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.