A tale of the ancient Republic.
Mare Internum. Mesogeios. The Mediterraneus. That sea has been known by many names since the creation of the world. To the people living around its shores, it was the entire world.
Myron had no use for the myriad of gods that the people of his village worshiped - and cursed. And it was obvious to himself that those immortals, in turn, had no interest in a young man whose future would be bound by the reed pools and swamps of the Nilos delta. His disinterest was such that he seldom even bothered to bash the ears of whichever deity was supposedly responsibility for the daily misfortunes of an orphan.
Then came the evening when the marauders struck...
Had he been given even a glimpse of his future from that moment on, he would have dismissed it as the ravings of a drunken myth weaver. In fact, the story might have been similar to the tales that were told on occasion, around the evening fires, by an itinerant bard who entertained the village in return for a bone to gnaw and a jar of bitter beer to quaff.
But, sanctioned by the gods or no, his future would take him to the far reaches of the known world. And his rise from the lowest drudge to the command of men was certainly not derived from bending his knee to some vaporous deity, but by innate skill and the ability to take the measure of a man. Indeed, his story was the kind of tale that a bard loved and would cause his listeners sit in total silence to hear. After all, why would a man in reality, who had fought his way to power and riches, would give them up for a mere woman and an uncertain future?
Of course, only the gods knew of his unique gift...