a sun of rome
Cyrus had sailed every corner of the Mediterranean and the Aegean Seas for thirty-seven years, raiding fat merchant ships, transporting slaves, and ransoming nobles. And yet, never in all that time, had he met anyone like the young Roman standing before him now.
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“You refuse the ransom?” Cyrus almost choked in his state of disbelief. “Little Roman, you are in no position to refuse anything.” He gestured around him at his thirty men armed to the teeth that had taken control of the Roman’s vessel. “You will pay twenty talents and not a shred of silver less.”
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The youth then surprised them all. He threw back his head and laughed heartily, as though reminiscing about times of old. “You mistake me,” he said. “I absolutely refuse the twenty talents. Such a price is beneath me and is an insult upon my house. The ransom shall be fifty talents and not a shred of silver less! That is my demand. This is not up for negotiation.”
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Cyrus blinked. At a complete loss for what to say, he looked to his right-hand man, a Sicilian, named Orsino. Orsino simply shrugged and spit over the side of the ship.
“E's touched in tha 'ead," Orsino said tapping his temple. "No way a sane man a'd ask for us a raise a ransom."
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Cyrus appraised the youth before him; he was too old to be called a boy and too young to be called a man. He had fair hair, thick and curly, and a straight nose underneath eyes so piercingly blue that they seemed supernatural. His garment was burgundy with silver trim, expensive but not ostentatious.
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"And who are you to be worth the weight of two horses in silver?"
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The youth's eyes flashed as he raised them to meet Cyrus directly. "My name is not made to fit inside the mouths of lice-infested vermin." His lips broke into a humorless smile. "If you were to speak it aloud, it would be your death."
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It was Cyrus' turn to laugh. He gestured to Orsino. "Go and get the ropes."
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The Roman's smile fell. "I don't think so, pirate. I am on my way to Rhodes to study the oratory arts." The youth looked at Orsino pointedly. "The art of 'speaking pretty,'" he explained for his benefit.
Shifting his gaze back to Cyrus, he continued, "This inconvenience shall not hold me back in my endeavors. If you insist on dooming yourself by holding me for ransom, as I cannot fight you and your men all at once, I shall oblige you on your path to self-destruction." He pointed to the ropes in Orsino's hands. "I will cooperate freely as long as you neither touch nor bind me."
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Cyrus considered the youth. He was obviously high born, for learning to speak like a high and mighty God was a taught art. However, if the impetuous youth initiated a fight, he could be injured by accident, as pirates were not gentle creatures. That would put Cyrus' mountain of silver at risk.
"Let it be so, Little Roman." He raised a finger suddenly to the youth's face, becoming slightly disappointed when the Roman didn't flinch. "Know this, though… fight us, and you will wear a slave collar for the rest of your days."
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The youth raised his chin in defiance. "Holding the leash to my collar would be worlds worse than wearing it."
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Day 3:
Countless islands litter the Aegean Sea-- their white sands contrasting against deep blue water, much like stars in the night. Many of these islands were too small or too isolated for villages or average people to survive.
The Siren's Nest, was such an island. It was Cyrus's favorite place to wait out a ransom payment. You could stand on one shore and see the other, but the small island had plenty of shade and a freshwater stream at its center. He and his crew would drink away the coming days as they awaited the payment for their brazen captive. Which was, in all honesty, all they needed.
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Before parting ways with his fellow Roman crew members, the youthful hostage had written a letter asking for fifty talents to be delivered to the location Cyrus had marked on a crudely drawn map. The Roman's crew and the vessel were then released to deliver said letter to the captive's retinue, which resided on the mainland.
Now, all Cyrus had to do was drink and wait for the arrival of a small fortune. Well, that and keep his fellow pirates from killing the mouthy Roman.
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The youth had made himself quite at home, as though entirely unfazed by his current situation in life. Cyrus had an itching feeling that he couldn't quite scratch. Despite being alone and outnumbered, the youth was so bold and confident that he simply must be insane.
What lengths would a crazy person go to if they felt threatened? Cyrus frowned at the thought of his hostage picking a fight with his bored crew. Such a thing would not end well for his silver. As though summoned by his very thoughts, the Roman approached him, writing down notes as he thought aloud. "Shoe…pursue… blue… anew?"
The youth looked up from his work and saw that Cyrus curiously watched him. "Pirate, what would you use to rhyme with 'a hole in my shoe'?"
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"Uhhh…"
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"Ahh! 'I will crucify you' works perfectly." With that, the Roman went on his way, writing poetry in the setting light of the evening sun.
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Day 21:
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"My captors numbering thirty-three,
With the combined intellect of a flea,
Do attempt to murder me,
By means of monotony.
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Their manhood the size of a grain of sand.
Their minds empty as a vast wasteland.
Nothing more than a pebble in my shoe,
I will crucify each and every one of you."
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The silence became deafening as the Roman finished reciting his work. "Well, gentlemen? What did you all think?"
"I dina care for it," the helmsman, Alecto, spat.
"Yes, well that's probably because you're illiterate."
"What does mo-not-any mean?" Orsino asked.
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"Monotony, my simple sea rat, means a state of constant, tedious boredom," the Roman answered. "Much like your very existence."
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Amir, an escaped Moorish slave turned pirate, sneered and spoke in his native tongue. "The Roman dog needs to be brought to heel. He is a spoiled child that needs to be whipped by his betters."
The Roman sat up from where he lounged against the trunk of a palm tree. "When you say, 'my betters' do you refer to yourself?" he asked in perfect Arabic.
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Realizing his jaw had dropped slightly, Amir quickly closed it, causing his teeth to clink together. His Greek and Sicilian peers began to chuckle at his expense, and Amir felt his cheeks grow warm with hatred. "Knives or fists, Roman swine?"
"Lady's choice."
Amir cursed aloud as he rose to his feet and grabbed two of his knives. He threw one in the sand at the Roman's feet before moving to an open area along the shorefront. The Roman sat his writings on the ground and picked up the curved dagger to follow after the Moor.
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Amir struck first, quick as lightning. The Roman stepped back and to the side, slapping the Moor across the back of the head. Thrown off-balance, Amir barely caught himself before falling face-first into the sand. With a snarl, he found his footing and went on the offensive once more.
The only problem was, wherever he struck, the Roman withdrew. It was like a dance that he couldn't quite figure out. "Fight me!"
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"Amir! Cease!" Cyrus shouted, as he emerged from his tent as furious as a bear roused early from hibernation.
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Taking advantage of the distraction, Amir struck with a left hook followed by a right holding a dagger. The Roman successfully dodged the blow, but the blade caught him across the left bicep, drawing blood.
The youth grabbed hold of the Moor's wrist and twisted it violently. There was a loud pop, and Amir cried out in pain, dropping his knife. Before his dagger even hit the sand, the Roman landed a heavy blow to Amir's jaw.
The Moor collapsed to the sand without further movement.
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No one made a sound as the Roman threw his curved dagger into the sand mere inches from Amir's head.
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"Oo are you?" Orsino asked, breaking the silence.
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The Roman brushed the sand from his tunic before he deigned to answer. "I am a descendant of Aeneas, Prince of Troy, son to Aphrodite, and cousin to Hector and Paris. My grandfather slew an elephant single-handedly in the Punic Wars, and my father defeated armies outnumbered five to one."
His eyes slowly roamed over all those who'd gathered. "I am death to each and every one of you."
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"You are mad," Cyrus jeered.
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"I. AM. ROME!" the youth roared back, startling most.
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Cyrus took an aggressive step forward. "You. Are. Valuable," he growled. "Which is why you are being allowed to walk away unharmed. Walk, Little Roman!"
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Day 38:
The Roman's vessel arrived after noon, carrying four wooden chests of silver. The youth was neither surprised nor concerned by the loss of a fortune. He simply gathered his few items from the island and made to board his ship.
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"What is your name?!" Cyrus called after him. "Tell me so that I may know whom to praise the Gods for placing in my path!" So full of joy at his newfound wealth, Cyrus did not even care for an answer.
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The Roman paused his boarding and turned to face Cyrus. "I am the sun, Icarus. I shall see you soon."
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Day 41:
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Cyrus was ripped from his tent early in the morning. A bag had been tied over his head, but he knew that he'd been loaded onto a ship. He heard the rough voice of Orsino somewhere off to his far left, Amir's distinct prayers coming from beyond that.
Cyrus spent the next several hours swearing at and threatening his captives in every language he knew. Still, they did not even acknowledge his existence. He lost track of time, but he knew when the ship pulled into port. He was then dragged out and loaded into a wagon alongside his men. The slant of the wagon let him know that they were traveling uphill.
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When the sack was pulled from his head, he stared into eyes bluer than the Aegean.
"I warned you that you walked a path of self-destruction, pirate," the young Roman said.
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Cyrus was then laid on a wooden beam by his captors. His right arm was then forced from his side and pinned in place by a knee. Instantly, he knew his fate.
"I'm sorry, Roman! Take the silver back!"
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The only response was a stone hammer that clanged with finality.
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A vivid, fiery-hot pain shot through his right hand causing Cyrus to cry out in anguish. He felt someone grab his left wrist, and he tensed. The Roman raised his eyes to the captor holding down Cyrus' left arm and shook his head, issuing a silent order. Immediately, the pressure on his wrist abated.
Cyrus looked upon the youth in wonder. Who was he to command the soldiers of Rome?
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The youth then moved to squat beside Cyrus, bracing his elbows comfortably upon the tops of his thighs. "Repeat after me, pirate."
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"I’m so sorry….”
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“Gaius…”
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“I didn’t mean….”
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“No. Repeat after me,” the Roman bade. “Gaius…”
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“…Gaius.”
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The Roman nodded. “Julius...”
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“…Julius.”
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“Caesar.”
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