Kurzbeschreibung
Ancient Rome. The Eternal City. Rome's legions conquered all the world, and brought back captives, men and beasts: To display in their triumphal parades; to toil as slaves; to serve every whim of their masters. Here a master speaks, and a captive does his bidding…for these are Glory Days.
About 5,000 words.
All Bartholin Books are DRM-free.
Excerpt:
"You--" I poke a belly so solid its muscles stand out in insectile segments. "Remind us how you came by the scar in your brow." The small break in the noble black arch makes him seem even more masculine, if that were possible.
His chuckle is a sweet bass. "This? At the parade celebrating..." He shakes dark curls, trying to recall. The beams overhead offer no more aid than the straw laid on the stones while he and the others strode in formation along the Via Aurelia. "At a parade of celebration, a grand one, with politicians on horseback--senators in chariots! Marching soldiers, drums and music of every kind, dancing women, jugglers, children riding ponies and drawn in carts as they sang... Oh, it was a wondrous parade, that I do remember."
"And your brow's scar?" I remind him.
"The crowd threw coins, as always, many intended for me, some for my brothers. Nary a cent for our small master."
Now they all laugh, giants sharing contempt at the stature of he who wields their reins. I allow it to go unchallenged.
"A large one--gold, of course--chanced to strike me on edge. I caught it." He shrugs bulging shoulders. "The cut was nothing."
About 5,000 words.
All Bartholin Books are DRM-free.
Excerpt:
"You--" I poke a belly so solid its muscles stand out in insectile segments. "Remind us how you came by the scar in your brow." The small break in the noble black arch makes him seem even more masculine, if that were possible.
His chuckle is a sweet bass. "This? At the parade celebrating..." He shakes dark curls, trying to recall. The beams overhead offer no more aid than the straw laid on the stones while he and the others strode in formation along the Via Aurelia. "At a parade of celebration, a grand one, with politicians on horseback--senators in chariots! Marching soldiers, drums and music of every kind, dancing women, jugglers, children riding ponies and drawn in carts as they sang... Oh, it was a wondrous parade, that I do remember."
"And your brow's scar?" I remind him.
"The crowd threw coins, as always, many intended for me, some for my brothers. Nary a cent for our small master."
Now they all laugh, giants sharing contempt at the stature of he who wields their reins. I allow it to go unchallenged.
"A large one--gold, of course--chanced to strike me on edge. I caught it." He shrugs bulging shoulders. "The cut was nothing."
