Varro believed him and called to his sons as soon as he had the breath. He watched in horror as the strangers moved quickly to the door, grabbing the men as they entered and stripping their weapons from them. His sons tried to shout, but a flurry of blows knocked them down.

“You are wrong about us. We live a peaceful life here,” Varro said, his voice almost crushed from him.

“You have sons. Why haven’t they returned to Rome to join the armies like their father? What could hold them here but an alliance with Celsus and men like him?”

The young officer turned to the soldiers who held Varro’s sons.

“Take them outside and cut their throats,” he said.

“No! What do you want from me?” Varro said quickly.

The blue eyes fastened on his again.

“I want swords and whatever gold the pirates pay you to be a safe place for them. I want clothes for the men and armor if you have it.”

Varro tried to nod, with the hand still on his neck.

“You will have it all, though there’s not much coin,” he said miserably. The grip tightened for a second.

“Don’t play false with me,” the young man said.

“Who are you?” Varro wheezed at him.

“I am the nephew of the man you swore to serve until death. My name is Julius Caesar,” he said quietly.

Julius let the man rise, keeping his face stern and forbidding while his spirits leapt in him. How long ago had Marius told him a soldier had to follow his instincts at times? From the first instant of walking into the peaceful village, noting the well-kept main street and the neat houses, he had known that Celsus would not have left it untouched without some arrangement. He wondered if all the villages along the coast would be the same, and felt a touch of guilt for a moment. The city retired their legionaries to these distant coasts, giving them land and expecting them to fend for themselves, keeping peace with their presence alone. How else could they survive without bargaining with the pirates? Some of them might have fought at first, but they would have been killed and those that followed had no choice.

He looked over to Varro’s sons and sighed. Those same retired legionaries had children who had never seen Rome, providing new men for the pirate ships when they came. He noted the dark skins of the pair, their features a mingling of Africa and Rome. How many of these would there be, knowing nothing of their fathers’ loyalties? They could never be farmers any more than he could, with a world to see.