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The clouds blocked out the moonlight.

They hung low just above the pitch-black surface of the sea,

swirling in the steady winds blowing down from the north.

Ropes creaked and sails flapped with every gust.

Oars splashed in the water, creating noise that carried from boat to boat in the flotilla

despite the sailors' best efforts in silence.

Standing near the bow of one of the lead craft was Marcus, a promising man just entering his

29th year of life. His family was a venerable one of prominent plebeians, though not of Rome's

ancient patrician aristocracy. One great-grandfather had even been consul, and he vividly

remembered the last time he had seen the old man's death mask hanging on the wall of the family's home. Marcus had fought in the last battle

against King Pyrrhus of Epirus in one of his early campaigns and bore a long scar from a

Greek's short sword on his right forearm. There were many Marcuses in Rome, however, and every decent

fighter needed a nickname. It didn't hurt a man who aspired to be

praetor or even consul to have a distinctive one. A blow from a Samnite shield to his face

had given Marcus the name by which his friends knew him. Dead to Legis, the guy who picks up

teeth. It had been silly to go back to the spot of the ambush to find his lost incisors after

the Samnites ambushed them, but Marcus didn't mind

the name. He knew a man whose incompetence had earned him the nickname Asina, ass, because the Dullard's

father had been heard to say that a donkey would be more useful. Dentelegis was decidedly better than

that, Marcus thought. Not that Marcus particularly wanted to be here, now, and the bow of a boat crossing the turbulent waters separating Regium and Missana on a pitch black night.

...