The Roman

Inspired by true events.

The wind smells of salt and sunbaked wood as we close in on the merchant ship. She’s a small thing, with sails that have seen better days and a skeleton crew of hapless Romans. Easy pickings.

I grip the rail of the Alecto, watching my boys swing across the gap like the gods’ own fury. Swords clash, shouts echo, and the Roman crew scatters, all save one.

He stands in the middle of the deck, arms folded, his white tunic brighter than the noonday sun. The man is young, perhaps twenty-five years old. Gangly, tall and lean, his dark hair swept back like he’s stepped out of some marble statue. And that face—he’s glaring at us like we’re late to an appointment he never wanted to entertain in the first place.

I hop onto the Roman deck, my boots thudding against the wood. “Well,” I say, resting my sword on my shoulder, “who do we have here?”

The man tilts his head, as if I’m the one who owes him an explanation. “I am Gaius Julius Caesar, of the divine Julii, descendant of Venus, he announces, his voice booming like thunder “high priest of Jupiter, a quaestor of Rome, a military hero, crowned with the civic wreath, and a senator of our Republic. I am chosen by fate, beloved by the gods, and destined for greatness as the future consul of Rome!”