Welcome, potential readers. I don't normally do long introductions, but bear with me; it won't take a minute.

First; this is basically an attempt to write a full 'Heroes of Olympus' style novel set in ancient Rome/Greece, starring the established characters, though slightly tweaked. I've been writing at this for the better part of the last four months; and it's already ridiculously long. That said; I don't have a great track record of finishing long stories, so bear with me and knock on wood I'll get to the end of this one.

Second; about the story itself: It's set in 31 BC, and for those savy in Roman history, that puts it right in the middle of (one of) the civil war(s). A fascinating episode of history in itself, for those who are interested. That won't take up the entirety of the narrative, but brushes with it will be unavoidable for the Olympus crew. Basically, this is an adventure across the ancient Mediterranean; with Nico, Percy and Annabeth as the main focus point. That's not to say the rest of the crew is cast to the sidelines; there's still plenty of stuff for them to do, too. The plot is original, though leaning heavily on Greek Mythology and Roman history (obviously). Final pairings are as of yet still undecided; I'll just start this off and see where it ends up.

Thirdly; enough of me talking. Have a good read, enjoy and let me know what you think of this introduction.

(Oh, and I don't own any of these characters; aside from a few that might jump onboard later.)

The Ghost of Rome

Rome, as a city, was very different from others. Or so people who'd been to other cities said. And they were probably right. It was large; grand. Exciting. Most strikingly, though, it was loud. That part couldn't be denied.

"And I say to you; it has only begun!" the richly robed man shouted down from his podium, gesturing to the crowd. His red toga had once been draped orderly around him, but was now growing increasingly dishevelled the longer he talked; and no one, least of all him, paid that any mind. There was conviction in his voice and gestures; his face was red with excitement. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Rome stands in dire peril!"

The crowd murmured uneasily. It had swelled to a good hundred, crowding the small square. Effectively, they'd have blocked anyone from getting past, if those passers-by hadn't also stopped to listen. Adding to their low murmurs and the preacher's shouting were the merchants, whose stalls had turned into little islands in the sea of bodies and who were trying to make the best of the situation by loudly advertising their wares to anyone within earshot. The entire square hummed with human noise.

Somewhere in the midst of it, a boy pushed further to the front to get a better view. He was small, dressed plainly, and completely ignored; his short bob of black hair barely came up to people's shoulders. His small stature also meant that he was able to weave in between and underneath the gridlocked mass, however, and he made full use of this. With a little bit of shoving, he managed to come within twenty feet of the podium. And he watched.

Unlike the people surrounding him, Nico di Angelo's attention was distributed across the entire goings on in the square and not focused only on the main actor of the piece, captivating though he was. The boy licked his lips. The situation spelled opportunity and danger, and there were a lot of necessary details to notice: Nervous hands rubbing together; muffled, fearful conversations; weapons hidden on belts right next to coin purses. In the crowd, he saw men and women from all layers of society; rich merchants and street beggars; scarcely dressed pleasure girls and senators' wives. And all of them clung to the lips of the frantic, pot-bellied man on the podium, giving murmurs of assent whenever he paused for breath. The man was good. And he demanded everyone's attention.

"Do you think you have seen the depths of depravity? Whatever you might have seen; it does not compare to the shameful, the outrageous actions of our former great protector! Shameful!" The preacher's hoarse voice seethed with malice.

An empty chest stood at his feet podium, in reach of the crowd. A donation chest. Nico silently rolled his eyes; he couldn't help it. No matter what they were preaching, men like this one always had one of these things sitting there, as he knew by now. Any depravity could be connected to something that needed funding. The preacher would get to it in a minute. And if he continued wrapping the crowd around his finger like this, the chest would undoubtedly indeed soon be filled with their possessions. Behind the podium, Nico spied a couple of identical chests. If the burly men with knives on their belts who were guarding them were anything to go by, the preacher was not doing this for the first time today.

"Never before has Romulus' legacy been besmirched in this manner!" the man continued. "To have the capital of this great, great empire be moved to a savage, desert land; into uncultured, savage hands. Inconceivable! Yet this traitor, this," the man spat out the words, "Marc Antony, would have it be so; would sacrifice Rome on the altar of his desires! And for who; I ask you?"

Uneasy murmurs; a few angry shouts.

"For a southern whore; a woman without an honest bone in her body; a woman who seduced him with her fowl magic, like she tried to seduce the great Caesar before him!"

It was the most common theme these days; and Nico had heard variants of it at least a dozen times already. Some of them had been that compelling as to make him want to go to war himself, and this preacher got close to that effect, too. Every person within a hundred feet was looking at him. Including the guards who were supposed to be protecting his earnings. Nico, alert to the opportunity, quietly shrunk out of the crowd and along the side of the podium. No one paid him any mind.

The high buildings around the square cast the back of the podium in half-shadow: not as visible as a guard would have liked, but normally not nearly dark enough for a thief. But now when everyone was looking the other way… Nico's heart was starting to beat faster. This was the most reckless – or the most stupid – thing he had ever attempted. The sensible, the safe option would have been to target one of the merchants: in the gaggle of bodies, no one would have noticed something missing until it was far too late. But he had set this aim for himself today, and he didn't want to back down now.

"But Caesar's heir will not allow it. Oh no! He will bring this snake in human skin to justice! Once he is consul, everyone who dares side with Rome's enemies will burn! He will not hesitate to defend our legacy – Caesar's legacy! – no matter the cost, no matter the risk."

The preacher's guards were transfixed on his voice; their weapons hanging forgotten at their belts. Evidently, they hadn't been hired for their smarts. The treasure chest wasn't even locked. Nico, one eye kept on the podium, dove his hand inside, coming up with a small fortune in denari and assés. Not enough for anyone, least of all the preacher, to notice they were gone, but more than enough to last him for a few weeks. He quickly stuffed them into his pockets and quietly shrunk back in between the market stalls.

The preacher, nearing the point he had been working towards, looked over the crowd. "So I ask you: Who is truly worthy of defending Rome in this dire time? Who will you give your support?!"

"The heir! The heir!" the crowd shouted back.

"Octavian!"

"Octavian!"

Nico made his quiet exit. While his ears rang with the lasting cries of the name, his pockets jingled merrily.

The thieves' hideout didn't look like one from the outside. It was little more than a small crack wedged between the sandstone building and the rocks that marked the foot of the Palatine Hill. Only when Nico pressed against the stone and soundlessly slipped inside did the small crack open up into a spacious cavern; big enough to house a small fighting pit. The walls were rough, uncut basalt, and Nico guessed that it had to be a natural formation, because there had been no signs of man-made stonework at the time when he'd first entered here. Aside from the graffiti of the new inhabitants, of course.

On the far side of the cavern, a figure sat hunched over a candle. Their back was turned to Nico; they hadn't heard him come in. Metal gleamed in the flickering light as the person inspected it in their palms. The tell-tale clink of coins echoed when he tossed it at the walls.

Nico cleared his throat loudly.

The boy whipped around as if he'd been stung. A knife flashed in his hand and he was about to swing it at the intruder before his eyes properly focused on Nico. Nico raised his hands in defence.

"By all the gods!" the other cursed. He sheathed his knife back into his belt. "You have to stop doing that, Ghost."

"You have to start getting used to it." Nico shot back.

The boy grunted. He was a couple of years older than Nico – not that you would know it by looking at his face. Even now after being surprised like this, it held an almost childlike, half-innocent glee. There was always a smirk on those lips and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Sometimes it made Nico wonder how he could possibly be such a successful thief. Every just half-observant person would take one look at him and realize he was up to something.

"Hey; our apprentice has returned!" a second voice called from above. In a rain of pebbles, a second thief jumped down from his alcove and landed in front of Nico. In looks, clothing and mischievous smile, he was an identical copy of the first. "How'd it go? Did you make a decent grab?"

"You might say that." Nico smiled proudly. He reached into his pockets and spilled out his 'decent grab'.

The twins' eyes went as wide as saucers. One of them – Travis, Nico thought, though he was never quite sure – reached for a silver denar and bit down on it experimentally. He nodded, visibly impressed. "Nice. We're rubbing off on you. Which poor old lady did you rob for this one, pray?"

"The one on the podium, spouting about Caesar's glorious heir."

Connor (probably) Stoll snorted. "A preacher? Oh, I like that. Makes this double as sweet." He ran a hand through the coins, letting them clink off the basalt. He raised an imaginary toast to the ceiling: "Thank you, Senator Octavian, for this generous donation! We will put it to good use."

His brother rolled his eyes at his antics, before turning back to Nico. "Are they still going on about 'the evil traitor Marc Antony and how he must be punished'? It's all I've ever heard them talk about of late."

"They are." Nico confirmed.

Connor put down the silverware. "You have to give it to this Octavian; he's determined. And he's got these guys in his pocket." The two of them exchanged a glance, one of those that Nico could never read. "Do you think this will come to anything?"

"War, you mean? Who knows. We're not going to be participating in any case, if I can help it."

"True words. By the by, Ghost; we've been successful, too." Connor flung a small leather bag in Nico's direction. When he caught it, it jangled meaningfully. "I've already subtracted our share. Enjoy the treats."

Nico nodded, though unlike the two of them he wasn't planning to spend his share on treats. He had his own growing stash back home. But the Stolls didn't need to know that.

"Now I'm kind of in the mood to go get a preacher's honest earnings myself." Travis announced. He sprang to his feet, waving an as of yet empty bag. "You in?"

"You know I am." his twin replied. He glanced at Nico. "Do you want to show us your ways?"

Nico considered for a moment and shook his head. He'd already risked enough for one day. With his and the Stoll's profit taken together, he already had plenty more than he'd planned for. Any more seemed to be pushing his luck. A year on the streets had taught him caution, if nothing else.

"No. I think I'll be going down to the harbour." he told them.

"Good hunt." Travis winked, mistaking his intentions, as they clambered out of the hole. He turned back to Nico, his expression turning serious for half-a-second. He gave Nico a once over, looking as close to hesitant as he or his brother ever came. Sometimes when they did that, it almost looked like they cared about him. "Really nice catch. Just don't get overconfident, yeah?"

Nico shook his head. He knew what he was doing.

The other grinned, then jogged after his brother who was already mingling with the crowd. Even though they shared everything they got, the two of them had a permanent rivalry going on.

Despite of what the Stolls thought, the people on the harbour needed not fear for their purses today. Not from Nico, anyway.

From their hideout, he followed the small streets downhill. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of blue in between the houses and a fresh, salty breeze whipping through the streets. His feet started to move faster without him planning to. There was nothing in particular compelling him to hurry; he just longed to be at his destination.

The street opened up onto a small plaza. Beyond that, the docks of Ostia spread out in dozens of small bays. Nico stopped to breathe in their distinct smell. A smile stole onto his face. He had always liked the harbour. Something about the brazen winds, the smells and the colourful crowd there made him able to relax and forget about everything else for a while. Nowhere else could you shake hands with a fur-clad Briton one moment and steal from an Egyptian's loose robes the next. Today, too, a bustling mass of people crowded the docks to either side; a moving carpet of all imaginable colours. Behind the harbour gates, Nico could see the Mediterranean glitter in the sun. Despite himself, he found himself casting a longing look out there. The seemingly endless blue-green emptiness was a promise of adventure, just without reach.

The boy shook his head. No sense in daydreaming. He'd learned the hard way that that got you nothing but trouble. And leaving was the one thing he could never do. Luckily, there were a lot of other things he could focus on at the harbour. There was always interesting figures to be seen or news to be heard. In Rome, with its stern customs and laws, the harbour was a place of relative freedom, where scarcely anybody seemed afraid to speak his mind.

For the last couple of weeks, it had been different, though. There was an underlying uneasiness to everything. The merchants only scarcely paid attention to their customers; too busy whispering to each other. The sailors went about their work as usual, while chatting just a touch too animatedly to be natural. There was an increased presence of soldiers everywhere – with pila, scuta and all; marching along the pier in twos or threes – which normally would have been a calming influence, but now seemed to have the opposite effect.

Here at the docks, you didn't need a preacher to bring up the topic that had brought all this on. Any important news or rumours always arrived here first, and it never took long for them to spread. Nico caught snippets of conversation here and there:

"Marc Antony…"

"…that whore Cleopatra"

"…building a fleet so large you haven't seen"

"Think he'll attack soon?"

Civil War.

That was the word that nobody mentioned and yet was present everywhere, hanging like a thundercloud over the harbour. It had a strange double effect; making some people excited and others uneasy. Sometimes both. Nico knew it would also make them likely to lash out at a short, nosy boy like him if he tried to ask questions. Not that he really cared much. The politics of the Empire were far away, and it wasn't as if anything was going to change for him. As Travis (Connor?) had put it so well; none of them would be participating.

His gaze wandered across the ships towed in on the docks. Those never lost their fascination. They seemed like their own separate world sometimes – to Nico anyway, who had learned most of what he knew of ships from varyingly drunken sailors. It might be greatly over-romanticized for all he knew. And he'd definitely prefer some over others, if he had the choice: Far on the outskirts of the docks, several tiny, insignificant fisher skiffs rolled in the shadows of the big merchant galleys that took up most of the space. The inner docks belonged to the colourful galleys, coming from all corners of the Empire; with a unique figurehead adorning every prow. Spain; Greece; Tunis. Those were the ones that especially caught Nico's eye. Not for the first time, he had the overwhelming urge to board one of them and just sail away. Maybe see some of those distant lands for himself that the sailors always talked about.

One day.

There was even a warship just coming into port; a trireme with three rows of oars, double mast, and a nasty bronze ram jutting from its bow. It, at least, looked like it was ready for the war: the deck bristled with soldiers; on its foredeck was mounted a small catapult for boulders and oil urns, while its sides were reinforced with bronze plating. The red letters on the side read Jupiter's Wrath. Though infinitely smaller than the traders' galleys, its lean form spelled power and grace the likes of which the larger ships could only dream of.

All around, it was an intimidating sight – until Nico noticed the sails. He did a double take: At first he'd thought they had been taken down, but now that the ship docked, he could plainly see that they were, after all, set – there was just barely any sail left. The formerly blood-red cloth was completely cut into ribbons, hanging onto its beams in thin, pitiful threads.

Nico blinked. This was a rare sight. He studied the ship with renewed interest.

The sail looked like a horde of angry cats had raced up and down the rigging. And now that he was looking for it, Nico detected other small defects: the ship had trouble docking; it was almost immeasurably listing to the side. As soon as it managed to come to a stop near the pier, sailors climbed up to cut the damaged sail down, but Nico realized that it wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. Long repairs were in order. It wasn't every day that you saw a Roman warship in such a – yes; miserable state described it pretty well. He wondered what could have done that. He was fairly certain it wasn't cats.

Nico's gaze broke away from the ship – and caught on two men who were standing a little ways away from it; on the edge of the crowd. At first he didn't know what had made them stand out against all the other people on the docks, or why his eyes lingered on them. He frowned. They weren't doing anything remarkable, but Nico could normally trust his instincts when somebody spelled out trouble. And those two did. Why?

Both were fairly young, probably not much older than him. None of the harbour crowd paid them any mind. Understandably so, because, at first glance, they didn't look that special. The shorter of the two wore loose, almost intentionally mismatched clothing, like a beggar. Despite the heat, he had thick boots on and a big hat on his head; probably had picked up whatever was to hand. The other, with his wild hair, stained leather vest and hole-riddled trousers, plus the short sword strapped to his belt, looked like an out-of-luck mercenary; barely better off than his partner. They were your average poor inhabitants of Rome, trying to find their fortune on the docks. It was an everyday, uninteresting image.

Except that the mercenary held himself with a confidence that belied the image. And his face was clean; sharp features unmarred by dirt or blood. But him into a legionnaire's uniform, or even a toga, and he would have looked less out of place than in his current outfit.

Why would that guy team up with a beggar? was the inevitable question. But Nico was fairly sure that that wasn't why his interest had lingered on the pair. After a few more moments of looking at them, Nico finally saw it: It was their eyes; the way they scanned the crowd. Nico knew that look well; he used it almost on a daily basis. They were looking for potential trouble. The taller was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked ready to spring.

As Nico watched him, he spied the battered trireme on the dock. He nudged his partner and pointed. The other grinned beneath his hat and mimed a slashing move with his arm. Nico could hear their laugher from all the way over the crowd.

Huh.

Too late, Nico realized that he'd been staring. Before he could turn away from the strangers, a pair of eyes met his: the man with the wild hair, looking straight at him; his eyes a flash of deep green underneath his leather helmet. It was the piercing look of someone who knew they'd been watched.

Nico quickly ducked his head and melted back into the crowd. His heart was beating faster, and he didn't know why. He wasn't in trouble. They couldn't have seen him for longer than a second. Whatever they were up to – and they were up to something; definitely – chasing after a boy who may or may not have noticed something odd about them would be a waste of time that no one would bother with.

And Nico didn't intend on bothering them, either. Just to be safe, he headed in the opposite direction, mingling with a group of pilgrims who were headed for a temple of Mercury – coincidentally right next to where the trireme was moored. He hazarded a guess that the two wanted to avoid this area. When the pilgrims reached the marble pillars and were about to head into the cool building, Nico cast a quick look over his shoulder.

The two strangers were gone.

The sun had retreated below the rooftops by the time Nico was back inside the city's main walls, and the shadows had started reclaiming the streets. A fresh December chill was in the air, but Nico wasn't bothered. For some reason, he felt safest during this time of day: In the twilight, Rome was a strange kind of in-between realm. All around him was still the buzz of the city, but little by little it was fading and growing hushed as the first of the consul's new vigiles appeared for their night patrols, brandishing clubs and pole arms at anyone in their way. The streets began to empty. Nobody wanted to be found outside after curfew. Nico wasn't too worried. The long shadows were his friends; he had a gift for blending into them and slipping away unseen to anyone's eye. There weren't many things he was good at, but that was one of them. Maybe the Stolls were right and he was made to be a thief, after all. Nico grimaced at the thought. Spending his life on Rome's streets pilfering the locals wasn't how he envisioned his future.

He made his way along the side streets, until he reached the foothills of the Capitolinus. Up above, the Jupiter Temple's white marble glowed a bright red in the setting sun. Further down, in the district where Nico was going, the buildings were much less clean. Some had partially fallen into ruin and almost all displayed scorch marks. All that was left of some houses were piles of rubble. Many others were cracked open and deserted.

Nico slipped into an empty doorframe belonging to a two-storey, sideways leaning house. On the second floor, he found his tucked-away alcove and the mattress just as he had left them, arranged into a makeshift bed. His little bronze dagger was still under the pillow; the wooden logs and pieces of coal still lying in the side of the alcove. When he twisted up one of the floorboards, the cloth with his valuable possessions hidden underneath was exactly like he'd left it.

Everything was in its place. Nobody had come in here. Not that Nico expected them to, but it never hurt to check. His body relaxed; finally leaving the wary state he'd committed it to since the moment he'd left the house this morning.

He made his way across the room. When the riots had swept through the streets a few decades prior, they had grazed this building quasi accidentally; leaving the front that was facing the street open to the elements. Nico treated it like his own private balcony. He sat down near the edge. He tilted his head upwards to watch the stars that were starting to appear in the night sky. A sense of calm washed over him at the sight. Calm. It was a nice feeling.

A fresh winter wind was blowing over the rooftops and into the hole in the house's facade, making the boy shiver. It wasn't an ideal home, especially in this season, but it was what he had. Nico didn't know what had happened to the original inhabitants. Killed or fled; either way, they had never returned to claim their property, so Nico considered it his. It lay in comfortable distance to the Forum, too, where most of the careless merchants were concentrated. Not that that was the reason why Nico had chosen it.

Just as he sat on the precipice, dangling his legs over the street and not thinking of anything in particular, the actual reason stepped into the street a few houses further down.

The woman was old; with only a handful of grey hair left on her head; her shape in the streetlights hunched over, as always on the rare occasions when she left the brown, square building behind her. To an uninvolved passer-by she probably looked like a frail, kindly old grandmother. Nico, watching from his perch, knew there was nothing frail or, gods forbid, kind about her. As her piercing eyes swept across the façade of her domus and then over the rest of the street, he instinctively shrank a little deeper into the shadows.

A dull glow flickered to life in one of the windows: a stupid, or just unfortunate child who'd assumed their 'guardian' was long gone to sleep. The hag's head snapped up towards the window immediately. Nico flinched as she hobbled back inside. He almost pitied whoever that window belonged to.

Ma Luna hadn't changed an ounce since he'd run away. With her clothes billowing around her as she walked, she still looked more like a giant bat than anything else, and about as kind. Even from a distance the signature animal hide coat over her shoulders still looked disgusting; with parts of the former animals still very much visible in places. Had the woman stood directly in front of him, Nico would have gagged at the smell. As it was, in the darkness she hadn't spied him on his perch. Thankfully.

The brief encounter had soured his view of the night sky. With a sigh, Nico lay down in his alcove and closed his eyes. Today had been a good day: He was still here. Ma Luna and the orphanage were still here. He hadn't gotten into trouble, and, aside from the short eye contact with the stranger at the harbour, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Why did he even consider that out of the ordinary? His preacher-job was more remarkable, really. Still, the sharp green eyes kept popping up in his memory. Weird. He shrugged it off. Blinking his eyes open sleepily, he grasped for a piece of coal and added another small, vertical line to the wall.

Another day done.

That night, Nico had a very strange dream.

He was stood atop a mountain – which was the first strange thing, since he'd never even seen, let alone climbed one; where did his mind get this image from? – and looking down into a large, green valley. The boy was dimly aware that he was dreaming this, but he was frozen in place, only able to look and take in the scene. The sun was going down, casting the sprawling city down in the valley into shadow.

Nico had never stepped outside the boundaries of Rome, and this city didn't look a lot like it: it wasn't nearly as well organized, the streets ran criss-cross everywhere and the buildings in one part didn't seem to match with the next, as if several smaller cities had simply been thrown together to make a big one. But from its size, a lot of people had to be living here – only that Nico couldn't see any sign of them.

And that was the next strange thing, and the one that sent a chill down Nico's spine once he realized it: It was the brightest day and nothing was moving down there; no children in the streets; no movement behind the windows; not even a single animal to be seen anywhere.

It was as if the entire city had collectively fallen asleep, or else left the town in a hurry. A thick mist hung over everything, seeming to cling to the buildings, reinforcing the unsettling image of a ghost town. Somehow, Nico knew that there was something terrible going on.

Nico looked around and noticed for the first time that a man was standing up here with him. He was tall and lean, clad in what looked like comfortable traveling gear. The man glanced sideways at Nico, his eyes shining almost golden in the sunset, but it was as if he was looking through him. "The Trident." he said for some reason, and then: "Finally."

Dream-Nico never got the chance to inquire: an ear-splitting screech cut through the air, almost making him jump off the cliff. He pressed both hands over his ears. He had never heard a more horrible noise. A second later, he spied the source: a winged shadow shot out of the sky, coming straight for them – only there was no them anymore: the man had just vanished into thin air, leaving Nico alone on the mountaintop. He just had time to think that perhaps he should run as well when the thing was suddenly right on top of him, its screech almost making his eardrums burst.

Nico jolted awake, gasping for breath. He could swear he'd felt sharp talons at his throat.