Greece. The armies would fight there. Thousands would die.
But the real battle, Juba was certain, would be in Egypt. In Alexandria. And no one would know about it. Not even Octavian.
Though there were disadvantages to Juba’s youth, there were opportunities, too. A younger man was a more trustworthy man, and so much depended on maintaining Octavian’s trust. Without it, he could lose everything. After all, he hadn’t told Octavian about the even greater source of power among the ancient Jews, the likes of which he didn’t think had a parallel among the whole pantheon of Rome. A power to rival that of Jupiter himself. The seat of God, the Jews called it. The Ark of the Covenant, lost for centuries.
Everything pointed to Alexandria and the Scrolls of Thoth. Find them, and he would find the Ark. Find that, and he would change everything. Numidia, his home, would be free. And he would be, too. His father would at last be avenged. And all that he had been forced to do in the meantime—to play the part of a loyal Roman, even to order the death of that Numidian priest—would be worth the greater good.
He would have to play along with Octavian for now, though. Until he possessed the Scrolls of Thoth, nothing was certain, and even then he would need to use the Scrolls to find the Ark, wherever it was. And he couldn’t do it alone.
Still, Juba knew from history that all races were won by single steps. He was young and patient. There was time. He’d won Octavian’s trust. He now had the power of Rome at his disposal, so long as he played his cards right. One step was done. Now he could take the next: send someone to acquire the Scrolls and bring them to him.
Juba nodded, as if in agreement with something that had been said, then walked purposefully to the door. His hands had stopped trembling, and in his mind he felt a new calm, as if a storm of worry had blown away from him. Through a crack in the door he summoned Quintus.
First, he decided as he waited for the slave’s arrival, he would need Quintus to hire a man to go to Alexandria: a hard and desperate man who would do whatever it took to earn the large reward that Juba would offer with Octavian’s money. Laenas, he was certain, would fit the bill quite nicely.
Second, he would need to write a letter of introduction to the keeper of the Great Library, the one man who surely knew where the Scrolls were kept. If Juba’s teacher Varro was to be believed, the Greek scholar was a man who’d worked for Octavian before. And even if not, promises of power and Octavian’s money could go a long way toward persuading him.
Third, he thought with a smile, he would need to track down a good woodworker. After all, if the Trident of Poseidon was once more going to be wielded on earth, it was going to need some repairing.
4
NEWS FROM ROME
ALEXANDRIA, 32 BCE
Vorenus could see that the road-weary Stertinius, the Roman messenger to the Egyptian court, appeared even more exhausted as he stood in the middle of the tall-columned council chamber of Alexandria, facing the high-stepped dais where Cleopatra and her freshly bathed son sat in gilded wood chairs, their ornate headdresses framed by firelight. Beside them, in a chair only slightly less opulent, sat Cleopatra’s lover, Antony, his eyes dark and brooding beneath his gray-tinged curls of red hair, his jaw tense as he stared at the messenger. The vizier and at least a dozen high priests of various Egyptian gods and goddesses were arrayed about the marble dais and the rug-covered stones at its feet, their paint-enveloped eyes warily judging the poor, dust-covered soldier standing uneasily in their midst. Interspersed among them all were dozens of Roman officers and soldiers under Antony’s command.
One of the last to enter the hall, Vorenus took careful note of the full crowd, unable to shake his continuing feeling of anxiety about the security of the royal family.
Pullo, he saw, was standing with a small group of Romans a few paces behind Antony’s seat, looking nearly as miserable as the road-beaten soldier waiting to make his report—Vorenus knew only too well how uncomfortable such official proceedings made him. Pullo was a man of deeds, not words, and though he was rarely called upon to speak at such occasions, the mere thought that it might happen often left him almost paralyzed with fear. Vorenus swung around the gathering crowd to reach him, observing the number and names of the guards on duty—their distance from the royals, their armaments—and approached his friend from behind. “Care to make a speech?” he asked when he got close.
The big man started a little at Vorenus’ voice, but there was genuine relief in his eyes when he moved aside to let Vorenus stand beside him. “Not me,” he said quietly. “I’d rather screw a Gallic whore.”
“You have screwed a Gallic whore,” Vorenus whispered. “Twice, as I recall.”
“Only proves my desperation. I’d rather do it a third time than be in charge. You’re the smart one. It’s your job.”
Vorenus gripped his comrade by the upper arm for a moment then stepped forward to stand directly behind Antony’s seat.
It was one of the first times he’d seen both Caesarion and his mother in the elaborately formal, dynastic garb that was meant to give them the appearance of Egyptian deities. He noted how uncomfortable the young man seemed to be, trying to stare straight ahead, expressionless as the statues outside the hall. Cleopatra, on the other hand, managed the guise perfectly. Her own expressionless face conveyed whatever emotion one desired to see in it, and her luminous eyes took in everything and nothing all at once. Not for the first time Vorenus felt his own foreignness in this land very sharply.
When at last the final priests had arrived, the queen raised her hand in a call for silence that was almost instantly followed. The vizier stepped forward, bowing to the co-regents before turning to address the gathered court with a series of titles and salutations meant to convey the majesty of the Ptolemaic dynasty.
Vorenus ignored it all until the vizier made a half-bow in Antony’s direction, clearly providing him the floor to deal with the messenger. Antony in turn gave the vizier a terse nod and then stood, his still-thick muscles hulking beneath the fine cloth that was gathered in pleats about his shoulders.
The messenger came rigidly to attention, bringing his right fist to his chest and then pressing his arm out, fingers extended and palm down in a salute. “Rome eternal,” he said.
Antony’s posture was less formal, the snap of his arm less brisk as he returned the salute. Vorenus felt his own jaw tighten, not surprised by Antony’s air of arrogance but certainly not approving of it. “Rome eternal,” Antony said, his voice at once absent and gruffly commanding. He took a step down closer to Stertinius, his footfalls heavy. “What news, soldier?”
The messenger’s eyes seemed to sink even further in his tired face. “Octavian’s forces are preparing to sail from eastern Italy, sir.”
Whispers broke out across the gathered crowd, but Cleopatra and her son made no reaction. Antony raised a broad hand to keep the focus on himself. “Under Agrippa’s command?”
Stertinius just nodded.
“What’s his target?”
“Greece, sir.”
The muscles of Antony’s jaw pulsated in and out. “Where in Greece?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“No one knows? North? South?”
The messenger shook his head.
“Why now?” Antony asked. Vorenus saw Cleopatra’s shoulders tense slightly. Probably she thought the question below Antony’s status. Why now? Because Octavian thought he could win. He thought he had an advantage. But Vorenus knew Antony. Though his tongue was too often faster than his mind—ruled by his passions as he was—Antony’s thoughts were undoubtedly upon the next step: What advantage did Octavian think he had? “And how many ships?” Antony continued, his eyes narrowing.