The wide quinquereme, Juba knew, could hold far more men-at-arms. The dozens of vessels spread out on the sea around them—mostly smaller triremes and biremes—were certainly loaded to overflowing. Their ship’s lesser load was no doubt due to having the Imperator on board, which also dictated the presence of a dozen of the impassive praetorian guards who accompanied Octavian everywhere these days, and whose watchful gaze Juba had come more and more to fear.
Though never speaking the threat aloud, Octavian’s intentions were clear: Juba no longer had his freedom, and he was fortunate to still have his life. Octavian had never been a man given to trust others, nor was he a man quick to forgive those who’d betrayed that trust. And even when he forgave, he was—once wronged—a man who without question never forgot. That Juba had survived losing Octavian’s trust was something that he’d spent the better part of the weeks since Quintus’ death thinking about.
If nothing else, reflecting on Octavian’s motives helped keep his mind from the memories of that afternoon: the sound of the screaming, the sight of the spasms, the smell of the surging blood.
Juba shook his head, focusing his senses once more on the wide sea. So why had Octavian spared him? It was certain that Octavian still didn’t know how far Juba had betrayed him. He didn’t know about Alexandria and the Scrolls of Thoth, about his search for the Ark of the Covenant. Perhaps he still wanted to think the best of his young stepbrother, never believing that little Juba could be as two-faced as Janus, the god of beginnings and endings.
Juba suspected, too, that his continued existence was proof that Octavian had not managed to use the Trident himself. The Imperator of Rome had kept the weapon under his own control—for mutual safekeeping, he insisted—ever since he’d forced Juba to use its powers to rip the helpless, innocent slave into red shreds of flesh. Octavian had been attentive to Juba’s actions then, just as he’d been on each occasion that they’d met and he’d asked Juba to practice the Trident’s control. Without doubt, he was seeking the secret that made it come alive in the younger man’s hands, the secret that kept Quintus from being able to do it. The secret that kept Octavian, perhaps, from doing it himself.
Refusing to use the Trident in front of Octavian was not an option, of course. After all, Juba’s ability to use it might well be the one reason he was still alive. So at best he could only try to provide false leads for Octavian’s search: flexing his muscles this way or that, whispering gibberish beneath his breath as the power began to flow up and out, or entwining his fingers just so as they wrapped around the metallic snakes of the staff. Each trick, each twist, gave Octavian another bit of information to consider if he ever attempted to master the device. And so Juba bought time. It wasn’t much, and it couldn’t last forever, but it was time nonetheless. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to hope for good news from Alexandria, to hope the Scrolls would soon be in his possession, the greater power of the Ark soon to follow.
A dark shape was moving beneath the water in front of their rolling wake, and Juba raised his hand to his eyes to see it clearly. He’d seen something similar when he’d set sail for Numidia, and he remembered thinking, in youthful wonderment only months gone, that it might be the hand of Triton come to crush them all. But then, as now, it was only a dolphin. Looking out into the sea, he saw it break the surface, its smooth gray back glimmering as it lunged in and out of their artificial wave in an exuberant dance. Watching it, Juba was reminded once more that not everything was what it seemed. Triton’s merciless hand or a frolicking dolphin: the truth was known only when it was exposed.
Not unlike Octavian.
Not unlike him.
The other men on board saw the dolphin now, too, and a great cry of elation went up. Such beasts, it seemed, were a sign of good fortune on their voyage.
Standing apart from the men who cluttered the rail to cheer the jumping, diving dolphin, Juba looked back along the length of the quinquereme and saw Octavian moving in his direction. No real soldier himself, the Imperator nevertheless moved easily among the veteran fighters. Juba could see that he’d adopted the mantle of Caesar’s power well. Even the grizzled men seemed to accept him.
“How are you, brother?” Octavian asked when he was close. His smile was the same warm, friendly smile he’d had when Juba was just an excitable child, the same smile he’d had when he’d asked Juba to move the slave’s blood. Not everything was what it seemed.
“Well enough,” Juba said, trying to sound as if he meant it. “I think I’m starting to get my sea legs under me.”
A couple marines standing nearby chuckled—Juba’s seasickness in the early days of their voyage had been a source of much amusement to the more seasoned soldiers—but they were quick to catch themselves. With nods to Octavian, they backed away from the prow, leaving the two adopted sons of Caesar alone.
“I’m glad,” Octavian said. He leaned against the vacated rail. “I’ve missed your input with the other generals.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Juba said, meaning every word. “I do wonder, though, what useful plans can be made when we know nothing yet of where our battle will be fought. We drive for Greece, I know, but the ground where we will fight there isn’t yet known.”
Octavian let out a little laugh. “This is why I miss you, Juba. As I told you back in Rome: I need you to keep me in check with reality. You see the truth of it in a way these old soldiers do not. You see the truth of it just like our father did.”
The compliment was so unexpected, stated so matter-of-factly, that Juba’s head actually turned. “Like Caesar?”
Octavian smiled, but his eyes didn’t leave the sea. He appeared to be looking at a bireme nearby, a much smaller vessel. “You’re too young to remember how he thought. It’s one thing to read of his mind, it was quite another to see it. Always one step ahead. Seeking answers to questions not yet asked. Asking questions not yet considered. Whatever else he was, whatever else people might have thought of him, there was no doubting he was brilliant. And, yes, you remind me of him in that way.”
Juba thought a long time before he replied. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, for it’s only the truth. These generals ponder and debate this tactic and that decision when no facts are known, when the ground, as you say, is undetermined.”
“If it is to be ground,” Juba said.
Octavian looked over at the younger man. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Antony is the finest general Rome has—or had. You said so yourself, remember? And with Egypt added to his legions, he may even have the bigger army.”
“One reason we’re moving for Greece so quickly. Before he can gather himself.”
“Of course. But I wonder if this is enough to undo his advantages.” Juba paused before taking the calculated plunge. “I wonder if we might be better off to keep the fight on the waves.”
Octavian stared at Juba for a long moment. “Antony will have bigger ships.”
“Yes, but ours will be faster, and we should have more of them. Speed and numbers beat size.”
Octavian frowned a little. “The Roman way is to fight on land.”
Juba shrugged, seeing it all unfold before his mind’s eye. “That, too, will probably come. But there’s no reason to fight Antony at his strongest. Force him to fight on the water first. And even then sit back. Refuse to give battle at close quarters.” Juba paused to lean a bit farther over the rail, gesturing to the iron ram cutting through the water just beneath the quinquereme’s prow. “Antony will try to ram us down, no doubt. It was the Carthaginian way, it’s been our way: build up speed to cave in the side of the enemy’s vessel and send him to the depths. Like you said, he has bigger ships. It’s precisely what he’ll try to do. But most of our ships will be like that little ship out there. Biremes or triremes. So we use our maneuverability to get out of the way, to stand back and rain fire from afar. Only when he’s weak should we close in and go for the kill. We use our advantage.”
<
br /> Octavian’s frown had gradually turned to a grin as Juba talked. When the younger man was done, Octavian’s eyes were sparkling with delight. “You’d make our father proud,” he said.
Juba’s smile was more sheepish. “Well, it’s just an idea, anyway.”
“No, it’s a great idea,” Octavian reassured him. “As you said, ‘use our advantage.’”
Juba agreed. “Leave nothing to chance,” he said.
Octavian’s smile grew even wider, and his gaze returned to the little bireme cutting the waters about a stadium away. “Our every advantage, no?”
Something about his stepbrother’s smile, his tone, and his unbridled enthusiasm, made Juba’s heart stop cold. He said nothing.
“Yes. Every advantage,” Octavian repeated, as if Juba had agreed. “You said you’re feeling better now, didn’t you?”
Juba had to force himself not to bite his own lip. “Not perfect. But better.”
“Excellent.” Octavian pushed himself away from the rail, took two steps toward the rear of the ship, and gestured to someone.
It took Juba a moment or two to spy the recipient of the signal, but soon enough there was no doubt: five of Octavian’s personal praetorian guardsmen were moving forward, one man surrounded by four. Even from nearly the full length of the ship, Juba could see that the man in the middle was carrying the shrouded bundle of the Trident in his arms. The sight of it, so welcome once, now made him want to weep.
Octavian whispered something to the praetorians after he took the Trident. At once the five men took up positions immediately surrounding the two adopted sons of Caesar. As Juba watched, more praetorians—raised by some unseen signal—came forward to join them. It took Juba the better part of a minute before he realized what they were doing.
“Why are they shielding us from view?” he asked.
Octavian was carefully unwrapping the Trident, and Juba noted that the cloth was not wrapped in the same way as when he himself had last finished using it. He wondered if Octavian had indeed tried to use it. “We want to keep our secrecy, do we not?”
“Of course,” Juba said, unable to shake the sinking feeling in his stomach.
When the Trident was finally revealed beneath the bright sun, Juba took in his breath instinctively. The metal sparkled in the light: gold, bronze, and silver. And among it all was the blacker-than-black stone in its casing, its darkness lending even more brilliance to the surrounding metalwork. The woodworker’s repair work, Juba thought grimly, was beyond description. The staff shined.
Octavian, too, gazed at it longingly, a look that Juba had no doubt had been repeated often over the past few weeks. At length the Imperator handed the Trident over to Juba, only hesitating a moment before letting it go. “So,” he said. “Cups, jars, barrels. Child’s play, I should think.”
Juba nodded dumbly, forcing his mind to cease inserting other words into his stepbrother’s list. Quintus. Man. Body. Blood.
“Neptune is the god of the sea. This, his domain. This, his Trident.” Octavian chuckled quietly, as if thinking of an old joke. “Assuming he doesn’t appear to snatch it away, let’s see what it can do, shall we?”
Juba looked from the gleaming metal Trident to the long stretches of surrounding sea, littered with rowing vessels like so many insects crawling upon the water. His feeling of dread, though he would not have believed it possible, grew deeper. “I don’t—”
Octavian clapped him on the back, forcing him to square up to the railing and the sea beyond. The little bireme bobbed in front of them. “So coy,” he said. “Yet so keen on the best strategies of war. It’s a strange mix, brother.”
Juba feigned ignorance of his meaning, wondering if he’d really felt the Trident wiggle in anticipation beneath his hands.
Octavian leaned over his shoulder, arm outstretched as if they were on the hunt and he was eyeing a hare in the brush. His finger lined up perfectly with the exact center of the bireme, causing Juba to swallow hard. “Let’s see you sink it,” he said. His voice was calm, as if the bireme, with its six dozen rowers working belowdecks and its forty-odd legionary marines atop it, were just another barrel. “A rising wave, perhaps? Or the opening of the sea? It’s up to you.”
Juba locked his eyes on the bireme to avoid looking at Octavian, to avoid glancing around at the entrapping praetorian guard. Even so, he tried to keep his eyes unfocused, to keep from seeing the individual men moving on the distant deck, the faces as they talked and laughed under the warm Mediterranean sun. No, his mind screamed. No.
Octavian had leaned back, was watching with sharp interest. “Use your imagination, lad. I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”
Juba’s fists tightened on the wooden staff to keep from shaking. That he had indeed thought about it was something he still couldn’t admit to himself. How could Octavian have known? “I—”
“We need to know if it works. As a matter of strategy. Imagine being able to drown Antony and that Egyptian whore Cleopatra,” Octavian said, almost spitting the names of his enemies. “Imagine ending it all at once, in one wall of your power. Saving Rome. Saving the lives of these thousands of other men. Perhaps my own. Perhaps your own.”
Juba wasn’t sure if it was a threat or not, but everything in his being told him to treat it as one. “But, Octavian, I don’t think—”
“Oh, but I think you can,” Octavian said. “And you will. Now.”
Juba swallowed hard, felt his head nodding agreement over the cries of his conscience. His hands, too, seemed to be moving of their own accord—turning the wooden staff until the head of the Trident was square to his shoulders and he could see, between the coils of the entwined snakes, the rhythmically surging bireme. And its men.
Dear gods, Juba thought, for a moment forgetting his own doubts about their existence. Its men. With wives and children. With dreams. Men looking to the blue sky. Men laughing with their friends. Men who couldn’t imagine that the sixteen-year-old standing at the prow of Octavian’s quinquereme held the power to end it all.
Juba’s hands moved out to hold the weapon by the undulating snakes. He swallowed, whispered something without breath—not nonsense this time, but a silent prayer for their souls. For his own.
His muscles flexed. His jaw clenched. He closed his eyes. He felt the warming metal scales beneath his fingers and palms.
Down, deep down within himself, he found the stillness, the darkness. He opened himself to it, pulling it up and up and out until he felt the power like his own pulse, heavy in his chest, pressing against his ears.
Breathing carefully to keep his mind still, to keep the world and the thoughts away, he slowly opened his eyes and focused on the water between the vessels. He imagined his hands dipping into it, like a water-filled basin. He imagined lifting the water up and forward. He willed it.
The water rose, almost imperceptibly at first. But Juba felt it. In his mind, in his arms. In his soul. But not enough. He needed more. More power.
He dug deeper into the black, deeper into the stillness. The water rose, just out beyond the sweeping oars, like the wake of an unseen vessel: a rolling ridge easily keeping pace with their passage.
Still more.
Juba’s knuckles grew white. His arms quaked. His throat constricted as if he gagged on something.
Then, all at once, the ocean before them erupted in a geyser wall. The sound of the sea ripping apart and up broke like thunder across the sky, a sound like the roar of Triton sounding his conch-shell horn. Many men dropped instinctively to the wooden decks of their ships, fearful that the wrath of Juno was upon them. Others only stared as the angry hand of a god pulled the frothing sea above the empty masts of Octavian’s quinquereme and then slapped it away with a second crack of terrible noise.
A wind rushed against Octavian’s ship, rocking it backward and forward like a child’s toy. The few men still standing scattered, gripping what they could while the decks bucked and rocked.
Juba, lost in the darkness of h
is power, fell backward, his head hitting something hard that was not wood. The impact rattled him back up and into himself, into a world of screams beneath the still-blue sky, of angry waves fluttering out across the sea.
Juba’s face was wet—seawater? tears? blood?—but it was the shaking of his body that concerned him. He could feel it like a distant thing, as if the whole of him was numb. One of the praetorians, he realized, had broken his fall. He could feel the man moving beneath his head.
A face appeared over his own. A face mixed with concern and elation. Octavian’s face.
“Get him below,” he said. “Blankets. Wine. Wait.”
Something tugged at Juba’s distant arms, and he realized it was Octavian, pulling at the Trident that must still be in his hands. He blinked his eyes into movement and saw Octavian pry open his still-clenching fingers and pull the Trident away. As he did so, the black stone rattled.
Octavian froze. Then, just as strong arms began to lift Juba into the air, the Imperator shook the Trident again. The stone was clearly moving in the spaces between it and its metal casing. Octavian’s eyes went wide, moved to fix his gaze upon Juba’s.
But then the world was moving, too, and Octavian fell away from Juba’s sight. All he could see was the ragged sea beyond the rail, and the scattered fragments of the shattered bireme floating amid the bodies.
Juba closed his eyes.
10
CALM BEFORE THE STORM
ALEXANDRIA, 32 BCE
Even before Vorenus opened his eyes, one thought was clear in his waking mind: everything hurt. His head, his shoulders, his ribs, his legs. By the gods, even his toes hurt.
His eyes came open slowly—because the right one felt swollen and tender, because he hadn’t the energy to open them fast—and his surroundings blurred into focus.
It wasn’t much. A little room of desert stone, scarred black here and there from the flames of lamps that even now glowed quietly. There were two chests against the wall, two simple chairs, a few hooks for clothes, and two beds, including his own, crammed into the space. The other bed was empty. Everything was cast in the half-dark orange of the lamps. The air was heavy with spicy incense.
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