Juba nodded, thinking for a moment of how much, and how little, they shared of their adopted father. “I’d heard it in Numidia, but it’s hard to believe.”
“There’s more, not yet well known,” Octavian said. “Some of Antony’s lieutenants recently returned to Rome. They told me about Antony’s will. I didn’t believe what they had to say until the Vestals handed it over and I saw it with my own eyes.”
Juba had to blink back his surprise. The Vestals were a holy authority, their temple a literal sanctuary. “How did you—?”
“My guard stormed the temple.” Octavian sighed again and waved his hand as if he were pushing away a meddlesome fly rather than centuries of profoundly sacred Roman tradition. “Against decorum, I know. But it was too important, Juba. And the Vestals would not listen to reason. I told them this is about the fate of Rome itself, and isn’t that why their temple exists, to protect the city? But they wouldn’t hand it over until I forced them.”
Juba tried not to blanch at the thought of what Octavian had undone. It might be important, yes, but surely not enough to erode such basic principles, to risk threatening the goddess Vesta? Even as the last question instinctively came to him, Juba’s own growing uncertainty about whether such gods even existed surged to the front of his mind. This, too, had changed while he was away. “Well, what of the will?” he asked, trying to keep his thoughts focused. “What did it say?”
“It confirmed the Donations,” Octavian said. “And it made clear Antony’s plan to be buried with Cleopatra in a mausoleum in Alexandria rather than in Rome.”
Despite his wish to appear calm and properly stoic, Juba felt his eyes widen. To prepare to be buried elsewhere was such an affront to Roman sensibilities that he almost didn’t believe it could be true—though if anyone was capable of such egotism, it would surely be Antony. “A mausoleum for Antony and Cleopatra? In Alexandria?”
Octavian’s head moved up and down slowly. “All true. It’s already built.”
Juba knew it was an open preference of Egypt over Rome, a betrayal of the Eternal City itself. “There’ll be war,” he said.
“And you’re just in time for it,” Octavian said, his voice dispassionate and calm. “I’ll read the will before the Senate tonight. It’ll be the final undoing. The senators will strip Antony of his titles and declare him a traitor. So, yes. There will be war. Declared against Cleopatra, of course, as a matter of technical detail. Antony will be given the legal option of joining Rome against her.”
Silence again as Juba let the finality of it sink in, aware of Octavian’s gaze upon him. War. There could hardly be a better time for his own plans than amid the chaos of it. He just needed Octavian’s trust. And he knew just how to get it. “Attack Greece first,” he said at last. “An attack on his own lands. It’ll draw Antony out.”
Octavian’s face broke into a broad smile, and he let out a laugh. “You always were the smart one,” he said. “I plan to do exactly that. So you’re with me, then? You’re with the Republic?”
“Of course,” Juba said, glad he was able to answer the question so quickly. “Why would I not be?”
Octavian started to reply, then seemed to think better of it. “Good,” he said. “Very good. You’re at the age of military training.”
Juba agreed. He’d suspected something like this was coming. He’d planned for it. “I did much reading during my voyage. Caesar’s works, of course, as well as a new book by Diodorus—”
“Not everything can be learned in books,” Octavian interrupted. “I’ve learned that to my own sorrow.”
“I know,” Juba said. “But knowing the mistakes of history can prevent us from repeating them.”
“True.”
“I’m prepared to begin my physical training, though, if you think that’s best.” He made sure to meet Octavian’s gaze. He hoped his own eyes showed nothing of his conflicted feelings. “It’s my duty as a citizen of Rome.”
Octavian smiled again. “So it is. But I’ll not have you down amongst the rabble, brother. I want you by my side. Antony is the finest field general Rome has.” He held up his hand as Juba started to protest. “No. We’d be fools to deny the truth of it. Indeed, I want you by my side to help me maintain the measure of such things. It’s easy to grow, well, too assured of oneself. And with Antony we can afford precious few mistakes. I’m going to use every last bit of history you’ve managed to wedge into that head of yours. It may save the Republic.”
“Really does come down to that, doesn’t it?”
“Down to what?”
Juba had spoken his thoughts aloud, so it took him a moment to recover himself. “This war, I mean. You and Antony. Republic or dictatorship. Rome or Egypt.”
A shadow seemed to pass over Octavian’s face. “I think so, brother.”
There was a quiet knock at the door, and Quintus entered carrying a pitcher. Another slave, one of Octavian’s, followed behind him with a silver tray topped by two goblets. Octavian’s face brightened as he stood and turned to face the door. Once his stepbrother’s back was turned, Juba quietly let out the air in his lungs, trying to clear his thoughts.
“Ah! The wine!” Octavian was saying. “Yes, yes. Good, Quintus. Bring it here.”
Juba saw that Quintus was trying to catch his eye. Not ready to indicate success or failure, Juba avoided the old slave’s questioning gaze, instead standing to walk in the opposite direction toward the map table, giving himself more time to think. Behind him he heard his stepbrother hastily clearing off a space on the low table between his chair and Juba’s bench. Octavian then took the tray from Quintus, shooing the two slaves off with orders to prepare a quick meal.
Juba stopped walking when he reached the map table. The maps were, indeed, of the Grecian coastline.
“Yes, Imperator,” Octavian’s servant said as he joined Quintus in hurrying off.
Imperator. One of their adopted father’s titles. Only Octavian’s full title, Juba knew, was Imperator Caesar Divi Filius. His stepbrother had wisely declined to take on some of the titles that had been offered to him, but he’d had no qualms about calling himself the Son of the God they’d made Julius Caesar to be. Would he decline the dictatorship if it was offered? He seemed to think nothing of storming the Vestals’ temple, after all. Would he restore the Republic or, as his father had, continue to expand his powers? And what choice was there for Rome in the face of Antony’s betrayal?
The door of the room shut once again, leaving them alone. “I’m sorry, but our meal will have to be short tonight,” Octavian said. “The Senate is already gathering, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Juba said, turning back to him. Octavian was seated, one goblet of wine in his hand and the other held out for him. Juba returned to the table and took it. After he’d sat down, they raised cups and drank.
The wine felt good against Juba’s tongue. He’d missed it while he was away. Home or not, there was nothing like true Italian wine to be found in Numidia.
“So your voyage went well?”
“It did,” Juba admitted. “Had a chance to do much writing.”
“Your book on archaeology?”
Juba nodded as he swallowed another bit of the wine. “Mostly. Though I’ve been reading about a lot of things lately.” He again found himself fighting the urge to look over at the canvas bundle by the door. “Many of the libraries there have very old holdings.”
“We should have copies made,” Octavian said. “Make them available here.”
Juba knew his stepbrother’s jealousies at Juba’s having the freedom to travel and study abroad. Octavian’s own pursuits had been cut off by Julius Caesar’s murder, which had forced him into the political arena. “We should,” Juba agreed, “when all is done.”
Octavian drank down his cup, refilled it, and offered to pour for Juba, who waved him off. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” the older man said, leaning back into his chair. “It’s good that you’re here.”