Corocotta smiled at something she said, then turned to stare once more at Augustus Caesar. His smile in his dark beard was broad and white. “Yes,” he said, the foreign word forming oddly on his lips, then he said something else they could not understand.
“One million Sesterces,” the girl translated. “Lord Corocotta was told it was one million Sesterces.”
Octavian looked past them to one of the praetorians. “How many did they come with?”
It was the one whose sword was aimed at the little girl’s spine who answered. “It was only these two, Caesar. They announced themselves at the gate.”
“I see,” Octavian said.
Juba happened to be looking at his stepbrother, and so when Octavian’s gaze quickly passed around the room, their eyes met. Rather than passing by quickly, however, Octavian’s gaze locked on his own for several seconds, his eyes widening and imploring. Juba knew him long enough to know that his stepbrother was trying to tell him something. But what?
Caesar’s attention once more turned to the Cantabri leader who’d killed so many of his men and destroyed so many of his supplies. “If I give the order,” he said, addressing Corocotta directly even as the little girl translated, “those men will kill you.”
Corocotta slowly turned his head to take in the praetorians at their backs. Then he smiled once more and his big shoulders shrugged as he looked back to Caesar to answer. At his side the girl translated again, “If you give the order, they will try.”
“You have killed many Romans,” Octavian said.
“And you have killed many Cantabri.”
Juba was listening to the conversation, but he was also intently studying Corocotta. Octavian wanted him to see something. He was sure of it.
“You are either a very brave man or a very foolish one,” Octavian said.
“And you the same,” Corocotta replied through the girl.
A few of the Romans gasped, and Juba quickly glanced back at his stepbrother, expecting to find him angry. Instead, Octavian was smiling, and he seemed to be looking at the bigger man with a new respect. “We have a saying in Rome, that the victor is brave, the defeated a fool.”
Corocotta nodded as he spoke and the girl continued to translate, “The same is spoken in Cantabria.”
“As in all lands, I suspect,” Octavian said. He paused, and the two leaders stared at one another for several seconds. “I will attack Vellica tomorrow.”
“Sir,” Carisius said, “I don’t think—”
The Cantabri’s barbaric tongue cut him off. “Corocotta had suspected you would do so,” the little girl translated. “Your supply lines are weak and exposed. You cannot delay. And your offer for his capture shows your desperation.” She blushed a little at what she had just said, and then gave a kind of apologetic bow, her hands still gripped firmly on the crutch for support. “Begging your pardon, my lord.”
Octavian brushed her comment away with his hand. The little girl was some kind of prisoner or slave of the Cantabrian leader, and Juba knew that his stepbrother—like most Romans—would view her as little more than a necessary nuisance. Whoever she was, she was only useful for her ability to speak both Latin and the Cantabrian tongue. Her opinions mattered nothing at all.
It was the same attitude about the relative value of human life that Octavian had shown in ordering Juba to use the Trident of Poseidon to kill Quintus, the loyal slave who had helped to raise Juba.
The Trident. The Shard to control water.
With a start, Juba realized what it was that Octavian was trying to communicate. If Corocotta indeed had a Shard to control fire, he would have it with him. It would be here in this room. And wherever his stepbrother kept the Trident with which Juba could fight that power, it wasn’t here. If Corocotta had the Shard and used it, he might be able to kill them all.
“You are right,” Octavian said. “Your attacks have weakened us. You have done well.”
Corocotta tilted his head in acknowledgment when the words were translated for him, but he didn’t otherwise respond. Juba was studying him intently, head to toe. The Shard had to be here. He had to have it with him. That was why he was so confident. But where? What would it look like?
It would have a black stone somehow, wouldn’t it? The Trident did. So did the Palladium. And so did the Aegis of Zeus. Surely the Shard to control fire would be the same.
The man had leather bands around his neck, and animal claws and crystals were tied upon them, but none of them were dark in color, much less the deep, light-swallowing blackness of the stones in the Shards.
“Vellica, too, runs low on supplies,” Octavian said. “You have weakened our supply lines, but that has not weakened our siege.”
“I agree that you are wise to attack Vellica now,” Corocotta replied.
“It will fall tomorrow,” Octavian said.
“Perhaps,” Corocotta said. In addition to the spear in his hand, the man had a sword at his hip, and the ball of its pommel was just visible when his movememt shifted his fur cloak: it was a simple bronze, though, little different from the weapon that the praetorian held level at his back.
“When it does, we will be the victors,” Octavian said. “And those who remain in the city, no matter how bravely they fight, will be the fools. Should I offer them the chance to surrender before the attack?”
Corocotta shrugged. “If you did, they would not take it. Among the Cantabri it is said that it is better to die in honor than to live in shame. They do not believe there is honor under Roman rule.”
“And you? What do you believe?”
Corocotta thought for several long seconds after the little girl finished translating. “I believe in Roman gold,” he said. “One million Sesterces.”
Juba saw that Tiberius frowned, but several of the Roman officers chuckled at both the audacity and the forthrightness of the man.
Octavian also laughed for a moment. “The man looking out for his own head is perhaps the wisest of all,” he said. He appraised the big man once more, and Juba wondered if he, too, was looking for the Shard. “Very well. I offered one million Sesterces for the capture of Corocotta, and it seems that Corocotta himself has claimed it.” He turned to Carisius. “An odd position, is it not?”
Carisius nodded. “It is, Caesar.”
Corocotta had turned a little to see the new man Caesar was addressing, and that’s when Juba saw it. The Cantabrian’s big-handed grip on the spear had shifted for a moment, and when it did Juba saw a sliver of black.
Octavian nodded, then looked down the table to Tiberius. “My son,” he said, “in your studies, what do you know of honesty among leaders?”
Tiberius seemed surprised to be addressed, but he recovered himself quickly. “A good leader must be a man of his word,” he said. “For his word must be obeyed.”
“Exactly so,” Octavian said. One by one, Octavian questioned the highest officers in the room. To a man, they agreed with Tiberius.
Juba stared at the big man’s hand, trying to see it again. A part of him wanted to think the sliver was merely a shadow, but in his heart he knew that it had been more than that. The darkness, when he had seen it, had swallowed the light. Hadn’t it? Surely it wasn’t a trick of the light. Surely it wasn’t his imagination.
No. It was the spear. It had to be the spear. And if he already held the Shard in his hand, then he could unleash its power at any moment. Dear gods, Juba thought, imagining the control he must have over it to hold it in check so easily. If he and Selene could achieve such skill—
“Juba?”
Octavian’s voice snapped Juba from his thoughts, and when he blinked his vision away from the spear he saw that everyone in the room was looking at him, including Corocotta and even the little girl.
“Caesar?”
“We were noting what a strange position I find myself in. Either I must dishonor myself by denying the reward and killing him, or I must pay my own enemy,” Octavian said.
Juba swallowed hard,
unable to prevent his eyes from flicking once more to the spear before addressing his stepbrother. Had the man’s grip tightened? And what was it about the spear? It reminded him of something, tickled at a fact long-forgotten in his mind. “A difficult position, to be sure,” he said.
A few of the other officers murmured under their breath. Juba thought he heard a whisper about the useless “dark prince.”
“So it is,” Octavian said. “But do you have any advice, Lord Juba?” His stepbrother’s eyes narrowed, boring into him with what Juba felt in his heart was almost a plea.
Juba nodded slowly as his mind raced. The spear. A spear. A Cantabrian spear. “There’s another option,” he said.
“Oh?”
Juba looked toward Corocotta, saw that he was staring as intently at him as Juba had been staring at his hand. Juba felt a cold sweat forming on his forehead despite the heat of the oil lamps on a warm night. “Do not make an enemy of him,” he said.
A few of the officers murmured a little more openly, a kind of laughter in their tone. “He already is our enemy—” Tiberius began.
“But he needn’t be,” Juba said, cutting the young man off more quickly than he would have liked. He could see the heat rising in Tiberius’ face, but Juba had more important concerns right now. If he was right, Corocotta might be able to kill them all with hardly more than a thought. He’d been able to do the same, had he not?
“Go on,” Octavian said.
“What I mean,” Juba said, “is you should pay him to keep your honor, but pay him as a friend to keep your strength.”
Octavian’s eyes narrowed, but he had a growing smile on his face. “As at Actium,” he said, “you have found the wisest way forward.”
Juba knew he meant it as the highest compliment, as a direct rebuke of the snickers and disrespect from the other men in the room. He knew it was meant in kindness. But he just wanted to be sick.
Octavian turned to address the Cantabrian leader, who had been silent through the Romans’ exchange. “Let it be known that Caesar is a man of his word. One million Sesterces. It is yours, Corocotta. On the condition that you join Rome.”
Corocotta looked slowly between Octavian and Juba as the little girl translated. Then he thought for a few seconds before answering. “One million Sesterces. I will stand beside Caesar tomorrow,” he said.
Octavian smiled, clearly pleased, and in that moment the memory that had been niggling at the back of Juba’s head suddenly rushed into the forefront of his mind. “Olyndicus,” he blurted out.
Octavian had been ready to speak, but Juba’s outburst had interrupted him. He looked over with a mixture of amusement, confusion, and a hint of annoyance on his face. “You have something to add, Lord Juba?”
Juba stuttered, feeling the stares of his fellow Romans and, most especially, the steady, intense scrutiny of Corocotta. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but now that he had there was no turning back. “Olyndicus was a leader of the Celtiberians here in Hispania,” he said, addressing the room. “He was defeated by Lucius Canuleyus almost one hundred fifty years ago. A hard man, it was said. A good leader, who fought long and hard against Rome.” He focused in on the Cantabrian leader. “I wonder if he is considered a hero among your people?”
The little girl translated, but Corocotta’s stare did not leave Juba. His eyes were filled with an intense heat.
“He is,” he finally replied. “Olyndicus was a great man.”
“This is no time for a history lesson,” one of the older Roman officers said, but Caesar’s raised hand silenced any further comments.
“He had a great power,” Juba continued. “I remembered it just now. It was in the history of Diodorus Siculus, I believe. They said that Olyndicus carried with him a lance—a spear—that had been given to him by the gods of the sky.” Corocotta’s fist tightened very clearly on his spear, and Juba turned back toward his stepbrother. If the fire was to come, he didn’t want to see it. As he continued to speak, he tried to implore him with his eyes. “The Lance of Olyndicus could devour men where they stood, leave them in ashes. The spear could control fire.”
Juba had always known that Octavian was a consummate politician. He’d seen it when he’d watched him take control of Rome after Julius Caesar’s death. He’d seen it when he’d watched him pull the strings of the senators who’d declared him an emperor, who’d named him Augustus Caesar. But never, until this moment, did he see how powerful he truly was at the game of kings.
Realization of the reality, of the danger, showed itself only in the faintest tremble of emotion that flexed upon Octavian’s cheek. His eyes didn’t widen. His gaze never flickered to Corocotta and his spear. His expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, then pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment before turning toward the big Cantabrian. “He indeed sounds like a great man. Is this story as it is among your people?”
Corocotta’s bushy beard nodded. Then, to Juba’s shock, he held forth the spear in his fist. Though at first he spoke to Caesar, to the room, his fiery gaze finally settled upon Juba. “The Lance of Olyndicus was held safe for many years,” he said, “until one was found who was worthy to wield it. I have brought it here to you, for with it I have killed many men of Rome. But for one million Sesterces Corocotta has agreed to stand beside Caesar when Rome marches tomorrow. I am a man of my word, and that should be enough. But I, Corocotta, give you the weapon in my hand as promise that I will keep my word. Will Rome do the same?”
“It will,” Caesar said, and at a snap of his fingers the praetorians sheathed their swords.
The little girl, still clutching her cloth-covered crutch beside the big man, looked relieved that the long negotiation had not come to violence. As Corocotta remained standing with his spear held out before him, the whole room seemed to let out a long breath.
Caesar turned to Juba. “For your knowledge, my brother, I give you the honor of accepting the weapon.”
Juba bowed slightly, then began to step around the table. Many of the officers, he noticed, were looking at him with jealousy or, in the case of Carisius, open confusion. The look on the face of Tiberius, he saw, was more akin to a brooding anger. Juba knew he’d need to deal with the young man at some point, somehow make amends for cutting him off in front of the other men, but now was hardly the time.
At last he came around the end of the table to stand before the big Cantabrian. The bearded man was even larger up close, and his eyes seemed to be ablaze, but he moved not a muscle while Juba quickly flipped his hands under the folds of the cloth sash that was wrapped over his shoulder. Covering his hands, Juba hoped, would prevent him from inadvertently using the Shard, yet it would appear to the other men in the room as a simple sign of respect. Then, moving slowly in reverence and in fear, he reached out with his covered hands and gripped the spear.
For the space of several heartbeats, Corocotta held fast, staring at him. Juba tried to return the determination, but in the end he had to blink. The Cantabrian gave a kind of satisfied grunt and then released the spear. He took one step backward before at last returning his gaze to Octavian. “A man of my word,” he said.
“So am I,” Caesar replied, and he immediately directed Tiberius to see to the reward, which was ordered to be ready by the dawn. Then he commanded a tent prepared for Corocotta and his slave, while Carisius and the remaining generals were once more sent to prepare the legions for battle.
Everyone snapped into motion, and in less than a minute Juba was alone in the tent, holding Corocotta’s spear in his cloth-covered hands and wondering what on earth he should do next.
10
BLOOD ON THE WATER
ALEXANDRIA, 26 BCE
The grains that Petosiris had carried into the city had been replaced by piles of textiles, and Vorenus and Khenti relaxed among them at the leading edge of the barge, the waters of the canal once more slipping beneath them. This time the barge was headed east, away from Alexandria and toward Schedia and the Nile. And it was not the b
reaking day that lay ahead, but the growing darkness of night, which was quickly rising before them in a yawning wall of black, only just beginning to show the pricks of a few scattered stars.
They were hardly more than an hour from the city walls, but the buildings that had crowded against the waterway had long since begun to thin, and the air was beginning to taste clean again. The noise of crowds that had been a constant buzzing din within Alexandria’s walls and its initial tumble-down suburbs had dissipated into the hush of the dark, broken only by the occasional barking of a dog or the steady, echoing clatter of a cart, homeward bound from the surrounding fields.
Getting out of the city had been much easier than getting in. Night had pushed most of the traffic from the waterway, and the guards had all gone to other posts. It had been at least half an hour since Vorenus had seen another soul on the canal.
Caesarion had been right about meeting with Didymus. The librarian had been more helpful than Vorenus had dared to hope, and it had simply been good to see him again—even if the joy of that reunion made the loss of Pullo that much harder to bear.
It seemed, too, that Vorenus’ fears of discovery had been largely unfounded. There was no sign that anyone had recognized him coming or going from the Great Library, and within the office of his old friend he’d felt safe and relaxed for the first time in many years.
Vorenus sighed and leaned his head back, looking up into the dark. This, too, was relaxing, he thought.
Behind them, at the rear of the barge, Petosiris and his young assistant were at the tiller, guiding the craft on its steady advance.
“I am glad you learned what you needed,” Khenti said from beside him.
For as long as Vorenus had known him, the only thing that ever seemed to matter to the Egyptian was the immediate mission. When they’d met to walk back to the harbor from the Great Library, he’d never even asked what was discussed. He only wanted to know if Vorenus had found what he was looking for and if they needed to go anywhere else before leaving Alexandria. There was something undoubtedly reassuring about his single-minded sense of purpose, but all the same he missed the company of Pullo, who could be stubborn and impetuous and a damnable fool, but was the only person Vorenus had ever truly loved.
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