The barge captain nodded. “The lake harbor docks,” he said. “South side of the city.”
Vorenus nodded. Alexandria sat on a long strip of land perched between the Mediterranean Sea and the shallow shores of Lake Mareotis. The city was served by multiple docks, but those upon the lake would be the first they would reach. And he knew the area well. He’d lived in Alexandria for fourteen years, a legionnaire of Rome tasked with guarding the lives of the royal family: Cleopatra and Mark Antony and their children: the twins, Cleopatra Selene and Alexander Helios; the younger Ptolemy Philadelphus; and of course Cleopatra’s oldest son, named Caesarion after his father, Julius Caesar. The last time he’d been at the lake harbor, in fact, he’d been with Caesarion, inspecting the defenses of the southern walls of the city. “That will do quite nicely, then.”
“Very well. Do you still plan to return with us back to Schedia?”
Vorenus had paid for passage to Alexandria, but he’d offered the barge captain half again as much coin if he could get them back to the Nile without incident. “A very comfortable journey,” he’d said. A quiet one without questions, he’d wanted to add. Even the deckhand had known better than to make inquiries about the ship’s extra passengers. “Yes. I think we will. Just the two of us still.”
“As you wish, sir,” Petosiris said. “We will leave the dock at sundown.” Then, not saying whether or not the decision to travel at night was in keeping with custom or in deference to Vorenus’ secrecy, he turned to walk back toward the tiller and the shadows of the barge’s single sail.
As Vorenus watched the man make his way along the thin line of deck boards not covered by mounds of barley, he was reminded once more of his dead friend. Pullo, he was certain, would have liked the ship and the sweet smells of the grains very much. The big man had reveled in such things in life. “Good women, good food, and good drink is all a man needs,” he’d once told Vorenus. They had been arguing, as they often did, about the need to give honor to the gods: back then Vorenus had been a believer in the faith of Rome, the faith of his father; he didn’t know then that there had only ever been one God, and that He was dead. “And good friends,” Pullo had added with a smile. “So save your libations to the earth. Pour me another instead.”
Vorenus smiled and looked up into the morning sky. He’d never met a more loyal friend than Pullo. For years they’d fought side by side wherever Rome had needed them—from Rome to Egypt, from Gaul to Greece—and Pullo had never failed him. Not once. Not even in the end.
The thought brought his gaze down, and Vorenus watched for a time as the water relentlessly rolled under the prow of the ship. He’d been feeling a growing guilt ever since they’d left Schedia, and the closer they’d come to Alexandria the stronger it had become. Vorenus hadn’t been certain what it was before, but he felt sure of what it was now: the shame of survival. His friend had never failed him, but he couldn’t help but feel that he’d failed his friend.
He knew there was nothing more that he could have done. The death of Mark Antony, and the subsequent speed of the Roman army’s advance into the city that morning, had spun matters out of their hands. Looking back, Vorenus knew that it was those terrible events that had made him cease thinking of himself as a legionnaire of Rome. For years he’d been maintaining a stubborn allegiance to that citizenship, even as politics tore the Republic asunder and forced him to take up arms alongside the forces of Egypt and against those who’d been his countrymen—to take up arms against a conqueror then known only as Octavian, not by the self-exalted name of Augustus Caesar, highest of emperors. But the smoke that day carried with it more than the ashes of the fires in the streets; it carried the ashes of his old life. That morning Vorenus was no longer a Roman. He was no longer even the head of the guard for the Egyptian royal family—even if, sailing away from Alexandria, he’d stood watch over Caesarion, the young man who was heir not only to that kingdom through his mother, Cleopatra, but also through his father, Julius Caesar, heir of Rome, too.
Vorenus still cared for Caesarion. He still watched him like an eagle over its young—which made leaving his side for this trip a discomforting if necessary choice—but as important as Caesarion was to him, the young man hadn’t been his priority on that morning or on any of the mornings since.
Instead, it was the Shard.
That far-off morning, as they had spirited it away from Alexandria on that stolen Roman trireme, Vorenus had become a Shard-bearer. He swore to himself—for there was no one in the heavens to hear—that he would protect the Ark of the Covenant, as the Jews called it, at whatever cost. As the ship’s oars had drawn them ever farther from the chaos of the city, Vorenus knew that they carried a weapon beyond their understanding, and he could never allow it to fall into the wrong hands. To protect the Ark, to save the Shard, he and Pullo had been forced to go their separate ways. Vorenus had barely survived a Roman attempt to execute him as a traitor, only just managing to steal the Roman trireme that would carry the Shard to safety. And Pullo had died preventing the Numidian prince, Juba, from seizing the Ark before it could be saved. Despite the feelings of guilt that ached in his chest, Vorenus knew in the end that it was his friend, that man of mirth and frivolity, who made the choice between his own life and the safety of the Shard.
Not a morning went by that Vorenus didn’t think, as he did now, upon that moment, upon that choice. Not a morning went by that he didn’t hate and love Pullo for making the choice he made. And not a morning went by that Vorenus didn’t hope, when the time came, that he, too, would be strong enough to do whatever had to be done.
Ahead, the southeast corner of Alexandria’s walls was coming into view above the jumble of buildings that had been built outside its protection. The massive, engineered solidity of the fortifications made the other structures at its base look all the more ramshackle, as if they were broken toys haphazardly strewn against it by the winds of the surrounding sands, lake, and sea.
Vorenus took a long deep breath, inhaling the organic scents surrounding the reeds of papyrus growing upon the shallows beside the banks. The air was still natural here, the sights still gentle and calm. But soon enough it would be the sights and sounds and scents of the bustling city that was once his home.
When he looked back in the direction of the Nile, he saw that Khenti was making his way forward, his pace strangely unaffected by the narrowness of the tracks between the piles of grain or the gentle rocking of the vessel on the water. The swordsman had been the head of the Egyptian royal guards under Vorenus, but his loyalty to Caesarion had led him, too, away from the city that had been his home. With Pullo gone, there was no one Vorenus trusted more to have with him on this journey.
The Egyptian set down the light pack he was carrying, their only supplies for this trip. “Everything is ready,” he said.
Vorenus nodded, smiled, and then turned back toward the city. For a few minutes they stood and stared, lost in their own thoughts.
“This was all farms when I was younger,” Khenti said.
The Egyptian’s voice brought Vorenus back once more from his memories, and he looked around to realize they had crossed some kind of threshold: though the walls still lay ahead, they were undeniably in the city now. The buildings were close about them, and the streets between were filled with the busy noise of life. The edges of the canal were no longer the domain of papyrus reeds. Instead, tired washing basins and broken drying frames littered the muddy banks, and colorful sheens of oil and filmy bubbles pooled in the shallows. After so long living away from the city, the air seemed thick with the scents of excrement and filth. “The city grows,” Vorenus agreed. “There’s always work in the city.”