denarius from the table—abandoned by some sot or other—and tossed it to Valeria. “…And say your piece.”
Valeria snatched the coin from the air before inspecting it. Perhaps satisfied it wasn’t fake, she slipped it into her pouch and smiled at Bruttia.
“Hostilius has ordered us to take Eurysaces’ bakery as sunrise.”
“Take it?” asked Nona. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been ordered to seize the bakery for Hostilius. He’s standing as a candidate for the plebeian aedile, so he wants to gift bread to the masses and buy their votes.”
“And Eurysaces?” asked Bruttia. She fancied she already knew the answer.
“What about him?” said Valeria with a shrug. “Either he gives us the bakery, or we kill him.”
“And that worked so well when Durio demanded he give Hostilius the bakery, didn’t it?” said Bruttia with a smirk. “We’ve all heard how Eurysaces gave him a beating and sent him home empty-handed.”
“Tomorrow will be different,” said Valeria. “Tomorrow there’ll be three of us.”
“And by ‘us’, you mean…?”
“Me, Durio…” She looked Bruttia in the eye. “…And Vermio.”
Bruttia inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as she looked down her nose and glared at Valeria. Eurysaces’ bakery lay here, in the heart of the Subura, not two blocks away from the Pomegranate. And Vermio would be there with only Valeria and the hapless Durio for protection. Could this be her chance to end Vermio for good…?
“Get out,” said Nona. “You’ve delivered your message and you’ve got your reward. Now go, before I curse you for the traitorous harridan you are.”
“Very well,” said Valeria as she turned to leave. Pausing, she looked over her shoulder and winked at Bruttia. “See you in the morning, Bruttia…
“…Don’t be late.”
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“What news, Durio?”
Valeria—stood in a cool, darkened corner of Hostilius’ office as she danced a denarius across her knuckles—narrowed her eyes as she watched the unfolding scene. Durio stood in the centre of room. Shoulders slumped and covered in sweat and his own blood, he breathed in ragged gasps through his open mouth, clearly unable to draw air through the ruination of his smashed nose. By comparison, the resplendent Hostilius—white toga contrasting with his lustrous black hair—seemed to be imbued with an inner radiance. He stood on the office’s balcony as he watched the sun rising over Rome.
“I said, ‘what news’?”
Durio flinched. Hostilius’ annoyance at having to repeat himself was evident, his voice barbed and poisonous.
“He, er…” Durio cleared his throat. “He said he’d consider a sensible offer.”
Valeria raised an eyebrow. A sensible offer? she thought. Bold; either this Eurysaces didn’t know who he was dealing with, or he was just stupid.
“And you outlined my terms?” Hostilius asked as he turned away from the sunrise to glare at Durio, silhouetted by the sun. “That the only alternative to his accepting my offer was death?”
“I…” Durio faltered, clearing his throat. “No.”
Valeria paused, mouth falling open. Did Durio really just say—?
“No?” The bones on Hostilius’ knuckles became white as he clenched his fists. “You did not outline my terms?”
“I didn’t have the chance. He broke my nose and threw me out of his bakery before I—”
“Enough!” Hostilius snapped his fingers. “Talavus!”
Stood by the door, the massive Gaul closed the gap between himself and Durio in two strides. The hapless Durio—looking over his shoulder just in time to see the Gaul closing in on him—turned back to Hostilius and wrung his hands as he pleaded.
“Please!” he begged. “I tried! But Eurysaces is headstrong—”
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.
“Please!” Durio begged once more. “He wouldn’t listen! He—”
“Valeria?”
She looked away from the hapless Durio and toward Hostilius. He beckoned her to him. Ignoring Durio’s agonised cries as Talavus began beating the weakened ganger, she walked across the room and to Hostilius’ side. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the rising sun as she left the room’s Stygian shade. The sunlight felt warm on her skin.
“Find Vermio,” Hostilius said, raising his voice over Durio’s cries and the pounding of Talavus’ fists. Hostilius’ face was lost in shadow as he spoke to her, his black hair outlined with a fiery corona of sunlight. “Tell him to make Eurysaces’ bakery mine, and to give Eurysaces’ body to the Tiber. Understand?”
She nodded, but her lip twisted in a sneer. Vermio? She thought. That weakling. More concerned with makeup and the theatre than the will of his dominus—
“And Valeria…?”
“Yes, dominus?”
He nodded toward the room, and toward Durio. Curled in a ball with his hands over his head, still he suffered a rain of blows and kicks from the relentless Talavus.
“…Remind Vermio of the price of failure.”
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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.
I only wanted to warn him. To make him aware that Hostilius wanted his bakery. To give him a chance to flee…
…Instead, here I am, alone and in the Subura, And now I’m the one who’s running.
He looked over his shoulder at them. Yes, they were being discreet. Yes, they were trying to blend into the crowd as they sought to take him by surprise…
…And yes, they outnumbered him three to one.
He grimaced as he staggered on. Two of them. Atilius and Quirinus of the Subura. Two of the dominus Autobus’ favourite attack dogs and gangers with whom Durio had clashed before. Nor were they alone. Seneca was with them, his faithful mastiff by his side.
Four against one, he thought as, hands on his knees. he bent over and gasped for breath. He looked over his shoulder. His pursuers were nowhere to be seen, but he knew they were there, lurking in the crowd. Stalking him. Waiting for him to tire and to fall. And here I am, he thought with a rueful smile, having staggered way from Eurysaces’ bakery in such a hurry I left me spear leaning against his wall.
Another glance over his shoulder, and he caught a glimpse of Atilius as the little man darted from amongst a knot of plebs before—pausing only to whirl his sling about his head and unleash a rock at Durio—he vanished into another kernel of bystanders.
The rock missed him by scant gradii, but it was all the opportunity Durio needed. Clutching his hands to his face, Durio collapsed to his knees as he feigned injury, wailing and pleading for help. Within moments a crowd of assorted plebs, slaves and even and even the bald proprietor from the nearby butcher’s shop in his bloodied apron had gathered about him. Some helped him to his feet, some merely stared, and others muttered between themselves about the violence and savagery that were rife on the streets these days. It mattered little to Durio; this was a chance to get away from his pursuers, and the only chance he needed.
He rose to his feet, pushing his way into the assembled mob before, ducking low, he staggered away and further into the crowd.
*
It had taken all day. Covered in sweat and his own dried blood, he’d made his way through the city’s crowded streets and out of the Subura, all the time taking ultimate care to hide amongst Rome’s citizens, slaves and merchants as he carefully—painfully—crept ever closer to his destination…
…And now he was here, banging on the door as the shadows lengthened around him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the sun setting over the roofs and walls, flaming red as Apollo continued his dogged pursuit of the moon. His breath caught in his throat. There, at the end of the street and striding toward him, were Atilius, Quirinus, Seneca and his damned mastiff. As Durio watched, Atilius gave the grinning Seneca a denarius. Making eye contact with Durio and bowing slightly, Seneca turned and walked away, his slavering mastiff at his heel.
Damn it, thought Durio. Seneca’s damned hound must have tracked me all this way, and now Atilius and Quirinus have me in the open. He looked around. Sure enough, what few plebs and other assorted citizens had occupied the street at this late hour had dissipated still further. There was nowhere to hide now, unless…
He banged on the door again, harder this time.
“Open the door!” he shouted. He looked over his shoulder and toward the approaching Atilius and Quirinus. Even now Atilius winked at him, placing a rock in his sling. “Open the door! Ple—”
The door opened slightly, and the doctor’s thin, creased face peered through the gap.
“Can I help y—”
“Yes, you can,” said Durio as he pushed the door open and shoved his way past the thin man. He gave the room beyond a cursory glance; dirty, and with a red-stained table in the centre of the room, its floor was covered with straw and hay clotted with dried gore and blood. Rusty saws and knives sat on another, smaller table. “You’re the one called Thessalus, yes?”
“I am he,” the doctor said. He licked his lips as his eyes wandered over Durio and his wounds. Durio shuddered; he’d seen men look at whores with less relish. “I see you have been hurt my friend.” He reached for Durio with thin, twitching fingers. “Perhaps I may be of service?”
“Not on your life!” said Durio as he staggered away from the doctor. “Or, more likely, mine.”
“Then why come here?” said the doctor. He looked genuinely crestfallen, noted Durio.
“Don’t look so upset,” Durio said, “I’ve led two men here. Two men who mean to kill me.”
“And?” asked Thessalus, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Here’s two denarii,” said Durio, producing the grubby coins form his purse. “They’re yours if you show me a way out of the back of this house and operate on anyone who follows.”
“Two denarii!” Thessalus’ face lit up wide a wide smile and even wider eyes. “To operate on two more volunteers! You have a deal, my wounded friend…”
*
True to his word, the demented doctor had ushered Durio to a door which led to a back alley. The doctor had then wished Durio a safe journey home and locked the door behind him. Even as the key clicked in the lock, Durio could hear a muffled commotion and a splintering of wood as Atilius and Quirinus no doubt forced the front door open in pursuit of their quarry. Grimacing and still short of breath, Durio listened at the door. A moment’s silence followed…
…And then the screams began.
No, thought Durio, not screams; shrieks. Agonised and short, these staccato stabs of primal terror pierced the door and echoed about the narrow alley as, no doubt, Atilius and Quirinus felt the full horror of Thessalus’ attentions.
Better them than me, thought Durio as, slumped against the grimy wall, he made his way down the alley. I need to be on my way. It’s getting dark…
…And it’s a long walk home.
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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.
This morning, however, was different. This morning he knew exactly who’d taken the bread. Silhouetted by the rising sun, the culprit stood in his doorway and stuffed chunks of bread into his mouth.
“Durio,” Eurysaces said. He spared the ganger the briefest glance before turning his attention back to kneading another batch of dough. “What do you want?”
“Nudding,” Durio managed to say, his cheeks bulging as he chewed and his nostrils flared as he inhaled the smell of baking bread that permeated the bakery. “I dame here to ward dou.”
Eurysaces stopped kneading. Wiping sweat from his brow as the heat from his ovens swaddled him, he turned to Durio, glaring.
“Stop wasting my time,” he said. “Don’t talk with your mouth full; I can’t make any sense of what you’re saying.”
A pause as Durio chewed and swallowed before saying, “I don’t want anything—“
“Apart from my bread, obviously.”
“Well, yes, but if you’re going to just leave it on the doorstep—”
“I didn’t leave it for you.”
“Eurysaces, do you want to hear what I came to say or not?”
“Will you leave me in peace once you’ve said it?”
“That depends on how you respond.”
Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, Eurysaces wiped his hands on his apron as he studied the ganger. Brawny, bald and with greying eyebrows and stubble, Durio was older than most of the gangers in the Subura. The years had made their mark by way of scars and half a missing ear, bitten off by Pulcher in a fight at the Pomegranate.
“Say your piece and go,” Eurysaces said.
“I came here to warn you. Hostilius wants your bakery.”
“Does he now?” Eurysaces clenched and unclenched his fists as he tried to abate the aching in his swollen, arthritic knuckles. He knew all about Hostilius’ campaign to take over the city’s bakeries, and he’d guessed it was only a matter of time until Hostilius’ gang came to visit. “And what are his terms?”
Durio frowned. “Terms?”
“Terms. How much money will he give me for the bakery? I’m not getting any younger, Durio; I’d happily retire if someone made me the right offer.”
“His terms will be pretty simple: give him your bakery or you die—”
Eurysaces closed the distance to Durio in two strides, rolling his broad shoulders before punching the startled ganger in the nose. Durio toppled backwards and into the street, and what few early-risers were going about their business stopped and stared as the ganger fell onto his back outside the bakery. Teeth clenched, Eurysaces grimaced as a fire of pain swept through his hand. I’m getting old, he thought as he rubbed at his aching knuckles. If only someone would buy the bakery…
Durio—nose smashed and pouring with blood—gasped as he tried to stand, only for Eurysaces to stand over him and stamp on his sternum.
“Don’t get up,” Eurysaces said, voice raised over Durio’s agonised gasps as the ganger clutched his chest. “Don’t get up or I’ll hurt you some more, understand?”
Durio nodded, breathing in ragged gasps through his open mouth. He gulped air like a fish out of water as blood bubbled and oozed from the ruination of his nose.
“I need to go back to work now, Durio; these loaves won’t bake themselves,” Eurysaces said, ignoring the small crowd that had gathered around them. “So why don’t you crawl back to Hostilius and tell him that if he wants to make me a sensible offer, the bakery’s his. But, if he sends you and some other children to take it from me by force I’ll deliver your heads to him in bread baskets and then knead his skull into a pulp. Do you understand?”
Durio nodded, face contorted with pain.
“Off you go then,” Eurysaces said as he turned away and walked back to the bakery. A small knot of plebeians were already standing at his counter, ready and waiting for their daily bread. “I have customers to serve.”
]]>
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…
…And everyone knew that hell followed with him.
The mask spake. “Orcus demands payment from all those that voyage to his kingdom.”
“Then we pay in your blood, freak,” said Egnatius as he launched a javelin at the apparition. Faustus gave a deep and unsettling chuckle as he deftly sidestepping the missile.
Stasius and Linus drew their gladii, eyes fixed on Faustus. Unseen, a hunched, apelike figure dropped from the roof of an adjacent tomb to land beside them. Pulcher gave an idiotic cackle and embedded a pick deep into Linus’ head, the skull cracking audibly.
Cassian sweated and retched with terror, dropping his spear as he doubled over, vomiting. Egnatious, eyes narrow and teeth gritted, snatched up the discarded weapon as he shifted his focus on Pulcher. He raised the spear, focus fixed on the hunchback. Out of the shadows came Little Hades, drawing two vicious blades from his belt as he bore down on the pair. Egnatius turned to face him, but it was already too late for the vomiting Cassian, his flexing throat opened with a fluid stroke by Little Hades. So swift as to be a blur, Little Hades fell upon the snarling Egnatius. They pair—locked together as Egnatius dropped his spear and seized his assailant by the neck with both hands—rolled into the shadows beneath the cart. Moments later only Little Hades appeared, his pale face splashed with blood.
“Wait!” shouted Stasius. He dropped his gladius and raised his empty palms toward the approaching Faustus. “I surrender! Take the body! I don’t give a shi—”
Faustus swung his blade in both hands, bisecting Stasius neatly at the waist.
“Good work gentlemen,” said Little Hades as he knelt beside Cassian’s body and cleaned his knives on the youth’s tunic. “Not much room on the ferry this night I fear. Charon will be paid well.”
A rumble like thunder rolled from within Faustus’ mask as he laughed.
Little Hades stood and pulled back the tarpaulin on the cart, exposing the casket. Pulcher, meanwhile, dragged the steaming corpses to the cart. Moments later Faustus had lifted them onto the cart with ease, and there they lay. Cassian still twitched, and something like a lamenting whine escaped his bloodied lips as his wide, unblinking eyes gazed upon the moon.
Bloody cargo secured, Pulcher and Little Hades jumped up front and turned the horses around and back toward Rome. An advance payment to the guards on watch at the Porta Capena meant they would pass without trouble.
“Let us proceed to the good Doctor Thessalus,” said Faustus as strode alongside the horses. “He will be most pleased with a haul of fresh meat for his studies.”
“Agreed,” said Pulcher. “He shall pay us well.”
“I do hope he appreciates my own skill at dissection,” said Faustus.
The trio laughed, with even Little Hades allowing himself this moment of mirth.
Faustus took off his mask and hung it from his belt. The moon shone down on his glistening face and pate, their horribly burnt and contoured skin a chiaroscuro of shadows and highlights.
Perhaps he should put the mask back on, thought Little Hades. There is, after all, no need to scare the good people of Rome.
]]>Between the south end of the Viminal and west of the Esquiline there lay a valley. The rows of decaying insulae created canyons of dark shadow rife with crime and vice. This was the Subura, and it was not an area of the city for the unwary or fainthearted.
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.
Lucius of the Aventine stood in the stood in the courtyard, shivering. He drew his threadbare woollen cloak about his shoulders, but to no avail. There’s something unnatural about the cold here, he thought. It shouldn’t be so crisp at this time of year…
A monstrous hand drew back the hessian curtain, and something resembling a man squeezed its bulk through the doorframe. Once through, the beast stood at his full height and strode toward Lucius. A gladius, as long as a man is tall, rested across his shoulders, and he draped his thick arms over the blade in an almost nonchalant fashion. This creature reached Lucius in three strides and looked down upon the Aventine fighter, his face covered by a mask. Gaping of mouth and wide of eye, the mask was sculpted in the likeness of Orcus.
“Sal—” Lucius tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He swallowed, wincing. His neck was still bruised and cut, a legacy of Brictus’ s garotte. “Salve, Faustus, son of the Underworld” he said with a querulous voice. “I seek your services.”
Pallid biceps the size of melons twitched as the giant hefted his gladius from his shoulders. Knotted hands resting upon the pommel, he rested his weight upon the sword as the blade bit into the ground. A profound bass rumbled from the mouth of the mask. “My dear and noble friend. Such a pleasure to see you in our humble precincts.”
Two more shadows detached themselves from the gloom and stood either side of the giant. One was a crooked figure with abnormally long arms; a gargoyle in human form. Lucius recognised this misshapen wretch as Pulcher, ‘the Gibbus’. He smiled inwardly at the irony of Pulcher’s nomen. The other man was hooded and wraithlike, his alabaster face fixed in a permanent sneer. His eyes glittered like jet.
“Salve, Lucius,” said this pale apparition. His tone was as flat as his skin was smooth. “Pray tell, what duty does your dominus require of us?”
“Salve Little Hades,” said Lucius. He breathed deeply and gathered himself before continuing. Of all the Sons of Orcus, this man scared him the most. The stories told of Little Hades, and of the unfortunates he had ushered to the Underworld... “A funeral cart will travel along the Appian Way tomorrow at the third hour after midnight,” continued Lucius. He paused and looked at Pulcher, distracted as the hunchback stared at him whilst scratching his head. Flakes of dry skin fell from his scalp and onto his dirty tunic. “It is deliv…” He paused, momentarily confused as he turned back to face Little Hades, only to find the man had vanished.
“Continue, Lucius of the Aventine.”
He jumped, surprised that the man was now behind him, stood so close as to whisper in Lucius’ ear. Oh Saturn, Lucius prayed silently, if you can hear me, deliver me from this dark place…”
“Well?” The stiletto of Little Hades’ voice gained an impatient edge. “We don’t have all night.”
“The funeral cart is delivering the casket of the recently deceased Sextus Paetus Turpio to his family mausoleum in the City of the Dead there is also a red cedarwood box within the casket my master seeks it—”
Faustus placed his mammoth hand over Lucius’ nose and mouth. “Slower,” he said. “Lest you forget to breath.”
Faustus took his hand from Lucius’ mouth, and the grateful ganger inhaled deeply before he began again. “The funeral cart will also carry a red cedarwood box within the casket. My master wants this box, and its contents, and will pay you handsomely for it.”
“We shall take half the payment now, dear Lucius,” said Little Hades. Lucius looked over his shoulder at the fighter, relieved to see he stood in the same spot.
“And you will surrender the rest upon completion,” said Faustus.
“Agr—”
“Rest assured there shall be no witnesses to the deed.” Little Hades continued, either ignorant or indifferent to the fact Lucius was speaking. He smiled a practised and joyless smile as he spoke. “We shall meet again in the Silver Strigile the day afterward and enjoy a bottle of Falernian together.”
“Really?” The vibrato in his voice betrayed Lucius’ fear. The thought of spending any more time than necessary with these creatures almost made him piss himself.
“Of course not. I jest.” Little Hades gestured at Pulcher with a smile. “He’s barred from the Silver Strigile…”
Thank you, Saturn! thought Lucius, heaving a sigh of relief.
“…So instead we shall meet at the Pomegranate.”
]]>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?
]]>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?
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Concentrate, he thought. Now is not the time for recollection and fear. Now is the time for action. Now is the time to take control…
It was the month of July, the month when the plebeian aediles were elected. Whoever placed their candidate for aedile into office could indirectly control prostitution, public building, public festivals and even the enforcement of public order. He opened his eyes and glared in turn at each of Hostilius’ thugs. If elected, such a candidate would be a goldmine for the likes of Hostilius. Furius gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He would not let that happen. Today he drew a line in the sand; a line he swore Hostilius would not breach...
Behind him on the rostra stood Titus Aufidius Orestes, the rival to the Hostilius candidate. Shoulders back, chest out, chin raised and stomach sucked in, Orestes looked very much the candidate…
…And now it was time for Furius to ensure he was elected.
“Citizens!” he shouted, projecting to the gathered and attentive crowd. “I call upon you to contemplate. I call upon you to contemplate the avenues and alleys of Rome. Your avenues. Your alleys.”
He paused, allowing the whoops and cheers of approval from the crowd to swell and blossom, washing over him and Orestes.
“Now consider those streets. Consider those alleys. Consider how you would feel if you were shown how, whilst you sleep, those streets and alleys come alive. Alive and yet haunted by the spectre of death!” Another pause as he let this last statement germinate in his audience. “These alleys and streets become a battleground in which brother fights brother, and sisters slaughter their sons, their fathers, their daughters. A battleground which echoes with their battle cries, their pleas for mercy … and their dying screams.”
The chatter of the crowd subsided, the masses subdued by Furius’ dark oratory. Furius smiled; this was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. Now he had them. Now they were in this palm of his hand…
…Now it was time to tighten his grip.
“And now consider, friends, how that feels. How that feels to live in a Rome where only the deadly, the murderous and the immoral can survive.”
Boos and jeers rose from the crowd, boiling and broiling as fists were raised and thumbs were pointed toward the ground…
…Exactly as he had hoped.
“Take a look around you, and you will see the violence. Take a closer look yet and you will see the victims. Listen to the honest man who would stand against these criminals. Listen to his oratory in the market square. Listen to him…” He paused for effect and to swallow, parched and thirsty in this fierce sun. “…And then read how he died.”
More shouts, more boos. Louder now, more vociferous.
“I ask you, citizens,” he bellowed, sensing his moment. “Is this any way for a citizen of Rome to live?”
More shouts, more boos, more calls of ‘No!’ and ‘Never!’. Screams of ‘Take it back!’ and ‘Fight them!’
“Is this any way to live? In the avenues and alleyways where a man must choose a side, and bleed… Nay! Die! …For that side? Where every man, woman or child is doomed? Is this the way for a citizen of Rome to live?”
Furius paused for breath, and smiled, allowing himself a moment of self-satisfaction as the crowd roared and stamped in defiance. He had them. He could hear it in their voices. He had them in the palm of his hand. Meliglossos himself would be proud…
“But how do we wrest Rome back from those who would drown it in the blood and viscera of those we love? Is there no man who can deliver us from these ghouls, from these servants of Orcus, from these devotes of depravity and murder?” He clasped the middle finger of his right hand to his thumb and indicated toward Orestes. “I say yes! I say the noble Titus Aufidius Orestes is the man to prevail against them!”
Wild cheers and exultations washed over him and Orestes as the masses jumped and pumped fists into the air, chanting Orestes’ name. Furius allowed himself a smile even as he narrowed his eyes and searched this excited crowd for the Hostilii thugs. Ah yes, he thought as he saw them fighting their way toward the rostra, shoving people out of their way, no doubt in a bid to silence him and … dissaude Orestes. There they are…
…Right where I want them.
Furius projected his bass profundo tones above the tumult.
“There, citizens of Rome!” he bellowed, pointing in turn to the thugs. “Behold the brutes that would control our very existence from the shadows. These are the fine men that beat the honest baker to a pulp, that broke the legs of the fishmonger, that shattered the hands of the fuller. Here they are now, in our very midst. What say you, citizens of Rome?”
The response as was deafening as it was spontaneous, as passionate as it unified. “Get them!” roared the crowd. “ Get The bastards!”
His work done, Furius turned away, grasping Orestes’ shoulder and giving it a congratulatory squeeze. Orestes smile froze on his lips, eyes widening as he looked out and into the crowd. But Furius did not to look. He did not need to; he knew what shocked Orestes so. He could hear it. He could hear the roar of the crowd. He could hear the cries of the so-called ‘hard men’ of the Hostilii as they were besieged, fighting and shouting as they fought in desperation to fend off the incited masses.
But it will avail them nought, thought Furius as he turned Orestes away to spare him the bloody horror of the Hostilii’s fate.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” asked Orestes in a tremulous voice. “Those poor men—”
“Those ‘poor men’ have earnt they fate, and that fate will be a clear message to Hostilius and his kind,” Furius shouted in Orestes ear, voice raised so as to be heard over the baying crowd and the screaming of the Hostilii thugs.
“Message?” Orestes turned away from the crowd and looked at Furius, brow creased in confusion. “What message?”
“Isn’t it obvious, my friend?” answered Furius, shouting in Orestes’ ear. “Rome is the mob…
“…And the mob belong to us.”
]]>
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.
]]>
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.
The stranger took hold of the pommel and lifted the gladius from the oilcloth. Felix’s bodyguard—the Nubian Lazaros—stepped between Felix and the stranger, raising his own blade.
“Easy now, Lazaros,” said the stranger. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
Lazaros and Felix exchanged glances, the Nubian’s brow furrowed. Felix read his expression; does this man know us?
“And you’re sure this gladius belonged to Cato, the son of Vitus?” asked the stranger.
“It was brought to us by Manlius of the Palatine,” said Felix. “He took it from Cato’s body after he slew him during the battle at Apollo’s temple.”
“Enough questions,” said Lazaros. “Do you want the sword or not?”
Felix winced; Lazaros’ temper would get them into trouble one day.
The stranger stepped forward, re-wrapping the sword with the oilcloth. Lazaros grunted and—holding his own sword at arm’s length—placed the tip of his blade on the stranger’s chest.
“No further,” murmured the Nubian.
Felix stepped back. Throat tight and sphincter twitching, he fought to steady his breathing. How he hated all this macho nonsense; why couldn’t people just pay up and go home?
“I only wish to pay your master.” The stranger—now holding the swaddled gladius by its pommel—reached into some hidden pocket in his cloak with this other hand. He produced a handful of denarii and said, “No need for alarm, my friend.
The stranger held out his hand, denarii bulging from between his fingers. Felix licked his lips; that was a lot of money…
“Thank you,” said Felix as he stepped forward and shoved Lazaros to one side. “It is good to meet a man of his word.” He held out his hands, palms open and greedy. “Now, we’d agreed upon—”
The coins clattered on the cobbles as the stranger dropped them, snatching Felix by the wrist. In an instant he’d pulled Felix toward him with such strength and speed Felix lost his footing and fell to his knees before the stranger, crying out in pain as his knees crunched on the cobbles and discarded coins.
“Back!” the stranger shouted at Lazaros. He retained his grip on Felix’s wrist with one hand and held the Nubian at bay with Vitus’ gladius with the other. He didn’t seem to care that the sword was still wrapped in an oilcloth. “Or I break his wrist!”
“Do as he says!” Felix cried out as, as though to underline his threat, the stranger twisted his wrist. “Do it!”
Lazaros snarled, white teeth gleaming in the murk, but he stepped backward, nonetheless.
Perhaps satisfied the Nubian was pacified, the stranger knelt beside Felix, who whimpered. What fate did this stranger have in store for me? he wondered, imagination—and pulse—racing. A blade to the throat? A broken neck?
Felix winced. Now he was closer, he could see more of the stranger. A grey beard, neatly trimmed. Head newly shaven and oiled. An earring. Felix frowned. Where have I seen this man before…?
“Now, tell me again,” said the stranger. “This is Vitus’ sword?”
“Yes!” said Felix, voice rising an octave as the stranger twisted his wrist a little further. “Yes!”
“And you were sold it by Manlius?”
“Yes!”
“And you had nothing to do with Cato's death?”
“No!” Felix shrieked, tears running down his face. “Nothing!”
A pause, and Felix’s sphincter finally capitulated. The contents of his bowel plopped onto the coins beneath him. With a laconic smile the stranger let go of Felix’s wrist and stood, turning on his heel.
“A pleasure doing business with you,” he said as he strode away. “Enjoy your money.”
#
The Golden Vine Rod had belonged to Cato, and now stood empty. Upon learning of the youth's fate, Cato's customers had shrugged, muttered what a pity it was that Cato should die so young, and then gone to eat elsewhere. Such, thought Celsus as he walked slowly about the caupona, is the way of all 'loyal' customers.
“Nice place,” said Celsus, eyes narrow as he studied the various necklaces, bangles and rings nailed to one of the caupona's walls. “But what’s with all this nonsense?”
“Mementos,” said Jacobus.
“Cato kept little trophies from his various victims,” said Jacobus’ twin, Jacomus.
“And now Cato’s dead, they‘re our trophies,” said Jacobus.
“No,” said Jacomus, “They’re Mestrius’ mementos,” he said, referring to their dominus. “We’re just looking after them.”
The twins laughed in unison. Celsus turned to watch as they moved about the caupona. Fay and slight, the golden-haired youths moved gracefully. They seemed to glide, bare feet hardly touching the floor. Jacomus—or was it Jacobus? thought Celsus with a frown—swept a finger across the caupona’s counter. He examined the resulting dust and grease on his finger and exchanged a glance with his twin. A moment of silent communication and the pair laughed in perfect synchronisation before further inspecting the the rest of caupona’s furniture.
Celsus sat down on one of the benches, placing his dagger in front of him. The bench groaned under his bulk. He nodded in approval as he looked about the place. Yes, it was dusty. Yes, it was modest, but—with Cato dead—it was on the market. And it would make an excellent addition to Mestrius’ portfo—
“You’re sat in my place.”
He turned to the caupona’s doorway, startled. There stood a stranger. Celsus’ eye twitched as he studied this newcomer. Medium height. Slim. Broad. Leather armour under a woollen cloak. Grey beard contrasting with a shaven head. Earring through one lobe…
His gaze drifted to the stranger's belt.
…No weapons.
Celsus glanced over his shoulder at the twins. Confusion etched on their frowning faces, they looked back at Celsus and shrugged in unison. Celsus knew exactly what they were thinking…
…What kind of idiot picks a fight without carrying a weapon?
“You’re mistaken, friend,” said Jacomus.
“The Golden Vine Rod now belongs to Mestrius…” said Jacobus.
“All honour and fortune to him,” said Jacomus.
“…And we are but here to serve notice to the Vine Rod’s former owner.”
“And how convenient Cato is dead,” said the stranger.
“It certainly saves us the trouble,” said Celsus with a gentle smile.
“The trouble, it seems, is mine,” said the stranger. Now he moved to appraise Cato’s wall of mementos. “For I, too, have designs on this caupona.”
“Designs?” asked Celsus. Still seated, he took hold of his dagger. “What designs?”
“Are you retarded?” asked the stranger. He didn’t even bother to look at Celsus. Instead, he began to take the various necklaces and rings from the wall, holding them in one hand. “What do you think I mean?”
“I think you’re looking for a fight.” said Celsus. He heard the twins draw their weapons, each bearing twin short swords. “And I think you have a death wish.”
The stranger paused, smiling, and yet still he faced the wall. “Hardly,” he said. “I didn’t survive so long in the arena just to throw my life away now.”
The arena? Celsus glanced over his shoulder at the twins. They looked at him and shrugged in unison. The arena? Celsus thought as he looked back and saw the stranger placing the necklaces et al on the caupona’s counter. Celsus’ pulse quickened, and his grip tightened on his dagger. Maybe this stranger was more dangerous than he looked…
“Don’t worry,” said the stranger as he turned to face them, reaching into his cloak. “I don’t intend to steal from you. I mean to pay...” He pulled an oilcloth bundle from within the depths of his cloak. “…All you have to do is choose your preferred means of payment.”
“What?” asked Celsus, He ground his teeth. The stranger was beginning to annoy.
“Choose.” The stranger unwrapped the bundle, revealing a beautiful and gleaming gladius. “Go in peace and retain your dignity.” He placed the gladius on the wall, its blade and pommel resting on two of the nails which had previously been used to display Cato’s mementos. He stepped back and admired his work. “Or fight and leave in shame.”
Celsus rolled his eyes, bored. “Kill this idiot.”
The twins moved immediately upon Celsus’ instruction, twin short swords swinging in intricate, swirling pattern. The stranger appeared to sigh, shoulders sagging slightly as the twins bore down on him.
Celsus didn’t even bother to watch, instead using his dagger to clean dirt from under his fingernails. Squinting as he focused on his nails, he heard the swish of blades slicing air. A thud of a body hitting the floor. Another swish of a blades. A sound of bone crunching on bone and a cry from one of the twins. Another thud. Fists hitting a face, torso and face again. More fists, more face. Steel sinking into wood…
Celsus frowned, pausing as the blade of his knife scrapped dirt from underneath his thumbnail. Something is wrong, he thought...
…A wet, viscous sound like a melon being split asunder, followed by the thud of another body hitting the floor.
…This should have been over by now.
He looked up, only to see the twins prostrate and unconscious on the floor, one bleeding heavily from a split in his forehead, blonde hair stained red. The stranger—unmarked—crossed the distance between himself and Celsus in one stride. Celsus’ heart skipped a beat and he rose, drawing the dagger back to stab at the oncoming foe. But it was too late. The stranger seized Celsus by his hair before ramming his face into the table. A flash of pain and crunch of bone. Celsus staggered back and away from the stranger, coughing as blood filled his throat and mouth. He blinked, trying to focus, but it was too late. He had the briefest impression of the stranger vaulting the table to stand before him…
…And then darkness,
#
He smiled. He’d put out the trash and told them to stay away from his new caupona. Now he stood, hands on his hips, as he admired his new trophy wall. The twins’ four swords, Celsus’ dagger and Cato’s gladius all rested on nails on the wall, testimony to his day’s work. He closed his eyes and, nostrils flaring, took in the caupona’s unique scent. Even now the smell of the cooked meats, chickpeas and olive oil lingered in the air.
So, he thought, this is what freedom smells like.
Yes, they would come, Celsus and all the other scum like him. But let them. He’d beaten better in the arena, and he would beat these grubby little gangers now. He would take their weapons, and they would learn. They would learn that he, the Iberian, was done killing, and there would be no more violence in his neighbourhood…
…Just as he’d promised Vitus.
#
One of our newest Incola, the Iberian can be added to your Gangs of Rome collection here.
]]>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.
]]>“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.
Ajax lay still for a moment and, blinking, turned away from Celsus. Instead he tried to focus on his wall. Maybe it’s a dream, he thought. Yes. That must be it. I’m asleep in my bed and Celsus is just a dream…
“Now get your lazy carcass out of bed and go find me some new men. Or women. I don’t care which.”
…And not a pleasant one.
#
He pulled his hood up and over his head, seeking some respite against the morning drizzle. If this were a dream, he’d had better ones.
“Try the Aquila first,” Celsus said.
“The taverna down by the Emporium?” asked Ajax.
“Yes.” Celsus didn’t bother with a cloak. If he were even aware of the rain, he didn’t seem to care. “It’s got a good selection of former soldiers and sailors, so you might be lucky and find a decent fighter who needs a denarius or two.”
“What about the one in the Palantine? The Suckling Wolf?”
“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” said Celsus in a tone devoid of any enthusiasm. “Nice enough wine, but it’s a bit posh.” He farted again, lifting his leg to gain maximum effect. “I don’t do posh, and I don’t like posh kids. They’re all either soft or lazy. Like you.”
Says the fat man sending me to do his dirty work, thought Ajax as he said, “I could try the Laurel.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s that place near the Circus Maximus. Good for out of luck riders and gamblers who need a few quick denarii.”
“If you’re desperate, yes, but I’d rather you tried the Pomegranate first.”
“The Pomegranate?” Ajax’s voice rose an octave. “In the Subura?”
“You know any other Pomegranates?”
“But it’s full of weirdos! And the land lady’s practically a Gorgon!”
“So?” said Celsus. He frowned at Ajax, and the younger man could see the vein pulsing on the side of the brute’s head; a sure sign he was losing his temper.
“And the Sons of Orcus hang out in there! And all those other freaks who worship Orcus!”
“Exactly. Just the kind of cut-throat I need.” Celsus waved a hand at him dismissively. “Now stop wasting my time and find me some recruits before I drown you in the Tiber.”
“And what are you doing while I’m getting wet through and—most likely—being sacrificed to Orcus?”
“I’ll be drinking wine in the Suckling Wolf. Come back in one piece and I’ll buy you a drink.”
#
Bolster your ranks with our Gangs of Rome fighter cards. Brought to you in singles or packs of three or five, these cards can be purchased in a random selection of origins, or you can buy sets from the Subura, the Aventine, the Palatine or Circus Maximus. Visit and recruit your new fighters now!
]]>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.
Flavia closed her eyes, head bowed. And she knew all about criminality, didn’t she? And—as taught by dear Laelius, her very own husband—she’d learnt the hard way, had she not? It’s a tough school which teaches you your husband’s bakery is just a front, and that those hard men who used to visit her husband here at the villa were not bakers. She smiled. Desperation feeds naivety when all you want to believe is your husband is a good man in a good trade. And she’d been able to delude herself very effectively until the day he was brutally murdered by the men of the Hostilii clan, hadn’t she…?
She opened her eyes, glaring out through the triclinium’s bay door and out at the Aventine as it lay in the valley beyond her villa. Her naivety had ended there and then, she thought as he walked onto the balcony to study the Aventine, its insulae, squares and avenues basking in the evening sun. She was not stupid; it was obvious her husbands ‘bakers’ had established a brutal stranglehold of terror over the people of the Aventine. Everybody had heard the rumours, and yet she never questioned where all the money came from. She hung her head. Why would she? Why would anyone? It’s easy to turn a blind eye when your blindfold is woven with purple silk.
But now Laelius was dead, slaughtered—along with most of the bakers—in that dreadful bloodbath at the bakery. She inhaled deeply, back resolute and straight, shoulders back as she studied the Aventine. She blinked back what few tears moistened her eyes. She would not cry; she was too strong, too determined, and she had determined that she would only allow herself to weep once men like the Hostilii clan were driven not only from the Aventine, but from Rome itself. And driven away they would be. She had the tools. With Laelius’ fortune and businesses at her disposal—not to mention the able assistance of her loyal freedman, Diogenes—she could achieve anything. She smiled. Already the bloody profits of Laelius’ businesses had been reinvested in legitimate enterprise used to do good. Now, at last, the name of Flaccus was respectable, with free bread distributed to the poor via the bakery, and the medicus Menacrates—a friend of Diogenes—now established in a surgery adjacent to the Emporium; a surgery paid for and funded by Flavia, and in which Menacrates treated the sick and injured.
But there was still more to do, she thought as—wiping rogue tears from her eyes—she turned away from the Aventine and strode back into the triclinium. She appraised the cutlery and plates—set out just so—as walked by the dining table. The business of tonight’s dinner party was, for instance, to discuss the construction of a public bathhouse. Her most fervent hope was that this gift to the people would further wash away the filth of her husband’s nefarious deeds.
Satisfied the table was laid correctly, she clapped her hands and shouted, “Apicius!”
The sweating bulk of her cook shuffled into the hall, bowing his head in deference as he said, ”Domina?”
“Apicius,” she said, voice clipped and resonant, “You must excel in your culinary skills this evening. It is of the utmost importance that my guests be most impressed.”
“Indeed, Domina.” He bowed again, “I am preparing a masterwork.” Another bow. “The main attraction is to be a boar that I have created from pastry.” Yet another bow. “When you cut him open his entrails spill out…”
“Delightful,” murmured Flavia. “That’s quite enough bowing now, Apicus.”
“Thank you, Domina,” he said, bowing. “These entrails will, in fact, be the very best sausages, which I have been fortunate enough to procure from a most renowned butcher on the Forum Boarium.” He bowed, and Flavia wondered his head didn’t fall off. “He has a special—and most secret—recipe which he refuses to tell even me, his most earnest and long standing friend.”
“That is wonderful, Apicius. You are a culinary gem!” She considered asking him to cease his infuriating bowing once again but thought better of it. “And what is the name of this butcher so that I may recommend him to my guests?”
Alpicius' florid face burst into a proud grin. “Cruentus, Domina; his name is Cruentus.”
]]>Zenobius scratched his large, hooked nose. He reflected at the comparison with the beak of Musa the green parrot that perched on his shoulder, affectionately nibbling his ear.
His enemies called him “Hamo,” meaning “The Hook”, and they feared him. He was a long way from his natural habitat, the dark blue seas of the Mare Internum. Pompey the Great had supposedly done away with all the pirates many years before, yet many Greek Islands and Cilician coves still hid the sleek vessels of the Brotherhood. Rome still needed its slaves and contraband, and someone, somewhere always wanted to make a profit. In fact, the reason he was here—his reputation as a successful sea captain and pirate being much appreciated and often in demand—was a lucrative business deal with an ambitious dominus.
His barge had reached the Emporium on the banks of the Tiber, and the wharf in front of the great warehouse, the Aemilius portico. He looked down upon the wharf. Here, he was led to believe, the two great gladiators Marcus Attillus and Lucius Raecius Felix had recently met their deaths only weeks before. A pity, he reflected; he had always enjoyed seeing them fight. He wished them well in the fields of Asphodel.
His Hamadryas, Dens, strained at his leash, slavering at all the tantalising smells coming from the busy wharfside. Zenobius had acquired Dens in a dice game in Berenice when the baboon was an infant, and now they were inseparable. Dens yawned, lips pulled back exposing dagger-like fangs. His right claw itched his ruddy posterior, and his beady black eyes darted this way and that.
Zenobius chuckled as he remembered the time they had taken a vessel just off Syracuse. One of the prisoners called out that he was a Roman and that they would regret their actions. The crew had pretended to be scared and begged the Roman for mercy. Zenobius had handed him a Greek toga and ordered the Roman to wear it so they would not confuse him with the other captives. Then they had lowered a ladder into the sea and Zenobius politely wished him a fortuitous journey. The Roman faltered, but a word from Zenobius brought the screeching Dens swinging from the mast, one hand gripping a rope, as he slammed heavily into the chest of the captive. The Roman overbalanced, screamed like a virgin and fell overboard into the dark depths. Dens was rewarded with some juicy dates.
Now Zenobius surveyed the Emporium cautiously. Although he wore a hooded cloak there were those that may recognise him and seek vengeance. He saw his contact: a dirty bundle of rags sat at the foot of a statue of Neptune. It cradled a basket in its arms, crooning and giggling maniacally.
“Rufinus,” Zenobius called out to the bundle. “I have brought more friends for your menagerie”
The bundle of rags looked up, revealing the beaming face of Rufinus. He cackled with pleasure.
”Oh kind, kind Captain,” he said. “I am in need of more friends. Step ashore and show Rufinus what you bring from Leptis Magna...”
]]>Having covered much of Hispania and Gaul, Tacitus finally arrived in Rome where Rufus had promptly won the ape from the first spear centurion in a wrestling bout. A merchant from Anatolia had introduced Rufus to the benefits of smearing one’s body in goose fat before a match, and Rufus had never looked back. It was much more slippery than oil. No one could get to grips with him. It was like grappling with a muraena eel.
And now Tacitus sat on the floor in Rufus’ quarters, head to one side as he watched Rufus clean a denarius he’d just stolen from poor Varius, the Prefect whom Rufus delighted in continually robbing, conning and deceiving. Rufus tossed a date to Tacitus, who caught it and greedily stuffed it into his mouth. Rufus chuckled affectionately at the ape as it sat there, dressed in a child's crimson tunic, a small leather Phrygian cap on its head. A sudden noise from the hallway, however, sent the ape bounding to a shadowy alcove beside the door.
Rufus reached for his gladius as the door creaked open and a large shape stood silhouetted against the flames from the brazier outside. A dagger flew towards Rufus’ chest and he barely managed to dive to one side, the knife thudding into the wall. The silhouetted assailant stepped forward, a knotted club raised above its head, ready to smash down on Rufus as he attempted to rise from the floor…
Tacitus leapt, shrieking, from the alcove and clung onto the intruder’s back. One tiny hand grabbed a handful of braided hair, the other hand plunged a needle-like stiletto blade into the intruder’s neck again and again. The intruder fell to his knees, flailing blindly over his shoulders in an effort to grab his tiny primate nemesis. But Tacitus continued to stab and stab and stab, arterial blood spraying the room.
“Sede!” shouted Rufus.
Immediately the ape stopped, leapt from the twitching body as it slumped forward and onto its face. Chittering angrily, Tacitus jumped onto the nearest upright chair. Rufus kicked the club away from the intruder’s hands and stood over him. Shoving his foot under the intruder’s torso, Rufus heaved the man onto his back. Something like a gargled moan of despair bubbled from out of the would-be-assassin’s slack mouth.
”Isake of the Circus Max ! What a pleasure to see you here!” Rufus squatted beside the dying Nubian, Tacitus leaping on his master’s back to scowl and gurn at Isake. “The lights are going out for you, my friend. Remember the old adage ‘Monkey see, monkey do’? Well this monkey certainly did for you”
Isake tried to speak as he made a doomed attempt to reach out and grab Rufus’ tunic, but his hand fell to the floor, eyes glazing over as he bled out. The last words he heard as he boarded the ferry for Hades were, “Nice one, Tacitus. Here, have another date.”
]]>Nobody knew where Livilla came from. Neither did Livilla.
Just off the Julian Forum lay the Temple to Venus Genetrix, as built by Caesar in his desperation to prove his line was descended from the goddess herself. Livilla had been discovered by the priests of the temple shortly after a particularly raucous Saturnalia. Naked and fetal, she lay asleep before the statue of Venus.
Surely she was an earthly manifestation of the goddess herself. Her curvaceous appearance and beauty suggested that indeed she was. Livilla did not know. Livilla remembered nothing. She was clutching a piece of lead into which was scratched the word ‘Livilla’. This was the only clue to her identity.
The priests took her in, fed and clothed her. Livilla returned their kindness with certain services. She seemed to remember some skills of her previous life instinctively. Some said she had been a courtesan. Others said she was a disgraced Vestal Virgin. Nobody really knew.
She had fallen for Caius Aurelius Corvus, the youngest son of a senator as soon as she had set eyes on him. The goddess of love worked her charms and he fell for her in equal measure. Roma backwards spelt is amor, after all. And so it was for Livilla and Caius. Until that is the day that Livilla caught him in flagrante delicto with the wife of a Syrian merchant. Livilla—filled with jealous fury—snatched a bronze javelin from a conveniently placed statue of Hippolyte , Queen of the Amazons. She thrust it down with all her might, skewering the couple and pinning them together on the bed like two insects on a board.
Murdering the son of a senator is never wise. Fearing for her life she fled from the Capitoline Hill and lost herself in the maze of streets of the Subura. Nobody would find her there. Once more using her ‘skills’ to survive, she came to the notice of Creon and his gang. She joined them, rapidly earning respect for her natural talent with the javelin, hitting the mark every time.
Maybe that was it? Perhaps she was an Amazon…?
…Whatever the case, she still couldn’t remember.
]]>Alaric refused to tell them his real name, so they called him Manlius.
He would never forget Gerlind. She was three summers old when the Romans had come to his village deep in the forests of Germania. They destroyed it all. He could still remember the screams and the flames, and his mother pinned naked to an oak by Roman spears. He could still remember his father surrounded and stabbed by Roman pilums as he flailed with his axe, cursing them for dogs and snarling like a hound. He could still remember Gerlind being picked up by a soldier and swung by her tiny legs against the trunk of a pine tree. He remembered her skull cracking like an egg and its contents running down the trunk to mingle with the damp earth.
He would never forget.
He would never forget Marcus Galienus Coponius. Thrown into a caged wagon with the other prisoners, ‘Manlius’ was taken—shackled and chained—all the way to Rome. There he was sold into the service of Coponius, a wine merchant from Narbonensis. For seven years he stoically received Coponius’ drunken beatings. But Coponius could never break Manlius’ spirit. He prayed daily to Wuotan and to Donar to give him the strength to survive and to set him free. Donar had listened to his prayers and—one hot summer—he sent a thunderbolt to strike the Coponius’ villa, setting it ablaze. The dry winds spread the flames through the vines and, in the confusion, Manlius seized the opportunity to escape. He remembered it still.
He would never forget.
He would never forget the great port of Massilia. He arrived there, by chance, after fleeing the villa. He stowed away on the first merchant ship he found anchored at the dockside. The vessel was bound for Ostia. There, hidden by darkness, he had jumped ship and made his way along the bank of the River Tiber until he eventually arrived at the city of his hated enemy, Rome. He remembered it still.
He would never forget.
He would never forget Prudentius. The agente found Manlius living like a feral animal, eating rats and smothering himself in horse shit to keep warm. Prudentius coaxed him with food and spoke to him in his native tongue. He then installed Manlius in the Red Wolf, a tavern of some repute under the management of Brictius of the Palatine. Prudentius gave strict instructions that Brictius was to train the German as a fighter, and that the German would then assist Prudentius on his many ventures. He remembered it still.
He would never forget.
He would never forget Brictius. The fighter took Manlius’ primal fury and brutality and honed it into a fighting spirit and a keen skill. Brictius’ tutelage saw Manlius’s reputation and standing grow amongst the Palatine gang. Able to give and take almost preternatural levels of punishment, he took particular pleasure in beating any enemies he knew to be ex-legionaries. “Fur Gerlind!” he would roar before emasculating them and cutting their throats. He remembered it still.
He would never forget.
He would never forget Coponius. Prudentius. Brictius. He would never forget their part in his torment, and in his grief. He would destroy them all.
For Gerlind.
]]>People thought Lucius indestructible, a man revered by Saturn and feared by the underworld, but he knew better. I owe my longevity to my doves, he thought as he cradled one such bird in a hand burnt by fire and missing its middle finger. Blowing gently on the white dove’s head, he stroked its neck to calm it. His left knee—the one Bolgios the Gaul had smashed—cracked as he knelt before the small shrine he’d built in his sleeping quarters. He encircled the dove’s neck with his other hand and made a swift rotation with his wrist, uttering a small prayer as he did so. He then kissed the limp feathered corpse and placed it reverently upon the shrine.
This was his ritual before every job, and the reason he kept a flock of doves. Even from here, in his little room in the insula at the southern end of the Great Circus, he could hear them in their dovecote on the roof, cooing and oblivious of their fate. He rose from the floor, knee cracking once again, and limped to the table beside his broken bed. A fire of pain consumed his ankle—the one Urganalla had snapped—as he limped across the room. Reaching the table, he took up a long-bladed knife which lay upon it and slid it into the sheath on his belt. He then took his woolen cloak from the rickety bed—the one upon which he’d conceived his son—and drew the threadbare garment around his shoulders in a futile hope it might protect him from the spring showers. For all its faults, Lucius was fond of this cloak. A gift from his first wife—the one who had tried to cut his throat—it didn’t keep him dry, but the moth-eaten thing still served as a meagre blanket and was big enough for him to hide his favourite weapon: an Arbelas’ scissor. The one with which he’d killed his second wife.
He placed his forearm into the scissor and gripped the handle. The rooms meagre light reflected on the weapon’s semicircular blade. He smiled as best his bloodied lip—split in a drunken brawl with Hanno the Nubian—would allow. The scissor had been a gift from his old friend Marcus Attilus, the retired Murmillo. He paused to reflect on poor Marcus. How sad it was he now spent his days as a gladius for hire, far from the deafening roar of an appreciative crowd, but time waited for no man. Lucius’ wrecked and shattered body—a gallery of bones broken by Rome’s great and not-so-good—served as testimony to that.
Still, he thought as he made his way down the stairs—the ones Rufus and Manlius had thrown him down—he missed old Marcus, if not the crack of the gladiator’s wooden sword on his skull as they sparred together. Lucius may have never fought in the arena, but he had grown up mucking out the horses for the Blues at the Circus Maximus. Marcus had won his freedom, but the great and mighty gladiator—now a middle-aged shadow of his former glory—was reduced to hiring himself out at staged bouts for rich patricians, and as a strong arm for whichever gangs paid the highest price.
But that’s Rome for you, Lucius thought with a wan smile as he reached the bottom of the stairs. One day you’re up, Fortuna smiling upon you, the next you’re down in the gutter, fighting for handouts. But now Lucius was on his way up. He had a reputation as a survivor. No matter how many wounds he took—and by the gods, he’d taken many—no matter how much of his crimson sanguis was spilt upon the cobbles, he still got up and fought back. Many adversaries had thought him finished only for Lucius to stab them in the eye or open their throat with his scissor. Many were the men and woman he had sent to the grave.
He stepped out into the benighted street, nodding in acknowledgement to Cato and Aemillia as they waited in the shadows beneath the Aqua Appia. He smiled as best he could. Tonight was going to be his lucky night...
…The dove’s sacrifice would make it so.
]]>Cato awoke at daybreak, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He yawned and stretched and scratched. As he groped about him in the semi-lit room, his thick fingers found his voluminous sandals before strapping them about his broad feet.
Cato had never been small. His mother had died with the effort of birthing him. Growing up, Cato fancied there was a sadness in his father’s eyes whenever they spoke of Cato’s mother. And sometimes—just sometimes—he swore he heard the old man cry at night.
He rose from his bed, belting his woollen tunic at the waist as he looked to the gladius that stood on a stand beside his bed. It gleamed even in this weak light, testimony to the hours that both he and his father spent polishing the blade.
A retired centurion, his father—known variously as either the Centurion, the Butcher, or simply Vitus—had owned the Golden Vine Rod caupona. Situated just off the Via Frumentarius, the caupona may have been modest, but his father always served good wine, and the place became a popular haunt for the men of his father’s old legion. Any son of old Vitus’, it seemed, was a son of theirs, and these grizzled old warhorses were always keen to teach young Cato dirty jokes and the martial skills they’d acquired in the service of the Emperor.
Cato reached for the gladius, picking it up and passing it from hand to hand as he relished its balance and weight. “Son,” Vitus would say, “Always treat your weapon with respect. Keep its edge razor sharp. Keep it oiled and always offer a prayer to Mars. Look after your weapon and it will look after you.” Wise words, but no sword could protect Vitus against the wasting illness that took his life.
Cato placed the gladius back in its stand and cleared his throat. Even now, after so many years, the thought of his father—and the wretch he had been reduced to—made his throat tight and his chest hollow. That was no way for a man like Vitus to die. It was cruel.
He left his small bedroom and descended the stairs, emerging into the quiet caupona. Dusty and modest—like Vitus—the only nod to decoration came in the form of various necklaces, bangles and rings Cato had nailed to the wall; keepsakes of fallen enemies and debtors. He paused at the foot of the stairs, nostrils flaring as he savoured the air. Even at this hour, the smell of the cooked meats, chickpeas and olive oil lingered in the air…
…As did the memories.
The caupona had—upon Vitus’ death—been taken over by Erebus of the Aventine, along with the massive debt that Vitus had incurred at dice. Erebus had not thrown the young Cato out onto the streets. Far from it. He had seen the lad’s potential. Cato demonstrated his gratitude by being a loyal second. He accompanied Erebus on debt collecting missions. There initially to loom imposingly as Erebus demanded his money, Cato one day progressed to removing parts of debtor’s anatomy with Vitus’ gladius.
“Good work, Cato,” Erebus had once said, voice raised over the screech of a bleeding debtor, who, writhing, lay with one hand clamped firmly over the other to staunch the bleeding from his severed finger. “And now, methinks we shall remove something lower—What’s that? Speak up! Aaah, so you do have the money after all?” Erebus laughed as the debtor pointed toward a simple amphora with his savaged, dripping hand. “See Cato,” he then said as he slapped the youth on the shoulder. “They always find the denarii from somewhere. Always.”
Cato paused by the caupona’s door, taking both an oilcloth and his cloak from the counter on which he’d left them. He frowned as he regarded the stains on the cloak, obvious even in this half-light. He knew he should wash the stains out of the cloak, but he remained too sentimental, even for such a grim memento. After all, how could he wash it? This was, after all, the cloak in which he had been sent Erebus’ head, the veteran succumbing to the savage jaws of Seneca’s mastiff during a turf war with the Palatine wolves.
He ground his teeth, hand going to the lead wedge he wore on a cord about his neck. Three days. Three days since he had unwrapped Erebus’s head, sent to him in this bloody cloak by that child Seneca. Three days since he’s found the flattened lead wedge in Erebus’ mouth, the mocking words ‘cave canem’ scratched upon it.
His pulse quickened, nostrils flaring at the notion he had not been there to protect his mentor. Now, three days later, his fury simmered at the memory of unwrapping Erebus’ head. Now the time for revenge had come. A dish best served cold as they said in Hispania…
…Few things were colder than steel.
He left the caupona, oilcloth firmly in hand. From there he made his way through the morning streets, rendered anonymous by the hood of Erebus’ bloodied cloak. He cared nothing for the drunks, lazars and prostitutes that lingered even at this hour, nor for the early risers who made daring—or naïve—sorties into early morning Rome.
It didn’t take long to reach the Forum Augustus and—more specifically—the Temple of Mars Ultor beside it. There he unwrapped the oilcloth, revealing his newly acquired blade. This gladius had once belonged to a famous Optio of the Seventh Victrix, pawned upon his return from Eboracum in Britannia. The bull’s head motif on the pommel gleamed where Cato had polished it. He knelt down and offered the sword to the priest that stood beside the altar.
“Father Mars, I pray and beseech that thou give me the strength to fulfil my purpose so that I may dedicate the blood of mine enemies to your glory. Strength and Honour.”
The priest took the gladius from him with obvious care, and dipped the blade in a bowl of votive oil. Gesticulating silently, he gazed solemnly upon the supplicant. Cato then passed the priest a small pouch of gold as an ‘offering’ to Mars Ultor.
“Go forth and unto your enemies,” said the priest. He smiled benignly and handed the blade back to Cato.
Cato stood and backed away, head still bowed as he stepped out into the early dawn. He was ready. He had his blade. He had his blessing. Soon he would have the head of Seneca and his accursed mastiff.
And he would keep them. As a memento.
]]>
Hegio’s experience as a civil engineer varied depending on who one asked. Some maintained he’d built the Colosseum single-handedly, others the entirety of the Palatine. The more fanciful stories would have it he’d helped Romulus build Rome itself. Whatever the truth, this was just another day for the old man, with just another building.
He stood beside his horse in the shadow of a semi-constructed apartment block. Stroking the horse’s nose, he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as he studied this nascent building and scaffold that cosseted it. Nine days, he thought. Nine days until it’s completed, if that. And the sooner the better, he thought as he fed his horse a handful of grain; after the ‘mysterious’ fire that had gutted this, the XIth district, he had a lot of work on his hands. The swathes of surrounding buildings—all of them gutted, blackened carapaces—wouldn’t rebuild themselves, would they?
He smiled to himself as the horse ate from the palm of his hand. So much opportunity, he thought, so much available space; and right beside the Circus Maximus…
…He could almost taste the money.
He has to be quick, he thought. To spend too long on each building would give his rivals the chance to build first. Already new blocks were being developed by those cockroaches. His men called them ‘insulas’: islands of brick and wood in a sea of ash and debris. Construction workers—mostly slaves—toiled like ants as they crawled over each of these new buildings, great hide buckets of caementicum strapped to their backs. Their ladders and scaffolds creaked ominously under the weight.
"Hail, Hegio! What a truly magnificent building you are creating!”
He turned to see Labrax and six members of the Aventini stroll into his construction site. Labrax, hands behind his back and eyes squinting against the midday sun, studied this new, formative habitation even as he sauntered toward Hegio.
“Such a pleasure to see the men of the Aventine taking an interest in my work,” said Hegio through gritted teeth as his horse whinnied and strained against the rein in Hegio’s hand. “If only you’d been here when we laid the foundations…”
“Such a magnificent erection. Your reputation is most thoroughly deserved,” said Labrax. He stopped mere feet away from Hegio. A wiry man made entirely, it seemed, of sinew and scars, he looked almost childlike in comparison to the engineer, whose decades of building and labour had hewn him into a tower of muscle and dry, sunburnt skin. “You and your little builders have worked so hard. Such a shame if construction were to slow down…” Labrax said. He nodded to his two most favoured men, Dordalus and Petrus, as they stood beside one of the many ladders that leant against the scaffold. “…Or even halt.”
Smirking, Dordalus and Petrus pushed the ladder—incumbent slave and all—away from the scaffolding. They stepped aside as the slave fell screaming to the ground. He landed in an untidy heap, twitching and moaning amidst the broken hod and smashed bricks which he had been carrying up the ladder.
“What you need,“ said Labrax as he stood on his toes to whisper conspiratorially in Hegio’s ear, “Is some insurance. Any more of these little accidents and your new apartments will never be finished, will they?”
“And I suppose, “ said Hegio with a sneer, “That you will provide that insurance, for a substantial fee?”
“Substantial?” Labrax feigned a look of almost comedic integrity. “Why, my rates are—”
“Your ‘rates’ are immaterial,” said Hegio, stroking his horse's nose in an effort to settle the agitated beast. As he spoke a group of seven rough looking individuals ran out of an adjacent taverna .They were well-armed and took up position swiftly, covering the men of the Aventine. "As you can see,” Hegio then said with a smile and a raised eyebrow, “I already have insurance with Aemilianus of the Circus Maximus.”
He stepped back as an arrow sped down from the scaffolding, embedding itself in Labrax’s right shoulder. As the skinny leader staggered away from Hegio, eyes wide and teeth bared in anger and pain, hornets of lead buzzed from the half-constructed second floor gallery. Two Aventini dropped to the ground like sacks of gravel, their faces an explosion of blood and bone as these slingshots found their mark. The remaining members of the Aventini were surrounded. They drew their weapons, faces grim as they prepared to go down fighting.
“Futue te ipsum!” yelled Labrax as he drew his gladius and, pausing only to spit in Hegio’s face, ran towards the enemy. “Et caballum tuum!”]]>
The buffaloes snorted, their breath turning into mist in the crisp air of this March morning. Hauling a heavily-laden barge along the Tiber, they approached the wharves of Rome’s river port, the Emporium. Whilst a youth of no more than fifteen led the buffaloes, kicking stones and dreaming adolescent dreams of women and glory, his father, Philo, guided the barge, more content to relish his forthcoming fee.
“It’s all there, Philo” Ajax said in his quiet, smooth voice. “Every last Denarii.”
“Even so,” said Philo. He emptied the coins into his hand and began to count them. “A man can’t be too careful, can he?”
Ajax didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to watch his gang. They had, as arranged, been waiting for the barge at the Emporium, and now they loaded Philo’s cargo onto a cart. Philo looked up from his coins to study Ajax. He’d become grey of hair and thick of belly since they had last met, thought Philo. Still, as the new leader of the Aventine Collegia, he had done well for himself. No doubt his ascension had been wrought with blood, Philo thought, and the death of his enemies—judging by the weariness in Ajax’s stance and the slope of his shoulders—weighed heavily upon the man. Either that, Philo thought, or the stories of his sister’s death were true after all.
But something else troubles him, thought Philo. He looks nervous. And with good reason...
That was no ordinary cargo, after all. With one jar alone said to be worth 150,000 Denarii, the consignment of purple Tyrian dye were worth more than he and his gang would ever live to see. Philo glanced at Ajax’s gang. Amongst them stood Constans, the biggest of Ajax’s men … and the clumsiest. No wonder Ajax looks nervous, Philo thought; for those jars to have travelled here all the way from Sidon only to smashed here on the docks...
“Where will you take the dye now, sir?” asked Philo’s son.
“Justus! Be silent!” said Philo, his voice sibilant and sharp with anger. “You do not address this man until spoken—”
“Oh, do relax, Philo,” said Ajax turned to the boy. A weary smile stumbled across his face. “He is a youthful man with a youthful man’s questions.” He ruffled Justus’ hair and winked at him as he said, “Life is so full of mystery at your age is it not?”
Justus tried to answer, but his voice caught in his throat and all he could do was gawp at Ajax as the gang leader said, “From here we take it to Spurius Sidonius et Filii. He’s a dyer in the upper Aventine. My Dominus wishes to present a gift to the Emperor. Something in purple. Something that will aid my Dominus’ political advance— What the hell?”
Three whistles sliced the morning air. In an instant Ajax dashed to the edge of the barge, gripping its rail as he bellowed, “Beware! We are ambushed!”
But it was too late. Five men—previously concealed behind the other carts and crates that littered the dock—converged on Ajax’s men. Two of the Aventine gangers went down. One who Philo recognised as Leontia fell lifeless with a javelin in her chest. Constans dropped to the floor, clutching a heavy pilum embedded in his thigh. A sound like the buzzing of angry wasps filled the air as the Suburan slingers fired their glandae into Ajax’s men.
“Justus! Get down!” shouted Philo as he lurched across the barge as best his aging knees would allow.
He reached Justus and wrapped his arms around the youth. Even as he pulled the struggling boy away from the barge’s railing, he heard Ajax give his own shrill whistle. Instantaneously a giant form—previously stood behind the cart and hidden from Philo’s view—strode forward. Muscle and scar tissue sculpted into the form of a man, this slab of destruction wore a gladiator’s armour. No stranger to the thrills of the Colosseum, Philo recognised the man at once. No one but the mighty Marcus Attillus wore that particular variant of murmillo armour.
“Let me see!” said Justus, struggling in his father’s arms. “I want to see!”
“No, son,” said Philo as he covered the boy's eyes, knowing full well what was to come. “No, you don’t.”
Attillus banged his gladius vigorously against his large rectangular scutum and bellowed a challenge to the attackers. Slingshot pinged harmlessly off his shield. The dawn’s rays reflecting in his polished mormylos-crested helm.
Philo stared as Attillus stamped his foot and lunged at the nearest attacker, impaling the hapless girl upon his gladius. In a fluid movement, he caught another assailant on the backswing as he withdrew his weapon from the lifeless Suburan. This second ganger dropped to his knees, a crimson fountain erupting from his neck and onto the dock’s paving stones.
Philo’s pulse quickened. Such a treat, he thought even as he shielded his son’s eyes from the oncoming slaughter. Those Suburans are fighting a professional gladiator now, not some dirty ganger like Ajax. Marcus Attillus himself, trained at the Ludus of Hephaestus; twenty fights with twenty victories ensuring his manumission and the nomen of ‘The Destroyer’. Now he stands alone against this Aventine rabble…
…Normally, Philo thought with a dark smile, I’d have to pay good money for this kind of entertainment.
Attillus severed the arm of another Suburan at the elbow before using his shield to batter the last two back and against a warehouse wall. They fell to their knees, begging for mercy. One wept like a child.
“Kill them!” shouted Ajax, leaning on the railing and shouting so loud the tendons on his neck stood proud and thick. “Kill them now!”
Attillus drew his gladius back in anticipation of the coup-de-grace—
“Marcus Attillus! Are you still scratching your head with one finger? Why not embrace a real challenge?”
A lithe figure stood facing Attillus from the edge of the dock. Philo peered at this new combatant. Clad in a loincloth and wearing a Manica arm guard, he also sported a Galerus to protect his right arm and shoulder identified.
Another gladiator! thought Philo, pulse quickening as he watched this slender figure heft his three pronged Fuscina effortlessly, a weighted net dangling from his left arm. And a Retarius at that!
A bass rumble issued from the Attillus’s helm. “Lucius Raecius Felix!” he said. “We meet again!” “
The Suburae and Aventini gangers fell back, catching their breath or binding wounds even as they watched this unfolding spectacle. Philo’s eyes widened even as Justus’ struggles intensified. Lucius versus Attillus … again! He had been fortunate enough to see their first fight. The giant had bested Lucius in the arena only to spare the net fighter’s life, apparently out of respect for the slender man’s skill…
… Philo doubted such mercy would be shown today.
The Retiarius kept his distance from the armoured giant, no doubt mindful of the force Attillus could unleash with those knotted, scarred muscles. Suddenly he lunged with his trident, attempting to catch his opponent in his unprotected throat. Attillus deflected the fuscina with a casual flick of his gladius and—closing the gap to the netman in a single stride—battered him in the face with his shield. Lucius staggered back, shaking his head as blood streamed from his broken nose.
He pirouetted out of reach with a balletic grace before casting his net over the murmillo. The net caught on the giant’s helm and ensnared his upper body, disabling him momentarily. But that moment was all Lucius needed; he stabbed Attillus in the right thigh, the wicked, barbed prongs piercing Attillus’ femoral artery. Collapsing sideways, the giant crashed to the floor, his life pulsing rhythmically from the mortal wound.
With his foe clutching at his spurting thigh, Lucius cast his trident aside and drew a pugio from his belt. He knelt beside over the writhing Attillus, pugio raised to deliver the final, victorious blow…
…But there was fight left in the giant gladiator.
“Futue te ipsum, cacator!” bellowed Attillus, forcing a hand through a large tear in the net.
This meaty paw, the size of a ham, seized Lucius by the throat. The retiarii’s eyes bulged as he frantically stabbed the murmillo in the chest, desperate to make the giant relinquish his hold. But to no avail. Such was the strength that remained in Attillus that he crushed the life out of his opponent even as Lucius, hacking at his enemy’s chest until his dying breath, ushered Attillus aboard Charon’s boat to Hades.
Silence reigned as the few surviving Aventini and Suburae fighters stared at the two nemeses. Entwined even in death, the two warriors lay in a creeping pool of intermingled blood. Even Philo’s jaw dropped and his grip on Justus slackened. Never in all my days at the Colosseum, he thought even as Justus finally wriggled free and dashed to the barge’s handrails to stare at the butchery and destruction, have I seen such a thing. Such violence. Such brutality…
…Such glory.
In silence and in defeat, the two remaining Suburan gangers ran from the dock. One—a boy no older than Justus—stayed long enough to kneel beside Lucious’ body, say a quiet prayer, and kiss the dead fighter on the cheek. He spat on Attillus as he left.
Those Aventine who remained gawped at the two bodies. Even Constans—skin white and clammy as he leant against the cart and stemmed the flow of blood from his thigh with strips torn from his tunic—stared at the dead gladiators.
Justus broke the silence by vomiting loudly over the side of the barge.
“Well, that was one big fish that fought back.” Ajax clapped loudly. “Now get back to work,” he then shouted, pointing at the remaining Aventini and their cart. “In acta est fabula; the play is over!”
]]>
Prudentius installed himself in a dark, seedy wine shop and settled down with a cup of harsh red. He squinted as he drank the course liquid. It was not, by any means, the delicate Greek wine to which he was acquainted. Still, the thought, anything to slake the thirst.
His gaze remained fixed upon the building across the street. ‘The Fields of Elysium’ was not only the most notorious brothel in the Regio XIII, but it also came under the protection of that gang of Aventine buffoons led by Celsus.
Sipping the wine, Prudentius monitored The Fields of Elysium. Sure enough, Celsus and two of his men hoved into view within minutes … just as Prudentius’ intelligence had suggested. They approached the brothel, no doubt eager for a little entertainment after a busy night’s work. Prudentius’ eyes captured every detail. One leg streaked with fresh blood, Celsus sported a slight limp. Perhaps, Prudentius thought, the Aventine’s work had not gone as smoothly as normal. The clumsy Thracian, Meglos, followed Celsus, struggling to conceal a small shield under his cloak. Khala, the gigantic Nubian, remained positively brazen as he carried his heavy pilum openly and without shame. He laughed at Meglos as the Thracian dropped his shield.
Celsus and his two companions stood on the threshold of the brothel, laughing and drinking from depleted wineskins. Prudentius smiled, lips a fraction of a gradus from his wine. Ah, Celsus, he thought, how careless you are. How oblivious of your surroundings...
…How easy to follow.
“Looks like you’re in business, my friends,” Prudentius murmured into the shadows around him. “Might I suggest allowing them a few moments to get … acquainted with the fauna before you go in?”
The shadows shifted and moved, coalescing into the men of the Palantine. Armed and ready for their bloody business, they moved to the front of the shop and peered at Celsus and his two companions as they entered The Fields of Elysium.
“So you were right,” said the Palantine leader, Brictius. “Celsus, Khala and Meglos are here, and ripe for the picking.” He turned to face Prudentius. “But what of the rest of Celsus’ whelps? Where are they?”
Prudentius smiled by way of reply, holding his cup to his lips with one hand, and extending an open palm with the other.
“Pay him,” Brictius said to one of his men, Marius. The disfigured Roman, the wounds on his face still fresh and sore after an encounter with Seneca and his hound, grunted and placed a coin in Prudentius’ hand.
“You have nothing to fear,” said Prudentius as he slipped the coin into his robe. “The rest of his gang are busy elsewhere. Jacomus and Jacobus are whoring in the Subura. Eolus is enjoying a senator’s wife just as Little Achilles is being enjoyed by the senator.”
“So just three of the Aventine dogs to deal with, eh?” Something approaching a smile contorted Brictius’ lips.
“Indeed,” said Prudentius. “Easy pickings for men of your calibre.”
“Good work, spy,” said Brictius. As if detecting Prudentius’ sarcasm, he then responded in kind with, “You continue to impress.”
“Let’s be about our business,” he then said to his gang. “The sooner Operation Coitus Interruptus is complete, the sooner The Fields of Elysium will be under new management.”
]]>"Rufinus! Watch where you’re walking!”
With the midday sun burning their necks as it rose above the Porticus Octaviae, the three men walked through the congested Vicus Bellonae. Porcius and his oldest friend Vinicius moved like sharks in water as, all grace of movement and keenness of eye. Between them walked Rufinus. Oblivious to his surroundings, the wiry redhead ambled along the street as he cradled his beloved basket, crooning to whatever he kept hidden under its lid.
“What do you keep in that damned basket, anyway?” asked Vinicius as they walked between the temples of Bellona and Apollo.
“My little friends!” the redhead said with a broad and genuine smile. He didn’t even bother to look at Vinicius, wide eyes still fixed on the basket. “My little friends…”
Vinicius rolled his eyes in exacerbation whilst passing his heavy pilum from one meaty, sweaty hand to the other. Porcius turned to look at him and smiled. All these years and the big man still hadn’t grown used to the introverted enigma that was Rufinus.
The trio rounded the corner of the Temple of Bellona only to find the street blocked by three men of the Circus Maximus. This swarthy trio rushed at the friends the moment they say them, drawing their gladii and pugios. Immediately Vinicius launched his pilum straight into the chest of the first. Slammed backwards by the force of the missile, the man crumpled into the dirt as if swatted by the gods. Undeterred, the other two bore down on them, and the nearest slashed at Porcius with a dirty, chipped gladius.
“Ha!” Porcius laughed as his lorica armour deflected the blow, and he riposted with a low and brutal thrust of his spear. Aim true and point sharp, the spearhead sank into the assailant's groin. The man squealed like a deflowered virgin, arterial blood spraying across the walls of the temple.
Meanwhile, Rufinus—eyes and smile still placid and wide—removed the lid from his basket and threw its contents directly into the face of the third ganger. The man cried out, dropping his two gladii as he clawed at the venomous black scorpions that now scuttled over his unprotected flesh. But it was too late. Rufinus’ ‘little friends’ marked the seconds of the man’s passing with stab after stab of their venomous stings.
“You see?” Rufinus asked of Vinicius, clapping with a childish glee as his victim screamed in agony and terror. “See how friendly they are!”
]]>“Okay lads, quietly now,” Erebus of the Aventine whispered to the rest of his gang. “There they are.”
He nodded in the direction of the four Palatine gang members. Leant against the olive stall, this rival gang appeared relaxed and carefree as they laughed and ate olives, spitting the stones at one another.
Vitus—known otherwise as ‘The Macellarius’—almost shouldered Erebus out of the way, so eager was he to have his bloody way with these Palantine children. Moving in silence and hidden in the long shadows, he crept toward his prey, passing his brutal cleaver from hand to hand.
Early as it was in the morning, the market’s usual crowds had yet to gather. Only the odd slave could be seen as they made purchases for their masters’ kitchens, and a naked noble—head shaved and make-up plastered on his effeminate face—stumbled across the square, reeking of wine.
The shadows hid the Aventini as the gang followed after The Macellarius, hugging the walls and creeping toward their prey. Oblivious, the Palatine gangers laughed and wolf-whistled at the naked noble. They only realised the danger when it emerged from the shadows.
Sophus launched a cruelly barbed net at the slender Greek known as Zephyrus.The barbs struck home, sinking into the Greek’s tunic and exposed shoulder. His scream of pain alerted the rest of his gang, but for nought. The Macellarius burst out of the shadows and charged across the square. A vicious sweep of his cleaver split the back of Zephyrus’s knees wide open.
The Palatine gang responded, springing toward the Aventini. The stocky Gaul, Bolgios, blocked the sweep of Erebus' gladius with a spiked buckler before reversing the blow and jabbing it towards his attacker’s face. Erebus stepped sideways with casual ease and buried the slim dagger he held in his other hand deep into the Gaul’s right ear.
The remaining Palatine, Seneca, backed away slowly, smiling at the Aventini. He pushed two fingers into his mouth and gave a sharp wolf whistle. Immediately a massive, dark shape the size of a pony appeared from a nearby shop doorway. It moved with a slow, almost bored grace that belied its bulk, and leapt at Erebus. Slavering jaws clamped around Erebus’ exposed throat like a mantrap. The Aventine fell, blood pumping from his neck as the beast shook him like a rat.
“Cave canem, my Aventine friends!” Seneca laughed as he threw his lasso with such accuracy it ensnared the bull neck of The Macellarius. “Cave canem!”
Sophus dropped his net, soiling himself in terror as he turned to flee, but an arrow hit him square between the shoulders and he dropped to the cobbles.
“Here boy!” Seneca shouted to his pet. “Would you like a treat?”
The great hound, his slobbering maw dripping with Erebus’ blood, snarled and padded towards The Macellarius, who lay helpless in the coils of the lasso…
]]>“You wouldn’t be calling them lovely if you knew them,” whispered his Aventine companion, Nereus.
]]>“Well, if it isn’t the lovely ladies of the Subura,” said Albinus. He gazed across the piazza and at the three slender figures draped around the drinking fountain.
“You wouldn’t be calling them lovely if you knew them,” whispered his Aventine companion, Nereus.
The women looked up, no expression on their vulpine faces. Nereus narrowed his eyes as reached over his shoulder to take hold of his javelin. Yes, Leontia, Severa and Urgunalla’s contortionist skills and training as acrobatic dancers once made them popular at the city’s more exotic orgies, but now they worked for Mater Alypia and the Daughters of Sappho. The name alone made Nereus’ bladder twitch. An all-female gang in the Subura, the Daughters were not only lithe as panthers but as quick—and deadly—as vipers. Only a fool would tangle with these Gorgons, thought Nereus. He glanced at the leering Albinus. Here, he thought, is such a fool...
"What you ladies need is an introduction to my trusty weapon.” Albinus grabbed his crotch and gyrated his hips towards the trio.
“Mortus,” muttered Nereus as he tightened his grip on his javelin. ”We are so mortus.“
A gleam of silver flashed from the folds of Leontine's tunic and sped across the piazza, burying itself in Albinus’ throat. Eyes wide, Albinus gargled blood and he pitched forward onto the cobbles, twitching. Taking one step backwards and pausing to aim, Nereus threw his javelin at Leontia; it clattered against the far wall of the piazza as his target sidestepped the javelin with nonchalance and grace. In an instant Severa and Urganalla had cartwheeled toward him, Severa somersaulting to land on her feet behind Nereus. Urganalla stepped in front of Nereus, and her serpentine lariat hissed out and coiled around the Aventine ganger’s throat before he could even draw his gladius. With the lariat biting into his neck, Nereus grasped it with both hands in an effort to prevent his imminent strangulation. As he did so, Severa inserted a slim knife into the base of his skull from behind. He gasped, and the tip of the blade protruded from his open mouth. His bladder emptied as he slumped to his knees, vision diming as he slipped into the Underworld.
“Men,” sneered Leontia as—with one foot planted one foot on Nereus’ shoulder—she removed the dagger from his neck. “They’re all the same.”
"Well, this one certainly lived up to his name,” remarked Urganalla, taking care not to step into the growing pool of Nereus’ urine. “Nereus means ‘the Wet One’...”
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