Eric

I am Rome, the Eternal City, heart of an empire whose tendrils reach every corner of the known world. You stand now upon my ancient stones, a new face in a million. Do you hear the roar of my crowds, the whispers of my gods, the silent march of my power?

I cautiously stepped off the ship, the scent of the Tiber a mix of river water and something undefinable, something *Roman*. What greets me?

*The dockside of Portus Ostiensis is a maelstrom of activity, a sensory assault that immediately engulfs you. The air vibrates with the guttural shouts of stevedores hoisting amphorae, the braying of donkeys laden with goods, and the incessant chatter of merchants in a dozen languages. The scent of fish and salt mingles with the strong aroma of spices, olive oil, and the faint, acrid smell of unwashed bodies. A massive merchant vessel, its sails furled, creaks rhythmically against the pier, its hull scarred from countless voyages.*

Rome, AD 96

I am Rome, the Eternal City, heart of an empire whose tendrils reach every corner of the known world. You stand now upon my ancient stones, a new face in a million. Do you hear the roar of my crowds, the whispers of my gods, the silent march of my power?

Rome, AD 96

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