“Some hits?” Pullo’s eyes weren’t what they once were. Another sign that they were both too damn old for the young men’s business of battle.
“A few,” he said.
“Good,” Pullo said, looking satisfied. “It’s a good day to die.”
“Is it?”
“Good as any other, I suppose,” Pullo said.
“Testudo!” shouted a legionnaire closer to the bow of their ship. At once trained reflexes kicked in and the men closed ranks, raising their shields and collapsing in on one another, left knees to ground, shields braced against their right arms and shoulders. Vorenus, as he had been more times than he could count in his life, was beside Pullo. And not ten paces away he could see the familiar battle armor of Antony, characteristically fighting alongside his common men. Vorenus turned to say something to Pullo but promptly forgot what it was when the legionnaire in front of them dry-heaved spittle onto the deck.
“I was thinking,” Pullo said calmly, “I rather prefer fighting on land.”
Because of the sounds of storm and waves and beating oars, the high buzzing whistle of the volley came only moments before the arrows fell among them like murderous iron rain. Vorenus’ shield bucked back against his tired frame as if struck with repeated blows of a smith’s hammer. Fresh shafts slipped through cracks in their shield wall, blindly burying themselves in wood or flesh with a rumble of splinters and screams.
Vorenus opened his eyes, not having realized he’d closed them, and saw a shaft quivering in the wood between his legs. A matching, fractured hole in his shield—just below his arm—showed where it had come through.
“Well, that was close, eh?” Pullo chuckled. “Not that you use your tackle much anyway these days.”
They’d only started to stand and lower their shields, the spent shafts upon them clattering down to land amid the debris and bodies, when another legionnaire near the head of the ship raised his arm to the sky: “Testu—”
Vorenus had time to see an arrow rip out the back of the man’s neck, but not time to see him fall. His own shield was up too quick for that.
Again the angry hammering. Again the screams. A man not far to his left took an arrow down the back of his spine and dropped his shield, falling forward with a terrible shriek before that cry, too, was silenced in the wave of arrows.
When it passed they stood or cried, threw up or tended to the wounded as circumstances fit. Vorenus looked across the momentarily chaotic deck for Antony and couldn’t see him at first. Then, at last, he saw him looking off through the waves to their right. “Ballistae!” the general was shouting, his arm outstretched in the storm. “Archers!”
Vorenus turned and saw first the bronze ram folding open the frothing water, then the trireme behind it, oars driving hard and fast. Through the rain and the splash of waves, Vorenus saw that the men at the trireme’s forward ballistae had mounted iron bolts and lowered their sight to the line of the flagship’s deck.
Pullo was staring, too. “Holy—”
Vorenus dove into his old friend’s back, slamming him down to the deck just as the ballistae released. He felt the rip of the wind as the iron bolts passed through the space above them, heard the bolts cutting into the men who hadn’t reacted as quickly.
Antony was directing their own ballistae to return fire, and the archers were already doing so at will, needing no directions at this point, but they weren’t going to stop the vessel now.
“Ram right!” Antony shouted.
The men scuttled across the deck, trying to stay low as the distance between the two ships rapidly shrank and the air above the deck rails grew thick with missiles. Vorenus and Pullo moved, too, until they were huddled against the deck railing opposite the impact point. Pullo was panting, and Vorenus saw that he was holding his hand to a red spot on his stomach.
“You threw me on a broken one, you son of a bitch.” The big man laughed. “Knew you’d get me one day.”
The trireme hit and the deck lurched. One second they were crouched against the rail, Pullo holding out two bloodied fingers and smiling in the rain, and the next second they were ten feet away, tumbled against friends alive and dead. Wood was still flipping through the air. A new source of screams arose belowdecks.
Antony already had archers up, and they were firing down at the smaller ship even as roped grappling irons flipped over the deck railing and found grip in whatever or whoever they could. Vorenus groaned as he rolled to a crouch, feeling assorted pains across his torso but not wanting to see if anything had broken his skin. Pullo knelt beside him, his gladius already in hand. If the wound in his belly was serious, he wasn’t showing it.
Vorenus pulled his sword, too, and focused on the grappling hooks. Any rowers surviving below ought to be trying to get anyone climbing the sides with spear thrusts through the ports, but he doubted many would do so.
It surprised him that the trireme was trying to board them so quickly. He’d expected it to try to sink them with several ramming thrusts before they attempted to storm the deck. Someone, he surmised, must have recognized Antony. They knew this was the flagship, and who could forego the honor of killing the man they believed to be the cause of the war?
“Ram left!” Antony cried out, and this time Vorenus didn’t have time to look before the world lurched again as a second ship rammed them on the opposite side, sending the men sprawling up against the deck rails they’d braced against seconds before.
He and Pullo scooted upright, leaning the backs of their heads against the low wood wall of the shaking railing. A grappling hook clanged over the side, landing between them and then pulling back quickly to slam its iron spikes into the railing just between their heads. Vorenus, amid the screams of men and the raging sea, ceased holding his death at arm’s length and embraced it. He began to laugh, and Pullo laughed, too.
Antony was gathering up the archers in a squadron at the bow of the boat, even as portions of his guard formed up around him. The ranged volleys from other ships had stopped now that Octavian’s men were preparing to board them, but Vorenus was quite certain that their situation had not improved. The ocean waters roiled beneath the three bound ships, crashing their hulls into one another and lifting the bronze rams pierced in the flagship’s side up and down with a sound like great millstones smashing.
On the opposite side of the deck, the first of Octavian’s men were coming up over the side. Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus, side by side and laughing, rushed to meet them.
17
OCTAVIAN’S GLORY
ACTIUM, 31 BCE
From atop a covered siege tower raised above the deck of the Imperator’s flagship, Juba watched the battle unfold with a growing feeling of unease. His stomach was already twisted and knotted from the pitch and roll of the storm-troubled waves, both amplified by his height above the water, but he knew that his sense of dread was more than mere seasickness or even the fear of death. Octavian, he was certain, was going to make him use the Trident of Poseidon again.
This highest level of the tower was scarcely populated. Aside from himself, the only men standing with Octavian were six praetorian guards, the traitorous general Delius, and a signalman with flags, relaying the Imperator’s messages to the fleet. A few arrows had slipped around the edges of the metal roof above them and lay broken underfoot. And a long chest, containing the Trident itself, was strapped to the rear wall nearest the ladder. All else on the platform was spray and rain and the echo of shouts from the common men on the decks far below them.
This flagship was one of their few relatively large vessels, and Octavian had arranged for it to be centered in the mass of their northern flank, facing Antony’s personal assault. A long line of smaller, faster, and—Octavian had noted this in particular during their planning the previous night—more expendable triremes lay before them, stretched out into the waves and weather and taking the brunt of the attack so far. Just at the edge of his sight to their left, Juba could see another of these larger, hulking ships
in the storm: the quinquereme with Agrippa aboard. As he watched, one of its tall ballistae launched a rock big enough to be seen through the thick rain as it hurtled skyward.
If Octavian was bothered by the pitching sea, he didn’t show it. He stood, stance wide and arms on the railing, swiveling his gaze to take in the unfolding events of the battle. Not far away a firepot exploded on the deck of one of their triremes, scattering men in silent flames.
“See how that ship’s oars grow sloppy,” Octavian said to Juba, ignoring the fire to point to one of Antony’s nearby Egyptian-built ships. Its rowers were clearly no longer in rhythm, some moving forward while others pulled back. With many of its legs thus tangled, others completely stilled and hanging limp in the water, the great bug of a thing appeared to be wounded, only limping its way toward them under the heavy onslaught of archers and ballistae.
“It won’t be long now,” Juba said, not certain what event he was referring to but hoping against despair that it would be a victory without use of the Trident.
“No,” agreed Octavian, eyes still scanning the horizon. “Not long.”
“The Imperator’s plan has been a fine one,” Delius said, his voice steady and cold, betraying no emotion as he watched Octavian surgically destroy the men he’d called friends and comrades.
Octavian just nodded, and Juba watched his adopted brother’s lips move in little whispers, as if he were working over a problem in his mind, debating with himself as he calculated the next move in his game. The fire on the trireme started to spread, a nearby bireme steering close to take on evacuees.
“No sign?” the Imperator asked over his shoulder, his gaze elsewhere.
For the better part of the last hour, Octavian had been sending some of the smaller ships forward in feinted attacks. His aim was twofold, he said. First, the little charges forced Antony’s rowers to break rhythm as they attempted to maneuver their hulking vessels to counter the threats, and this could only serve to tire the men further. Second, and perhaps more important, each would-be attack gained information about the fleet facing them. And Octavian hoped to acquire one piece of information most of all: “Antony,” he’d told them again and again. “Give me Antony.”
The signalman’s own gaze was skipping among the ships around them, looking for messages. “Nothing certain, sir,” he said. “Agrippa does report ranged engagement with a heavy ship forward of his position.”
Octavian’s gaze was still out on the water. “He must be close. He’d be near the center if he’s on this flank.”
“He is,” Delius said.
“I believe you,” Octavian said. The slightest hint of a frown creased the corners of his eyes as he stared out into the storm toward his admiral’s big ship. “Signal Agrippa. Two triremes forward. See if it’s Antony.”
Even as the signalman began the message, Octavian turned his back to the water to address the older general behind him. “Delius, I want proof this war is over. Proof that Rome is whole again. I want Antony on this ship today. Alive. Rome depends upon it.”
Delius, still wearing the polished finery in which he had appeared before them the night before, saluted. “It shall be done, Caesar.”
Caesar. Juba chewed on the word. A family name, of course. But increasingly a title, a claim to power in its own right. Would Caesar himself have approved?
“Very good,” Octavian said. “Pass word down to the decks: all ready to row. We’ll push soon.”
The ship swayed. Delius went down the ladder. The rain fell. The men below shouted their readiness to attack. After a time, Delius returned. Minutes passed.
“Message from Agrippa, sir,” the signalman finally said, breaking into a smile. “It’s Antony’s flagship, sir, right where you thought.”
“Good.” Octavian’s own smile was almost imperceptible. “Forward to the position, Delius. You’ll lead the boarding party. And send word to the fleet: all ships forward.” He took a deep breath, but for all the calmness in his voice he could have been talking about the weather. “This ends now.”
The praetorians grinned. Delius snapped to a salute then slid down the ladder once more. The signalman relayed the Imperator’s commands with earnest excitement, and a great, growing cry went up into the storm.
The steady beat of the oars began.
“Come stand beside me, Juba,” Octavian said.
Juba came to the railing of the tower, trying not to think about the last time he stood thus next to Octavian on the sea. Around them, the fleet was moving forward. Their own path began to turn, angling toward Agrippa’s ship in the distance. “Yes, brother?”
“Does it bother you that the men call me ‘Caesar’?”
“No,” Juba said with as much confidence as he could muster. “It’s your name by right of inheritance.”
“Then it’s your name, too, is it not?”
“No. Well, yes, but I’m undeserving of it.”
“Ah, but you’ve Caesar’s mind for the strategy of war,” Octavian said. He swept out an arm across the closer ships moving into position, the more distant ones in flames, the rising and falling swarms of missiles, the storm and the waves dotted with the drowning and the drowned. “This whole campaign is a testament to it.”
Juba thought through different responses, abandoned them all. In the end, he tried to change the subject. “Why send Delius to take Antony?”
“I need to know his loyalties. If he turns to stand alongside Antony in the end, he’ll be cut down.” A volley of arrows rained down on the ship, the men below them raising their shields in tortoise formations. Octavian didn’t move. He was relaxed and unflinching as the bolts rattled down on the roof above their heads and fell, harmless, to the deck. “If he remains loyal to me, he may prevent Antony from taking full honor of victory from me.”
Their big ship was moving fast now, cutting a diagonal line across the engaging fleets, driving hard for the presumed location of Antony’s flagship. Everywhere he looked, Juba saw men dying in the rain. From his campaign. “Full honor?” he asked distractedly.
“By preventing me from taking him back to Rome in chains, to face the Triumph I will be owed.” Octavian’s face brightened momentarily, and he looked over to Juba as if he’d just thought of something interesting. “By killing himself, brother, like your blood father did to avoid Caesar’s rightful triumph.”
Juba blinked, trying to keep down a surge of rage. “Of course,” he managed to say.
“Antony is just the sort to do it, I’m certain. Trapped, he’ll fall on his sword before he’ll face Rome’s justice.” Octavian’s jaw was hard as he returned his gaze out toward the approaching ships. “I’d rather lose him to the waves,” he said.
Out of the storm the shape of a massive quinquereme emerged, its deck a chaos of men in combat. Two triremes were already engaged with Antony’s vessel. As their own vessel approached from the western side, Juba could see that the second of them had just followed the first in successfully ramming the flagship’s flank: its bronze ram was buried in a splintered wound in the ship’s side, and its marines were starting to climb grapple lines to heave themselves into the melee on Antony’s deck. Through a momentary pause in the misty sprays Juba could see that Antony’s rowers were thrusting spears through their oar ports, trying to stab the legionnaires as they climbed. There was still a strong defensive knot of men on the flagship’s deck—presumably where Antony was—but even through the distance and distraction it was clear that the addition of the second trireme’s men would quickly overpower the defenders. If Antony was still alive, Juba thought, he would be overwhelmed by either Agrippa’s men or his own blade soon enough.
“No,” Octavian rasped, seeing it, too. Juba watched his knuckles whitening on the rail.
The signalman spoke up from behind them. “Agrippa’s ordered a full assault—”
Octavian spun on the signalman, his face red with rage. “I can see that,” he said, biting off each word. “Go below. Tell Delius to brace for impact.”
/>
“Sir, from here I can—”
“Go. Now.”
The signalman’s gaze instinctively flashed to the ornate gladius at the Imperator’s side, momentarily paralyzed by his confusion. Four of the praetorians, Juba could see, already had hands on their own weapons. Two of them were silently moving behind the young man. The signalman, wide-eyed and trembling, swallowed and bowed hastily before he turned and sped down the ladder as fast as his limbs could manage.
Octavian’s torso was heaving, his head lowered like a cornered bull’s. “Get it,” he snapped to one of the praetorians.
Though no one had spoken about the long chest—no one had even seen it opened in weeks—the praetorians atop the siege tower did not have to ask what it was that Octavian wanted. Two praetorians moved with efficiency, unlocking the chest and pulling free the cloth-wrapped Trident of the god of the sea.
Juba, watching them, felt as if he’d stepped out of his own body, as if he were watching all this unfold from somewhere else, as if he was not about to unleash the power of the gods upon the men—Antony’s and Octavian’s—on the ships in front of them.
“Agrippa’s not getting my glory,” Octavian said, his voice disturbingly quiet. “Nor is Antony. Better that the hand of a god take them all.”
The Shards of Heaven Page 19
