The corner of Octavian’s mouth lifted. “Twisted snakes. Like Mercury’s wand,” he said. “How did you find it?”
“I was searching the old Numidian libraries, and I started to learn about the old religion of the Jews, of which I know far too little. They worship only one father-god now, like our Jupiter, but I don’t think it was always so. I think they once worshiped a mother goddess, too, like our Juno. Her name was Asherah. I think she was the same as that which is worshiped in Numidia as Astarte. Anyway, it was among the priests of Asherah that I began to put it all together. And they directed me to an old temple of their faith with many relics. And there I found it.”
To Juba’s relief Octavian didn’t follow any line of questioning about how he’d acquired it from them. “Who knows?” he asked.
“There are two of us now,” Juba said.
“Good,” Octavian said. He stood, took a few paces back and forth in front of the table. “Good.”
Juba didn’t reply, letting Octavian pace. Less than a minute passed before there was another light knock on the door.
“The Senate?” Juba asked.
Octavian ignored the query, but he finally stopped pacing. “How well can you control it?” he asked.
Juba had known this particular question was coming, but it was the one thing he’d never decided exactly how he would answer. Unlike some of what he had just said, he opted for plain truth. “You’ve seen it. I can feel that it’s capable of more, but I’ve been unable to practice while keeping the secret. I need money for space and privacy, for supplies.”
“Then you’ll have it,” Octavian said. “This could be a great weapon in the fight to come, my brother. My personal guard will attend you. We’ll give you rooms out at father’s villa, and whatever gold you need is yours. Just practice. Get stronger.”
Juba swallowed hard when his stepbrother looked back toward the door and the legionnaires who were no doubt waiting outside to take him to the Senate. Juba hadn’t realized until just this moment how worried he was that Octavian would claim the Trident for himself. “I will,” he said.
The Imperator of Rome threw him a smile, then turned and walked toward the door, his stride seeming more confident with every step. As he reached for the latch, he looked back. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “After we’re at war.”
* * *
Only when Juba was safely alone did he let his hands begin to shake. “I’m only sixteen,” he whispered to the empty room. He was old enough to begin military training, but this was something greater by far.
It seemed so preposterous, so improbable. For all his pride, for all his intellect, for all the privileges that Octavian had just accorded him, for all the innate power in the object that sat before him on the table, Juba still felt like a child playing games in the world of men.
And so much was happening so quickly.
He crossed his arms to quell their shaking and stood up, making his way over to Octavian’s table of maps once again.
Greece. The armies would fight there. Thousands would die.
But the real battle, Juba was certain, would be in Egypt. In Alexandria. And no one would know about it. Not even Octavian.
Though there were disadvantages to Juba’s youth, there were opportunities, too. A younger man was a more trustworthy man, and so much depended on maintaining Octavian’s trust. Without it, he could lose everything. After all, he hadn’t told Octavian about the even greater source of power among the ancient Jews, the likes of which he didn’t think had a parallel among the whole pantheon of Rome. A power to rival that of Jupiter himself. The seat of God, the Jews called it. The Ark of the Covenant, lost for centuries.
Everything pointed to Alexandria and the Scrolls of Thoth. Find them, and he would find the Ark. Find that, and he would change everything. Numidia, his home, would be free. And he would be, too. His father would at last be avenged. And all that he had been forced to do in the meantime—to play the part of a loyal Roman, even to order the death of that Numidian priest—would be worth the greater good.
He would have to play along with Octavian for now, though. Until he possessed the Scrolls of Thoth, nothing was certain, and even then he would need to use the Scrolls to find the Ark, wherever it was. And he couldn’t do it alone.
Still, Juba knew from history that all races were won by single steps. He was young and patient. There was time. He’d won Octavian’s trust. He now had the power of Rome at his disposal, so long as he played his cards right. One step was done. Now he could take the next: send someone to acquire the Scrolls and bring them to him.
Juba nodded, as if in agreement with something that had been said, then walked purposefully to the door. His hands had stopped trembling, and in his mind he felt a new calm, as if a storm of worry had blown away from him. Through a crack in the door he summoned Quintus.
First, he decided as he waited for the slave’s arrival, he would need Quintus to hire a man to go to Alexandria: a hard and desperate man who would do whatever it took to earn the large reward that Juba would offer with Octavian’s money. Laenas, he was certain, would fit the bill quite nicely.
Second, he would need to write a letter of introduction to the keeper of the Great Library, the one man who surely knew where the Scrolls were kept. If Juba’s teacher Varro was to be believed, the Greek scholar was a man who’d worked for Octavian before. And even if not, promises of power and Octavian’s money could go a long way toward persuading him.
Third, he thought with a smile, he would need to track down a good woodworker. After all, if the Trident of Poseidon was once more going to be wielded on earth, it was going to need some repairing.
4
NEWS FROM ROME
ALEXANDRIA, 32 BCE
Vorenus could see that the road-weary Stertinius, the Roman messenger to the Egyptian court, appeared even more exhausted as he stood in the middle of the tall-columned council chamber of Alexandria, facing the high-stepped dais where Cleopatra and her freshly bathed son sat in gilded wood chairs, their ornate headdresses framed by firelight. Beside them, in a chair only slightly less opulent, sat Cleopatra’s lover, Antony, his eyes dark and brooding beneath his gray-tinged curls of red hair, his jaw tense as he stared at the messenger. The vizier and at least a dozen high priests of various Egyptian gods and goddesses were arrayed about the marble dais and the rug-covered stones at its feet, their paint-enveloped eyes warily judging the poor, dust-covered soldier standing uneasily in their midst. Interspersed among them all were dozens of Roman officers and soldiers under Antony’s command.
One of the last to enter the hall, Vorenus took careful note of the full crowd, unable to shake his continuing feeling of anxiety about the security of the royal family.
Pullo, he saw, was standing with a small group of Romans a few paces behind Antony’s seat, looking nearly as miserable as the road-beaten soldier waiting to make his report—Vorenus knew only too well how uncomfortable such official proceedings made him. Pullo was a man of deeds, not words, and though he was rarely called upon to speak at such occasions, the mere thought that it might happen often left him almost paralyzed with fear. Vorenus swung around the gathering crowd to reach him, observing the number and names of the guards on duty—their distance from the royals, their armaments—and approached his friend from behind. “Care to make a speech?” he asked when he got close.
The big man started a little at Vorenus’ voice, but there was genuine relief in his eyes when he moved aside to let Vorenus stand beside him. “Not me,” he said quietly. “I’d rather screw a Gallic whore.”
“You have screwed a Gallic whore,” Vorenus whispered. “Twice, as I recall.”
“Only proves my desperation. I’d rather do it a third time than be in charge. You’re the smart one. It’s your job.”
Vorenus gripped his comrade by the upper arm for a moment then stepped forward to stand directly behind Antony’s seat.
It was one of the first times he’d seen both Caesarion and hi
s mother in the elaborately formal, dynastic garb that was meant to give them the appearance of Egyptian deities. He noted how uncomfortable the young man seemed to be, trying to stare straight ahead, expressionless as the statues outside the hall. Cleopatra, on the other hand, managed the guise perfectly. Her own expressionless face conveyed whatever emotion one desired to see in it, and her luminous eyes took in everything and nothing all at once. Not for the first time Vorenus felt his own foreignness in this land very sharply.
When at last the final priests had arrived, the queen raised her hand in a call for silence that was almost instantly followed. The vizier stepped forward, bowing to the co-regents before turning to address the gathered court with a series of titles and salutations meant to convey the majesty of the Ptolemaic dynasty.
Vorenus ignored it all until the vizier made a half-bow in Antony’s direction, clearly providing him the floor to deal with the messenger. Antony in turn gave the vizier a terse nod and then stood, his still-thick muscles hulking beneath the fine cloth that was gathered in pleats about his shoulders.
The messenger came rigidly to attention, bringing his right fist to his chest and then pressing his arm out, fingers extended and palm down in a salute. “Rome eternal,” he said.
Antony’s posture was less formal, the snap of his arm less brisk as he returned the salute. Vorenus felt his own jaw tighten, not surprised by Antony’s air of arrogance but certainly not approving of it. “Rome eternal,” Antony said, his voice at once absent and gruffly commanding. He took a step down closer to Stertinius, his footfalls heavy. “What news, soldier?”
The messenger’s eyes seemed to sink even further in his tired face. “Octavian’s forces are preparing to sail from eastern Italy, sir.”
Whispers broke out across the gathered crowd, but Cleopatra and her son made no reaction. Antony raised a broad hand to keep the focus on himself. “Under Agrippa’s command?”
Stertinius just nodded.
“What’s his target?”
“Greece, sir.”
The muscles of Antony’s jaw pulsated in and out. “Where in Greece?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“No one knows? North? South?”
The messenger shook his head.
“Why now?” Antony asked. Vorenus saw Cleopatra’s shoulders tense slightly. Probably she thought the question below Antony’s status. Why now? Because Octavian thought he could win. He thought he had an advantage. But Vorenus knew Antony. Though his tongue was too often faster than his mind—ruled by his passions as he was—Antony’s thoughts were undoubtedly upon the next step: What advantage did Octavian think he had? “And how many ships?” Antony continued, his eyes narrowing.
“I’m uncertain, my lord. Hundreds.”
“How many hundreds? One hundred? Two hundred? Three? Surely, you worthless—”
“Six hundred, maybe,” the legionnaire sputtered.
Antony looked like he’d been slapped. “Six?”
“Agrippa’s full fleet, sir. And everything Rome can spare. Octavian is gathering his armies, too, in the east.” Stertinius swallowed hard. “He’s … he’s even conscripted new legions, sir, to replace those at your side. ‘Rome should have a loyal Sixth,’ is what they say he said.”
Vorenus felt anger rise in his chest and could imagine the rage on Pullo’s face without turning to look at him. There were no truer Romans than they. Who else could speak of having given more for their country?
“He’s created another Sixth?” Antony’s voice was incredulous, spacing out each of the words as if to let them sink in.
“Yes, sir.”
It was a proclamation of exile, of final and irreparable separation, and the few Romans in the council chamber all knew it. Antony looked back at Vorenus, the general’s face momentarily twisted in a look of horrified shock. Vorenus, for all his own rage, tried to focus in on Antony’s face, willing him to stay calm, to think clearly.
Antony seemed to understand the message, and he let his anger pass into a kind of levity, smiling as he turned back to the messenger and the gathered council. “I remember, when I was young, that a man once stole my sword,” he said, his voice booming. Vorenus knew the tone well, from boisterous jests over countless tankards of wine. “It was a fine gladius, the likes of which I thought could never be found again, and I despaired to go to battle without it. But a blacksmith traveling with the legion heard of my troubles and offered to make me another, just like the one I lost. Loyal to his word, the blade he made looked the same as the one I lost—only better, I thought, because it was shiny and new. But when I took it to battle, it cracked on the first stroke against the edge of a shield. I learned then that nothing can replace what is tried and true.” He paused for a moment, to be sure he had the attention of the council. “Let him make a new Sixth. Let him make a new Antony. He’ll find the original far superior!”
There was a shout of determined agreement from the Roman officers and soldiers in the crowded room. Vorenus, too, felt a puff of pride in his chest, though it seemed little enough to contrast the news that he’d been exiled from his homeland.
“What of the man who stole your old sword?” one of the younger Roman officers called from the back of the chamber.
“I had him crucified.” Antony laughed. “But not before I used my old friend to cut his balls off and feed them to dogs. I look forward to doing the same to Octavian!”
There were more shouts of riotous agreement from the Romans, though many of the Egyptians looked disgusted. Vorenus just felt old and tired.
Stertinius noticeably took no part in the revelry, looking more and more uncomfortable as it died down. Antony, who’d been cheering on his officers, at last took notice and motioned for silence. “What more, legionnaire?”
“Octavian—” The soldier’s voice caught, then he bowed again as if to excuse what he was duty-bound to report. “Octavian raided the temple of the Vestal Virgins, sir.”
What was left of the smile on Antony’s face fell away at once. “He … raided the temple?”
Stertinius closed his eyes as his mouth worked over the words before he could speak them. Vorenus wondered if he was saying a prayer for someone’s soul. Octavian’s, for such a desecration? His own, for fear of Antony? “He … he forced them to hand over your will,” the man finally muttered.
Antony stared. Vorenus noted that while the general’s face was suddenly unreadable, Cleopatra had actually leaned forward slightly.
“Octavian said it confirmed the, uh, Donations. And that it said you’d be buried with Cleopatra—” the soldier’s eyes flew open and fixed on her for a moment—“I’m sorry. The queen, my lady.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber. Vorenus heard the soft rasp of leather armor as one of the Romans in the crowd shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Antony’s face was hard again by the time he spoke. “Yes. So?”
The messenger’s face was a contorted mixture of hope and despair. His voice, when he found it, was tinged with pleading. “We’re all lost, sir,” he said. “The Senate’s declared war on Egypt.”
Like the breaking of a wave that roars as it crests, the soldier’s words shattered the silence of the chamber. All at once, it seemed, everyone was talking.
The co-regents sat impassive in the resulting cacophony, silently listening as one advisor or priest after another shouted out to address them with portents of the gods or opinions about Rome. Antony moved back and forth from the majestic seats atop the dais to the tired messenger at its feet, seething anger. After a minute, he dismissed the shaken Stertinius, who gratefully took his hurried leave. In his wake, other Roman officers converged on the general, anxious to make status reports.
Whatever the course of the debate to come, Vorenus knew his part would be measured only in the aftermath, not in the decision-making itself. As such, he had little interest in remaining to stay and listen to the din. Slipping to the back of the raucous crowd, he made his w
ay between glyph-inscribed columns to a short passage flanked by guards. Nodding to them both, he followed the hallway to a broad balcony looking out across the city.
The noise was still buzzing out here, but it was quiet enough for thoughts. Quiet enough for regrets.
Beyond the palace walls, Alexandria was a pool of torch-lit windows in stone facades—winking and glittering beneath a cloudless, half-moon sky—bounded by the black of water. It was beautiful—he’d always thought so—but it wasn’t home. It wasn’t Rome.
Vorenus breathed deep of the cooler air carried up from the water, trying to clear his head.
Replacement legions? Was he really no longer a Roman? Why had he come here if not for Rome? If not for Caesar and for all he’d meant to do? And didn’t Octavian claim to be fighting for Caesar, too? Didn’t that make Octavian’s fight his fight?
Yet to storm the temple of the Vestals …
Vorenus shook his head in the half-dark. It was hard to imagine such sacrilege, even if it did uncover Antony’s betrayal of Rome. And betrayal was what it was, without doubt. The Donations were bad enough, promising Roman lands to Egyptian royalty—he’d told Antony it wasn’t a good idea—but to abandon Rome for burial in Alexandria was a slap in the face of all that they’d ever fought for. All that Caesar had ever fought for.
Was it not for Caesar that he and Pullo had fought and bled in Gaul? Was it not for him that they’d left their legion to come to Egypt so long ago? Was it not for his memory that they’d agreed to return here, to protect his son?
Vorenus blinked out at the lights blinking back.
Caesarion. A young man. But a good man, Vorenus was sure. Honest, respectful, intelligent, and strong. Truly Caesar’s son.
Then again, fighting for Caesarion meant fighting Rome. How could he do that?
“Mind some company?”
Vorenus didn’t need to turn to recognize his old friend Pullo. “Please.”
The Shards of Heaven Page 6
