The chaos could only have lasted a minute or two, and by the time Vorenus reached the back of the barge there was nothing left but an eerie quiet over the canal, broken only by the soft sloshing of water and reed against the barge as it rocked back and forth against the shoreline. Khenti was standing there in the dark, his curved sword in his hand and the body of another Egyptian attacker at his feet. On the deck just ahead of him, below the free-hanging tiller, lay the deckhand, the side of his neck ripped out by a well-placed arrow. Petosiris was a few feet away, a short blade in his hand, collapsed against a stack of textiles. His eyes were open, but they saw no more.
Khenti wasn’t looking at any of them. He was staring out into the night of the shoreline, unmoving but for the steady rise and fall of his chest. “I was too late,” he said.
Vorenus nodded. From where they were positioned, Petosiris must have been letting the boy take a hand on the tiller when the first arrows struck. The young man had surely been killed instantly, but it looked like Petosiris had survived the arrow that had struck him in the chest. He must have tumbled backward, getting cover and drawing his blade. He’d tried to defend himself against the killer who’d quickly climbed aboard, but the wound had left him too weak and too shocked. By the time he’d arrived, Khenti could only avenge him. “Nothing you could do,” Vorenus said. Little comfort, but it was true.
“That is Titus Pullo.” Khenti’s voice was so emotionless he could have been talking about a tree.
Vorenus looked back into the dark and saw his old friend making his way up the dock. Pullo had sheathed his sword now, and he was instead carrying a small leather bag in his big hand. At the end of the dock he waited until the barge bobbed close enough for him to reach out with his free hand, pull it close, and clamber aboard.
“Khenti.” The big man was smiling when he drew near. “It’s been too long.”
The Egyptian gave him an approving nod, then looked back toward the night. “One man got away,” he said.
Pullo sighed. “I’m not a runner. Never was before and I’m certainly not now.”
“It sounded like a horse,” Khenti said.
“It was,” Pullo agreed. “And like I said, I’m not a runner.”
“Pullo,” Vorenus finally managed to say, his voice half exasperated with joy and his own roiling emotion. “Gods, we thought you were dead.”
“I was.”
“How? How did—?”
“I went to work for a man named Seker.”
“Who?”
“The last man who’s dead back there. Stabbed in the back.”
“You killed him?” Khenti asked as he finally sheathed his blade.
“No,” Pullo said, frowning. “Sadly, I did not. The other man did. The one who got away.”
Vorenus peered out into the night, too. “Who is he? Do we need to worry about him?”
“I think he’s a scholar, if you can believe that.” Pullo chewed on his lip. “But a coward. And a frightened one at that. He hired all these men—and me—to ambush this ship, kill everyone, but take you for the reward. Please believe me, I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know who he was after. When I realized … I tried to stop them, Vorenus. I tried.”
Before Vorenus could reply, Khenti turned away from the night to look at him. His hand came up to hold his side, as if he were scratching an itch. “So you were recognized at the Library,” he said.
“You went to the Library?” Pullo asked. “Did you see Didymus?”
“I did,” Vorenus said, smiling. “We spoke of you. We thought you were dead, Pullo.”
“I knew you’d gotten away,” Pullo said. “And I didn’t want to endanger anyone by going to Didymus. So I found work where I could.” His voice trailed off for a moment, and then he shook his head and tossed the bag he was carrying to Vorenus. “Well, anyway, this belonged to the man I worked for. Meant to be payment for these bowmen.” He looked down at Petosiris and the deckhand. “I’m so sorry, Vorenus. Were they … friends of yours?”
“Business associates,” Vorenus said, his voice quiet. “But they were good men.”
Pullo frowned, his eyes unreadable despite the moonlight. “Too much death,” he said. “I’m sorry, Vorenus. I didn’t know. I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Nor I, you,” Vorenus said, and he was suddenly moved to reach out and embrace his old friend, clapping him on the back even as the bigger man squeezed him so firmly that he thought a rib might crack. “Gods, it’s good to see you, Titus Pullo.”
“And you’ve no idea how glad I am to see you, too, Lucius Vorenus. And you, as well, Khenti—” Pullo’s voice broke off and his wide grin froze as he released Vorenus to look at the Egyptian warrior. “You’re bleeding.”
Vorenus spun around. Khenti had reached over to place one hand on the tiller, while the other gripped his side. His face looked pale in the moonlight. Even as Vorenus started to speak, the Egyptian teetered, and the two Romans rushed forward to catch him.
As quickly as they could, they pulled him over to another pile of textiles and laid him back. As they did so, the moonlight finally landed on his chest and flashed on the thick dampness there. Vorenus could see the ragged line across the side of his shirt where an arrow had carved across his torso, and he suddenly remembered that first arrow strike, when he’d felt something wet hit his face. It had been blood. Khenti’s blood.
He’d already lost so much. Vorenus could see it now where it had pooled on the deck. How had he not seen it before?
The Egyptian’s face contorted as Vorenus pulled his hand away from his side and placed his own upon the wound. He felt it pumping weakly against his palm. “Oh, gods, Khenti—”
“Leave the barge.” Khenti’s voice, always so strangely calm, was all the stranger for now being strained. “Canal is not safe anyway. Go north. Sea road.”
Pullo loomed over them both. “Khenti, I’m sorry. Just … I’ll go get some help. They put me together. Maybe you—”
Khenti smiled, and Vorenus was surprised that he had the kindest and warmest of smiles when he did so. “You’re Pullo and Vorenus,” he said. His voice grew quiet. “I do not think you can ever die.”
The Egyptian’s eyes had a distant focus to them, as if he was looking somewhere far beyond them. Vorenus pressed his hand harder against the wound. “Stay with us, Khenti,” he said. “It’s not far to the city. Then we’ll get you home.”
At the last word, Khenti blinked and turned his head slightly to look at Vorenus. He was still smiling. “This is my home, Roman. Remember?” Then he looked over at Pullo. “And you’ve just found yours.”
“You’re right,” Vorenus said. “Just hold on. We’ll go home. All of us.”
Khenti had turned to look up at the stars, still smiling, but beneath the hand of Vorenus his heart beat no more.
PART II
THE SPEAR OF DESTINY
11
THE POWER WITHIN
CANTABRIA, 26 BCE
But for the dead, Juba was alone in the meadow.
Dawn was breaking over the hills to the east; its first bright rays fell on the sides of the burned-out husks of the wagons that had been ambushed there, starkly contrasting with the long shadows that stretched behind them. What was left of the bodies of the men had been buried, but he still felt their presence here in a kind of hushed and watchful quiet.
His horse tramped its feet uneasily beneath him. He reached down to pat its neck, steadying it—and himself, he supposed.
There were two long, canvas-wrapped bundles behind him on the rear of the horse, both carefully bound to his saddle with thick leather straps. It was, he thought, a remarkable sign of trust that Octavian had allowed him to bring Corocotta’s spear here, alone, so that he could test it. It was more remarkable still that he had allowed him to bring the Trident as well. “If you lose control of the one, my brother,” Caesar had told him when he was called to his tent in the early morning darkness, “you may find the other necessary.”