Monkey See, Monkey Do, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

Monkey See, Monkey Do, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

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…
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Tabula Rasa, by Chris Bone

Tabula Rasa, by Chris Bone

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.
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Fur Gerlind! by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

Fur Gerlind! by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

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.
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A Lucky Man, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

A Lucky Man, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

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.
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Mementos, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

Mementos, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

“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.”
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Little Monkey, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

Little Monkey, by Chris Bone and Paul L. Mathews

Aemillia swore under her breath as she warmed up, flexing and lunging as she prepared for her morning routine. Did they, she thought, focus on her skill with a knife? Rarely. What about her consummate aim with a sling? Sometimes. Her poise under pressure, perhaps? Or her courage in combat? Never. Instead they lauded her ability to find footholds in the sheer, and her gift for scaling the vertical. And what cognomen did this ability earn her? The Phantom? Maybe the Night’s Stalker? Or how about Diana’s Wrath? No, instead they called her Little Monkey.
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