I grow on branches and come in red or green, I’m crisp when fresh and sweet when eaten. I have a core but no heart, And my name once tempted knowledge at the start.

I'm heard when fear makes lesser people flee, that others would condemn with mockery. A soldier shot to fame by cooking me, as did a sailor fond of greenery.

I am the ancient wages of the soldiers march, The white rot of iron and the crumbling of the arch, I am the tears of the earth left behind by the tide, Where the thirsty find death with water on every side.

I am inevitable, and am certain as death, I've been told. I do not disparage the young or old, I take from all my share in gold.

I have a square base and rise to a single point, but I'm not a party hat. I was built by ancient hands, but I'm not a ruin in the traditional sense. I hold secrets within, but I'm not a diary. What am I?