The Silver Eagle

Chapter XXII: News

More than two years pass.

Cana, on the Arabian coast, winter 50 BC

The pirates were in pensive mood as the ship slipped between a pair of imposing towers and into Cana’s imposing stone-walled harbour. The olibanum and tortoise shells they had plundered were hidden in the hold, and their weapons were concealed underneath rolls of spare canvas on the deck. Anything more than a cursory search, however, would discover their status. Although well able to fight, the thirty corsairs were vastly outnumbered by the soldiers patrolling the battlements above.

Eyeing the vigilant sentries, Romulus also felt uneasy. His feelings weren’t helped by the fact that, with one exception, neither he nor Tarquinius trusted a single one of their comrades. Mustafa, the greasy-haired giant who had nearly drowned by the dock in Barbaricum, was now his devoted follower, but the rest were hard-bitten sailors or murderous ex-slaves from India and the shores of the Erythraean Sea, every shade of brown and black under the sun. The toughest and most treacherous of them all was Ahmed, the Nubian captain. Unfortunately, he also held their fate in his hands. Yet, through a combination of guile and luck, they had survived this far.

Tarquinius nudged Romulus as they glided past the towers and anxious muttering rippled among the crew. They all had good reason to be concerned: a row of men’s heads, bloodied and decaying, was prominently displayed on spikes above the nearby battlements. It was a very pointed warning by the ruling powers of Cana to all those who entered the port.

‘Pirates probably,’ said the haruspex in a low voice.

‘Us, in other words,’ replied Romulus, glancing his friend up and down and imagining how he must look himself. The burning hot sun had turned any exposed skin a deep mahogany colour. Like the rest of the crew, Romulus went about the deck in nothing but a loincloth, his feet hard and calloused. His hair had grown long and unkempt and lay in thick black waves, framing his handsome face, which was largely covered by a beard. He was now a fully grown, mature man of twenty. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his dark skin, revealing the scars of battle. On Romulus’ upper right arm, covering the mark where his slave brand had been, was a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull.

During their time aboard, Tarquinius had revealed many details about the warrior religion. Its tenets of courage, honour and truth appealed immensely to Romulus, as did the equality between devotees. He had taken to Mithraicism with gusto, finding it helped with his grief for Brennus. Romulus prayed daily now; having the tattoo was another way of showing his devotion. And if they ever reached Rome, it would hide the irregularly healed scar that had caused so much trouble in Margiana.

Rome, he thought longingly.

‘We need to keep a low profile here,’ said Tarquinius grimly, bringing Romulus back to Cana.

Ahmed also looked concerned, but weeks of sailing off the barren Arabian coast meant that their stocks of food and water were running low. The risk they were taking was a necessary one.

Dozens of dhows similar to their own were tied up side by side with larger merchant ships. Their sterns moved gently as they pulled on the anchors holding them to the sandy harbour floor. On a long quay, men scurried to and fro with bulging sacks, helping to load the vessels. Noises carried across the water: shouted orders from merchants; a woman laughing; mules braying with indignation.

Sitting at one end of the harbour was a menacing fortress, bigger than any they had seen since Barbaricum. Its walls were patrolled by even more soldiers in conical helmets and armed with spears and recurved bows.

‘There must be plenty to protect here,’ said Ahmed, jerking his head at the imposing structure. His gold earrings shook with the movement. The broad-nosed, full-lipped Nubian had a muscular build, and his ebony skin was covered with a fine latticework of whitened scars. A wide-bladed cutlass was shoved into his belt, its blade spotted with rust and darker stains.

‘Cana is one of the main towns in southern Arabia,’ replied Tarquinius. ‘The olibanum grown for miles around is carried in by camel. Once sold, it is transported to Egypt.’

Egypt! Romulus struggled to contain the excitement bubbling up inside him. Reaching this port felt like a real milestone. They were nearer Rome now than at any time since Carrhae.

The Nubian’s face also lit up. ‘Plenty of vessels to take west of here, then.’

Tarquinius’ dark eyes glinted with satisfaction at Ahmed’s enthusiasm for continuing the voyage. Thank you, Mithras. You have brought us this far, he thought. Let our journey continue without mishap.

Offered the chance to join the pirates after Romulus’ rescue of Mustafa, the two friends had accepted with alacrity. It had seemed like a ticket home, and compared to the other option — execution — had not been difficult to accept. But the reality of life aboard the dhow had been very different, and its range extremely confined. While the merchantmen, their prey, sailed hundreds of miles to and from India, the corsairs preferred not to stray far from their base, a swampy island in the Indus delta. Generally there was no need, with well-laden ships plying the seas around Barbaricum on a constant basis. After two long years, Ahmed had only sailed west with the monsoon because the pickings near Barbaricum had grown lean.

Romulus had been secretly ecstatic, and even the reticent Tarquinius was pleased.

As they drew close to the jetty, a stout man clad in clean white robes took notice and began shouting in their direction. Clutching a tablet and stylus in his hands, he impatiently waved the dhow into a mooring place.

‘The harbourmaster,’ said Tarquinius. ‘A good source of information.’

‘And lies,’ advised Ahmed as they tied up alongside a broad-bellied merchant vessel. ‘Watch what you say in this town. That goes for all of you.’ He glared.

The crew nodded. They had already seen the summary justice on offer here.

‘Once the harbour dues have been paid, the ship must be reprovisioned,’ said Ahmed. ‘I need six men for that.’

Reluctant to delay their excursion to shore, everyone looked at the deck.

Unperturbed, the captain simply picked the pirates nearest him; Romulus, Tarquinius and Mustafa were lucky enough to avoid the duty.

‘The rest of you can do as you wish, but I want no trouble. Take no swords ashore. Only knives.’ Ahmed held up a warning finger. ‘Any man who isn’t back one hour before nightfall will be left behind.’

Wide grins split the faces of those who were about to spend a day on dry land. It had been many weeks since they had drunk alcohol or visited a brothel. The fact that it was still early morning would not stop any of them. The pirates to be left on board looked suitably miserable.

Romulus considered wearing the mail shirt he’d bought in Barbaricum, but settled for just his ragged military tunic. Too much attention would be drawn to the rusty armour. Feeling naked without a weapon, he attached his dagger to his belt. Tarquinius did likewise. After a bout of sunstroke the previous year, he had finally stopped wearing his hide breastplate, but, stubborn to the last, the ageing haruspex still refused to exchange his leather-bordered skirt for a loincloth. Following the rest, the two friends pulled themselves on to the next boat and made their way towards the jetty. Like a faithful puppy, Mustafa followed. By now, Romulus did not even try and stop him.

Endless varieties of goods were piled on the timber dock. Bales of purple fabric were stacked beside heaps of tortoise shells, large sheets of copper and planks of hardwood. Rich smells wafted through the humid air from mounds of open-necked cloth bags. Prospective buyers dipped their hands in to taste and smell the spices and incense on offer.

‘Olibanum and myrrh and cinnabar,’ breathed Tarquinius, his eyes shining. ‘What is sitting right there would make us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.’

‘There are no guards,’ said Romulus in amazement.

‘They’ve got that.’ Tarquinius glanced at the fortress. ‘And there was a chain at the harbour mouth that could be pulled up to stop ships leaving.’

Romulus felt his unease grow.

The haruspex seemed comfortable though, and he quickly forgot about it. After so long at sea, being in a town felt exhilarating.

They pushed their way off the quay and on to Cana’s narrow dirt streets, which were lined with primitively built three- and four-storey-high mud-brick houses. The ground floors were occupied by shops, much as they were in Rome. Butchers plied their trade side by side with carpenters, barbers, metalworkers and sellers of meat, fruit and other food.

Except for half-dressed prostitutes beckoning suggestively from doorways, not many women were to be seen. The most numerous men were brown-skinned Arabs in their distinctive white robes, but there were many Indians in loincloths and turbans as well. There was a scattering of Judaeans and Phoenicians, and also some black men, noticeable for their aristocratic faces and high cheekbones.

Romulus nudged Tarquinius. ‘They’re very different looking to Ahmed.’

‘They are from Azania, far to the south of Egypt. Their women are said to be incredibly beautiful.’

‘Let’s find a whorehouse with some then,’ growled Mustafa. ‘I haven’t had a fuck in an age!’

‘A tavern first,’ said Romulus, his thirst winning out. ‘Off the beaten track.’

Tarquinius nodded and Mustafa did not argue.

The trio made their way off the main streets, and the shop fronts soon became smaller and grimier. Brothels became plentiful, and Mustafa’s eyes grew lustful. Urchins in dirty rags homed in, clamouring for coins. Keeping a hand on his purse, Romulus ignored them. Distastefully he picked his way past the human waste thrown from the windows above.

Tarquinius laughed. ‘Just like Rome, eh?’

Romulus curled his lip. ‘It smells the same all right.’

A moment later, they stumbled upon a dingy, open-fronted inn which would meet their purpose. Sand was scattered on the floor to absorb spilt alcohol, or blood. Small tables and rickety chairs were the only furniture. The dim light inside came from a few guttering lamps hanging from the low ceiling. Most of the customers were Arabs, although there was a smattering of other nationalities. Romulus fought his way to the wooden bar while Tarquinius and Mustafa secured a table in the corner. There were many curious glances, but nobody addressed him, which suited Romulus. Sitting down soon after, however, with a jug and three clay cups, he could feel eyes burning holes in the back of his tunic. Unobtrusively, Romulus loosened his dagger in its sheath.

Oblivious, Tarquinius tasted the wine. Instantly his face screwed up. ‘Tastes like horse piss mixed with poor quality acetum.’

‘It’s all they’ve got,’ retorted Romulus. ‘Expensive too, so drink up.’

Mustafa laughed and drained his beaker in a single swallow. ‘Finding a whore will be more productive. I’m going to check out those brothels,’ he said. ‘Be all right on your own?’

‘We’ll be fine.’ Romulus glanced round the room, seeing no immediate danger. ‘See you back here.’

Mustafa bobbed his head and vanished.

After a time, the wine began to taste a little better. Romulus raised his cup in a silent toast to Brennus. During his time on the dhow, there had been plenty of time to relive the Gaul’s last gift to him. Over time, the pain had lessened and while Romulus still felt regret, he also recognised the great debt he owed to Brennus. He would not be sitting here now if his friend hadn’t sacrificed himself. Romulus was sure that Mithras would have approved of Brennus’ actions.

Thoughts of home also filled his mind. With a warm glow in his belly, Romulus imagined how he might feel at the sight of Rome and of Fabiola. And even of Julia, the barmaid he’d met on that last fateful night in the capital.

‘Welcome to Cana,’ someone said in Latin.

Romulus almost choked on a mouthful of wine. Red-faced, he looked up at the speaker.

A tall, long-jawed man with short hair had approached from a nearby table. His companions, three heavily built men wearing swords, remained seated.

‘Do I know you?’ Tarquinius asked coolly.

‘No, friend,’ said the stranger, raising his hands peaceably. ‘We’ve not met before.’

‘What do you want?’

‘A friendly chat,’ he said. ‘Romans are very rare here in Cana.’

Romulus had managed to regain his composure. ‘Who said we’re Romans?’ he growled.

The newcomer pointed at Tarquinius’ leather-bordered skirt and Romulus’ faded russet tunic.

Neither of the friends acknowledged his keen observation.

But he was not to be put off. ‘My name is Lucius Varus, optio and veteran of the Seventh Legion,’ he explained. ‘I’m part-owner of a merchant vessel now, though. Every year, I sail between Egypt and Arabia, buying and selling.’

From the rich cut of his tunic and the large emerald ring on one hand, it was obvious that Varus was doing very well.

Romulus was curious now. ‘What do you trade in?’

‘Here they like Italian wine, olive oil, Greek statues and copper,’ Varus replied. ‘And olibanum and myrrh are always in demand in Egypt and Italy. Tortoiseshell and hardwood too.’

Rome, thought Romulus excitedly. This man has travelled recently from Rome.

‘Are you not also traders?’ Varus enquired.

He’s fishing, thought Romulus. But surely there was no harm in a little conversation?

‘No,’ replied Tarquinius, putting him at his ease. ‘We’re on our way back to Italy.’

‘How long have you been away?’

Romulus grimaced. ‘Five years.’

‘Really?’ Varus exclaimed. ‘Even a journey to India takes less than twelve months each way.’

Romulus and Tarquinius looked at each other.

‘We fought for Crassus,’ said Tarquinius slowly.

‘Vulcan’s balls!’ Varus’ mouth opened and closed. ‘Are you deserters?’

‘Watch your mouth!’ Romulus snarled, thumping the table with his fist.

‘Peace, friend. I meant no insult,’ said Varus in a placatory tone. Alarmed, his companions stood, but he raised a hand and they sat back down. He then gave a knowing look to the barman and a jug of wine quickly materialised. Varus drank half a beaker first to show they had nothing to fear. ‘Try some of this,’ he urged. ‘It’s the best Falernian. Brought it here myself.’

Suspiciously, Tarquinius tried it. His frown disappeared, replaced by a broad smile. Reassured, Romulus reached for the wine himself, pouring himself a generous measure. It had been years since he had drunk anything that tasted better than vinegar.

‘Not all of Crassus’ soldiers were killed at Carrhae,’ Tarquinius revealed. ‘Ten thousand of us were taken prisoner.’

‘Rome was full of the terrible news at the time,’ exclaimed Varus. ‘It was soon forgotten by most, though. What happened to you?’

‘The Parthians marched us more than fifteen hundred miles into the east,’ said Romulus bitterly. ‘To a place even the gods have forsaken.’

‘Where?’

‘Margiana.’

Varus looked intrigued.

‘We served as border guards,’ Romulus continued. ‘Constantly fighting the Parthians’ enemies — Sogdians, Scythians and Indians.’

‘A hard fate, by Jupiter,’ muttered Varus. ‘Especially as many of Crassus’ legionaries had almost completed their army service.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You two escaped, obviously.’

Romulus nodded sadly, remembering the cost of that escape.

Varus noticed his face. ‘An arduous journey, no doubt.’

‘Yes.’ Romulus wasn’t about to explain more. ‘But eventually we reached Barbaricum.’

Like all merchants, Varus had heard of the large trading city. ‘And then?’

‘Joined a trader bound for Arabia with a cargo of spices and timber,’ lied Tarquinius smoothly. ‘Here we are.’

‘By Jupiter, you’ve travelled the whole world,’ said Varus in amazement. ‘I thought you were just guards from another merchant ship.’

Still upset by the memory of Brennus, Romulus drew his dagger and held it flat on the table. At this range, he could stab Varus before his companions had even noticed. ‘I don’t like being accused of lying,’ he hissed.

Tarquinius stared at Varus. ‘We’ve been through a lot, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ he replied quickly. ‘Your tale is remarkable.’

‘Think what you like,’ said Tarquinius mildly. ‘It’s true. And we’re the lucky ones. If they’re still alive, the other poor bastards are rotting in Margiana.’

Varus looked at them again. This time he saw the world-weary expressions, Romulus’ threadbare military jerkin and the holes in Tarquinius’ leather bordered skirt. Neither really looked like someone hired to protect a cargo of spices. ‘I apologise,’ he said, filling both their beakers to the brim. He raised a toast. ‘To those under the gods’ protection.’

Romulus sheathed his knife and they all drank.

There was silence for a time.

‘You won’t know about the situation in Rome, then?’ asked Varus at length. ‘It’s not good.’

‘We’ve heard nothing,’ Romulus replied eagerly.

Tarquinius too gave Varus all his attention. ‘Tell us,’ he requested.

‘Things between Pompey and Caesar began to sour about four years ago,’ said Varus. ‘It started with the death of his wife Julia, Caesar’s daughter. You heard about that?’

Romulus nodded. It had been news when Crassus’ army was in Asia Minor.

‘Then Crassus was killed, and the whole balance of the triumvirate disappeared.’ Varus frowned. ‘But Caesar was busy campaigning in Gaul, so Pompey relaxed a little. Took a back seat for a while. Every politician on the Seven Hills jumped in, trying to get into office. They used intimidation, bribery or even force. Crime soared, and there were regular riots. The blame for that can be laid at the feet of Pulcher and Milo. Their gangs were clashing on a daily basis for control of the city. The streets became very unsafe, even in the middle of the day.’

‘Sounds terrible,’ Romulus said, hanging on to every word. Uneasy memories of his vision at the crucifix were beginning to surface.

‘It was.’ Varus made a face. ‘The worst violence was after Pulcher was killed by gladiators working for Milo. Almost three years ago, that was.’

‘Milo had been hiring fighters for some time, hadn’t he?’ Romulus could remember the external duty, which was much desired by those in the ludus.

‘Indeed,’ Varus replied. ‘But they went too far by murdering Pulcher. His followers went crazy afterwards. There was a huge battle in the Forum Romanum, and hundreds were killed. The fuckers even burned down the Senate House!’

Romulus paled. His vision had been accurate. He looked to Tarquinius, who gave him a tiny, reassuring smile. It did little for his nerves.

Unnoticing, Varus warmed to his task. ‘After that, the Senate had little choice. They made Pompey sole consul, with dictatorial powers. Under Marcus Petreius, one of his legions was brought in to quell the trouble.’ Seeing their shock, he scowled. ‘I know. Soldiers in the capital! But it calmed things down. And after Milo was exiled to Massilia, everything went quiet for a few months.’

Romulus tried to relax. According to Tarquinius, Fabiola had survived the riot in the Forum, so hopefully she was safe. Mithras, he thought, and Jupiter, Greatest and Best, look after my sister.

‘But Cato and the Optimates were still on the warpath,’ Varus continued. ‘They wanted Caesar to return to Rome and stand trial for various things — using violence during his previous term as consul, exceeding his remit in the conquest of Gaul. Meanwhile, Caesar was eager to continue in office — it didn’t matter which one — to avoid prosecution. His campaigns had made him incredibly wealthy, so to further his ends, he bought up every politician who’d take his money.’

‘Shrewd,’ said Tarquinius.

‘Caesar’s supporters repeatedly blocked the Optimates’ attempts to corner him,’ agreed Varus. ‘As a result, there was often stalemate in the Senate.’

‘And Pompey sat on the fence?’ asked Romulus.

‘Yes. He was often “sick”, or missed crucial debates.’ Varus shrugged. ‘I think he was trying to stay out of trouble.’

‘Or he knew what might happen,’ added Tarquinius.

‘You could be right,’ agreed Varus with a heavy sigh. ‘But for whatever reason, Pompey has finally joined the Optimates and all those who want Caesar’s head on a plate. Nine months ago, it was only the veto of Curio, a tribune paid off by Caesar, which prevented the passing of a decree recalling him to face justice. More attempts have been made; it’s just a matter of time before they succeed.’

‘They’re pushing Caesar into a corner,’ said Romulus. It was all starting to make worrying sense. Things had changed dramatically in Rome since his departure. For the worse. If he did manage to return, what would happen to him? And to Fabiola? Suddenly there was more to worry about than just revenge.

Varus nodded resignedly. ‘If they force the issue, he won’t lay down his command meekly either.’

‘You think it’ll come to war?’ queried Romulus.

‘Who knows?’ Varus replied. ‘Yet that was all the talk on the street and in the bathhouses when I left.’

Romulus could not explain why, but he wanted Caesar to come out on top. Was it because of the cruel mass combat sponsored by Pompey that he and Brennus had taken part in? Unusually required to fight to the death, scores of gladiators had died that day. No, it was more than that, he decided. Unlike Crassus, Caesar sounded like an inspiring leader — a man to follow. And Romulus did not like lots of people ganging up on another. That was what had happened to him, in the ludus and in Margiana.

In contrast to Romulus, Tarquinius felt some pleasure at the Republic’s plight. The state which had crushed that of the Etruscans, his people, was in danger of collapsing. Then he frowned. Although he hated Rome, perhaps this anarchic situation was not desirable. If the Republic fell, what would replace it? Olenus’ voice rang in Tarquinius’ head, clear as a bell, and a chill ran down his spine. ‘Caesar must remember he is mortal. Your son must tell him that.’ He glanced sidelong at Romulus. Was this why Mithras had preserved them thus far?

A blinding realisation struck Tarquinius. Why had he not thought of it before? He stared again at Romulus, who meant as much to him as a. son.

Then Tarquinius stiffened. There was danger nearby.

‘We’re all better off out of the army, that’s for sure,’ said Varus jovially. ‘Who wants to fight other Italians?’

Neither of the others replied. Romulus was daydreaming again, lost in memories of Rome. Deep in concentration, Tarquinius’ eyes were distant.

Suddenly Varus grinned. ‘Why don’t you come and work for me? I’ll pay you well.’

Tarquinius turned to regard him. ‘Thank you, but no.’

Disappointed, Romulus saw the faraway look on the haruspex’ face which often presaged a prophecy. His protest died in his throat. Something was up.

Tarquinius drained his cup and stood. ‘My thanks for the wine,’ he said. ‘May your trip be profitable. We have to go.’ He jerked his head at Romulus.

Leaving the bewildered Varus behind them, the pair headed outside.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Tarquinius replied. ‘A threat of some kind.’

They had gone only a few paces before the slap of sandals reached their ears. Reaching a larger thoroughfare, they saw Zebulon, a Judaean member of the crew, running past. One of the men chosen by Ahmed to help with the provisions, he beckoned to them urgently.

‘What is it?’ cried Romulus.

Zebulon slowed down, his chest heaving. ‘Back to the dhow!’

‘Why?’ demanded Tarquinius. ‘What’s wrong?’

Zebulon sidled closer. ‘Customs,’ he whispered. ‘All the ships are being searched.’

No more needed to be said.

Yet again, Romulus was amazed by the haruspex’ ability. Then he remembered their companion. ‘Mustafa!’ he cried. ‘Where is he?’

‘There were at least a dozen whorehouses,’ said Tarquinius. ‘You can’t search them all.’

Instinctively, Romulus looked up at the narrow band of sky that was visible between the closely built buildings. Nothing. Frustrated, he turned to Tarquinius. ‘We can’t just leave him.’

‘There’s no time,’ the haruspex muttered. ‘And Mustafa is master of his own fate. He’ll find a place on any vessel.’

Zebulon was showing no inclination to look for his crewmate either.

Romulus nodded jerkily. It was not as if they were leaving Brennus behind. And after five years of hell, the last thing he wanted was to be caught as a pirate. Yet if the olibanum taken from the coastal villages was discovered, that is precisely what would happen. Then they would all be executed. The knowledge gave Romulus extra speed, and he soon outstripped Zebulon and Tarquinius, pushing through the throng. At full tilt, they made their way through the maze of streets.

Raised voices and shouts were coming from the quay, where a large crowd had gathered. Like people the world over, the denizens of Cana were happy to relieve the daily boredom of making a living by watching someone else’s misfortune.

Halfway along the dock, Romulus saw the harbourmaster, accompanied by a number of officials and a group of heavily armed soldiers. The stout figure was gesticulating furiously at a man on a large ship tied up near the merchants’ stalls. At his signal, his men notched arrows to their bowstrings.

Unhappy at the prospect of being searched, the captain stood his ground.

The harbourmaster pointed angrily. At once, the bows were aimed at the sailors on the ship. Loud gasps rose from the crowd. Finally the captain spat into the sea, acknowledging defeat. With a furious wave, he beckoned the officials on board. Full of self-importance, the harbourmaster clambered down first. Several soldiers followed. Still covering the crew, the others watched.

‘Now’s our chance,’ Romulus urged. ‘While they’re busy with that one.’

Sauntering casually on to the quay, he began to weave his way between the onlookers. Tarquinius and Zebulon were close on his heels. Few people glanced at the trio as they passed by. The goings-on were far more interesting.

They found Ahmed uneasily pacing the dhow’s deck.

‘Seen any of the others?’ he barked.

Romulus and Tarquinius shook their heads.

‘Just the ones I sent back,’ said Zebulon. ‘And these two.’

‘Gods above!’ spat Ahmed. ‘Three are still missing.’

It was hardly the crewmembers’ fault, thought Romulus resentfully. They had been given permission to stay ashore until an hour before sunset. Zebulon had done well to find so many.

The stocky Nubian stamped up and down as the crew quietly prepared to leave. By the time the soldiers had finished checking the first vessel, he was growing increasingly nervous. Although there were two more ships to be searched before his own, Ahmed could take the pressure no longer. Losing three crewmembers was of less concern than the alternative.

‘Cast off!’

His muttered order was immediately obeyed by the worried pirates.

Romulus could not help himself. ‘What about Mustafa?’ he tried one more time.

‘He’s a fool,’ snapped Ahmed. ‘And so are the others. They can fend for themselves.’

Romulus looked away, still feeling quite guilty about leaving the long-haired hulk behind. He sent up a swift prayer to the gods, asking them to watch over Mustafa, who had been a comrade of sorts for over two years.

Then he glanced at the rows of heads on the battlements above. Eyeless, nearly fleshless and with grinning teeth, they resembled demons of the underworld. Once they had been men though. Lawbreakers. Criminals. Pirates. A whiff of rotting flesh reached Romulus’ nostrils. Stomach turning, he moved his gaze to the open sea.