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The scar tissue ran in a thick line across the man's face from his eye socket to his chin.

He had killed the Samnite responsible for the wound with a flurry of wild hacking slashes of his sword,

and Roman patricians were supposed to wear their scars proudly.

It was fresh, still pink and barely healed, invisible through his patchy beard.

The beard was supposed to make him look older, a task at which it failed,

highlighting his recent transition from adolescence to adulthood, rather than disguising it.

The patrician was indeed proud, and the stories of his deed wouldn't hurt him when it came

time to stand for office in Rome, but the scar still itched terribly. The urge to scratch at it plagued him constantly, particularly when he was nervous.

That was the case now, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the port city of Tarentum.

Since the battle, loud noises and crowds made his heart race.

He gave in to the desire, dug his fingernails into the band of

raised flesh, and nearly groaned in satisfaction. Rome was hardly a backwater with its tens of

thousands of residents the patrician knew, but Tarentum felt like the crossroads of the world.

He could understand a bit of Greek and managed to catch every other word from the city's

residence when they spoke slowly and clearly.

His venerable father kept telling him that he ought to learn the language properly, that Rome's future and his own would be found among these Greeks,

and yet he had never quite gotten the hang of it. The Greeks were not trustworthy people, in his youthful opinion,

no matter the opportunities that might be waiting among them,

for a well-connected Roman aristocrat with designs on the consulship.

He could understand the language of the Samnites and their cousins, the Brutii and Lucani, much better than he could Greek.

...