“You barbarous lot, you can never appreciate good poetry,” said Caesar, waving the parchment in the sea breeze.
The men surrounding him guffawed at his reaction to their vulgar remarks. Disgusted, Caesar flung the parchment away. A brisk Mediterranean wind got hold of it, twirling it higher and higher, away from the group of seafaring men.
“It is not the poetry, but the Roman hand that wrote it,” said a small, sunburnt man, who appeared to be the leader. “The very hand that may soon part from its body if you keep up your impudent ways.”
This brought forth a new wave of raucous laughter.