Varro glanced sharply at him, noting the intense blue stare. One of the eyes had a wide, dark center that seemed to look through his cheerful manner to the real man. Despite the beards, they all stood straighter and stronger than the miserable groups Celsus would leave nearby every couple of years. He cautioned himself to be careful, not yet sure of the situation. At least he had his sons outside, well armed and ready for his call. It paid to be careful.

“Those they have ransomed are left along this coast. I’m sure they find it useful to have the men returned to civilization to keep the ransoms coming in. What would you have us do? We are farmers here. Rome gave us the land for a quiet retirement, not to fight the pirates. That is the job of our galleys, I believe.” He said the last with a twinkle in his eye, expecting the young man to smile or look embarrassed at failing in that task. The steady gaze never faltered and Varro found his good humor evaporating.

“The settlement is too small for a bathhouse, but there are a few private homes that will take you in and lend you razors.”

“What about clothes?” said the older of the two.

Varro realized he didn’t know their names and blinked. This was not the usual way of such conversations. The last group had practically wept to find a Roman in such a strange land, sitting on couches in a well-built stone house.

“Are you the officer here?” Varro asked, glancing at the younger man as he spoke.

“I was the captain of Accipiter, but you have not answered my question,” Gaditicus replied.

“We do not have garments for you, I am afraid . . .” Varro began.

The young man sprang at him, gripping his throat and pulling him out of his seat. He choked in horror and sudden fear as he was dragged over the table and pressed down onto it, looking up into those blue eyes that seemed to know all his secrets.

“You are living in a fine house for a farmer,” the voice hissed at him. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice? What rank were you? Who did you serve with?”

The grip lessened to let him speak and Varro thought of calling to his sons, but knew he didn’t dare with the man’s hand still on his throat.

“I was a centurion, with Marius,” he said hoarsely. “How dare you . . .” The fingers tightened again and his voice was cut off. He could barely breathe.

“Rich family, was it? There are two men outside, hiding. Who are they?”

“My sons . . .”

“Call them in here. They will live, but I’ll not be ambushed as we leave. You will die before they reach you if you warn them. My word on it.”