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.
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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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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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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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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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“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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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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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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