The flagship Nemesis cut through the dark water of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
It was a beautiful ship—a Parthian trireme with sleek lines, gilded railings, and purple sails that snapped in the wind.
The crew, however, was a disgrace.
On the main deck, three hundred Roman legionaries sat in circles. They weren't polishing armor or sharpening gladii. They were wearing looted Parthian silk robes over their filthy, blood-stained tunics.
They looked like a traveling circus that had survived a massacre.
"I won't do it," Centurion Felix growled, throwing a bundle of yellow silk onto the deck. "I am a soldier of the Tenth Legion. I will not dress like a barbarian pimp."
Marcus sat on a coil of rope nearby. He was sharpening his new sword—a curved Parthian scimitar he had taken from a dead captain.
He stood up. He walked over to Felix.
Marcus wasn't wearing his lorica segmentata. He was wearing a deep blue robe with gold embroidery, stained with salt and sweat.
He unclasped his own heavy wool cloak—the Imperial purple he had carried since the beginning of the war.
He tossed it over the rail.
It hit the water with a heavy splash and sank.
"That cloak was worth three months of your pay," Marcus said quietly. "Now it's fish food."
He stepped closer to Felix.
"Rome isn't a uniform, Centurion. Rome is a hunger. It's the will to survive when the world wants you dead."
He kicked the bundle of yellow silk back toward the man.
"Put it on. Or swim back to Ravenna."
Felix stared at the sinking cloak. He looked at the hard, dead eyes of his Emperor.
He picked up the silk.
"Good," Marcus said, turning back to the prow. "Because we are entering the throat of the beast."
LOCATION: STRAITS OF MESSINA.
CURRENT: 8 KNOTS.
THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME.
The sun was setting as the stolen fleet approached the narrow gap between Sicily and the toe of Italy.
The Straits of Messina were a graveyard of ships. The currents here were violent, swirling vortexes that could snap a keel in half.
But the currents weren't the problem.
"Chain!" Crixus shouted from the bow.
Stretched across the mile-wide gap was a massive iron chain, suspended on wooden buoys. It blocked the entire passage.
Behind the chain sat the blockade.
Five massive ships floated in the calm water beyond. They were black, ugly mountains of timber. Quinqueremes. Five banks of oars. Ballistas mounted on every deck.
The flag flying from the center ship wasn't Roman. It was a black trident on a field of red.
"Sextus Pompey," Narcissus growled, gripping his axe. "The Pirate King."
A signal flare shot up from the black flagship. A red trail of smoke against the twilight sky.
Halt and identify.
"They think we're the Parthians," Marcus said. "They see the sails. They see the dragon flags."
He looked at Galen.
"You speak Farsi?"
"I studied in Ctesiphon," the physician nodded, looking pale. "But I am not an actor, Caesar."
"Today you are," Marcus said. "You are Admiral Surena of the Royal Navy. You are arrogant. You are rich. And you are insulted that a pirate is blocking your path."
"And who are you?" Galen asked.
Marcus put on a heavy, jeweled turban he had found in the captain's quarters. He twisted the bloody ring on his finger so the Roman seal faced his palm.
"I am your mute bodyguard," Marcus said. "Now, scream at them."
The Nemesis drifted closer to the chain.
"Halt!" a voice boomed from the Pirate flagship. "Pay the toll or sink!"
Galen climbed onto the railing. He took a deep breath.
He unleashed a stream of guttural, angry Farsi. He waved his arms. He pointed at the Parthian dragon flag. He spat into the water.
"Translation?" Crixus whispered.
"He called Pompey a goat-fucker," Marcus murmured. "And demanded the chain be lowered for the allies of Valerius."
There was a long silence from the black ship.
Then, laughter.
"Bold!" the Pirate captain shouted back in broken Greek. "Come aboard, Admiral! Let us drink to your bad manners!"
A longboat was lowered from the black ship.
"It's a trap," Narcissus said.
"Of course it's a trap," Marcus replied. "But it's the only way through."
He looked at his gladiator. "Hide the axe. Look submissive. You're a eunuch today."
Narcissus scowled but tucked a long dagger into his silk sash.
The longboat rowed them across the dark water. The massive black hull of Pompey's flagship, the Trident, loomed over them like a cliff.
They climbed the rope ladder.
The deck of the Trident was a floating palace of sin.
Torches flickered in gold sconces. Silk canopies covered plush cushions. The air smelled of expensive wine, roasted meat, and exotic perfume.
Dancers moved to the rhythm of flutes. Pirates with gold teeth and scarred faces lounged on the benches, drinking from silver goblets.
In the center, on a throne made of whale bone, sat Sextus Pompey.
He was a bear of a man. heavily muscled, with a beard braided with gold wire. He wore a toga, but he wore it wrong—loose and revealing, like a mockery of the Senate.
"Admiral!" Pompey roared, standing up. He held out a cup. "Welcome to my toll booth!"
Galen bowed stiffly. "Greetings, Lord of the Seas."
Pompey laughed. He grabbed Galen by the shoulder and pulled him toward the table. "Sit! Drink! Your ships are beautiful, but they smell like old fish. Parthians don't know how to wash?"
Marcus stood silently behind Galen, his head bowed, hands folded in his sleeves. Narcissus stood beside him, staring at the floor.
"We have traveled far to aid General Valerius," Galen said, sticking to the script. "We request passage to Ostia."
"Valerius!" Pompey spat wine onto the deck. "That stiff-necked boy. He promised me Egypt, you know? Said if I starved Rome, he'd give me the Nile."
Pompey leaned in close to Galen. His breath smelled of sour grapes and rot.
"But I hear things, Admiral. I hear the Emperor isn't dead. I hear Commodus is running around the Alps with a ghost army."
Pompey chuckled. "Imagine that. The boy-king playing soldier. I should have cut his throat when he was a baby."
Marcus felt the heat rise in his chest.
Cut his throat, the Ghost whispered. Take his head. Put it on a spike.
Marcus's hand tightened on his own wrist inside his sleeve. The pressure of the ring cut into his skin.
Pompey's eyes flicked to Marcus.
The pirate stopped laughing.
He looked at Marcus's hands. Specifically, at the hand gripping the wrist.
The ring.
Marcus had turned the seal inward, but the band was visible. Thick gold. Roman workmanship.
And on the pinky finger.
Parthians wore rings on their index fingers or thumbs. Only Roman nobility wore the signet on the pinky.
Pompey's smile didn't fade, but his eyes went cold.
"Tell me, Admiral," Pompey said softly to Galen, but his eyes were locked on Marcus. "Why does your mute bodyguard wear the ring of a Roman Senator?"
The music stopped.
The dancers froze.
Fifty pirate archers on the upper deck notched arrows. The sound of bowstrings tightening creaked in the silence.
"A trophy," Galen stammered. "Taken from a dead—"
"Liar," Pompey whispered.
He drew his sword—a wide-bladed falcata.
"Parthians don't have calluses on their knuckles," Pompey said. "And they don't look at me with eyes that want to burn the world."
He pointed the sword at Marcus.
"Take off the turban, boy. Let's see the family resemblance."
Marcus sighed.
He reached up and pulled the silk wrap from his head. His hair was matted with sweat and ash, but the face was unmistakable. The heavy brow. The jawline of the Antonines.
"Hello, Sextus," Marcus said. His voice wasn't Farsi. It was cold, high Latin.
"Commodus," Pompey grinned. "You walked right into the lion's den."
"I did," Marcus said.
He kicked the heavy oak table. It flipped, sending wine and roasted meat flying into Pompey's face.
"Narcissus!"
The giant moved. He didn't draw a weapon. He grabbed the pirate standing next to him by the throat and the belt, lifted him overhead, and threw him into the group of archers on the upper deck.
Chaos erupted.
Marcus drew the scimitar from his sash. He didn't attack Pompey. He jumped backward, putting his back to the main mast.
"Hold!" Pompey screamed, wiping gravy from his eyes. "Archers! Hold!"
The pirates froze. Fifty arrows were pointed at Marcus's chest.
"You are dead," Pompey laughed. "You have a butter knife. I have a fleet."
"Look out the window," Marcus said calmly.
Pompey frowned. He glanced at the open porthole.
Out on the water, the Nemesis and the twenty other stolen ships had moved. They weren't drifting anymore.
They had turned. Their prows were aimed directly at the Trident's broadside.
Oars were out. Ramming speed.
"My captains have orders," Marcus said. "If I don't wave this lantern in ten seconds, they ram. They don't care if I die. They just want to see you sink."
He picked up a silver lantern from the deck. He held it over the rail, his finger hovering over the latch.
"Ten seconds, Pirate," Marcus whispered.
"Do you want to be an Admiral of Rome? Or do you want to be fish food?"
Pompey looked at the ships. He looked at the crazy look in Marcus's eyes.
He lowered his sword.
"Five seconds," Marcus said.
Pompey started to laugh. It was a deep, booming belly laugh.
"You crazy bastard," Pompey wheezed. "You're actually going to do it."
"One," Marcus said.
"Fine!" Pompey sheathed his sword. "We talk! But if you sink my ship, I'll haunt you forever!"
Marcus didn't smile. He waved the lantern three times.
Out in the dark, the Nemesis backed oars. The collision course was aborted.
Marcus stepped forward, stepping over a spilled goblet.
"Now," Marcus said. "Let's discuss your promotion."