“Remarkable work,” Octavian said, though his hands remained at his sides and he leaned back slightly when Juba got close.
“It is,” Juba agreed, trying to make his gratitude clear. “Beautiful work by a master woodworker.”
“A master woodworker,” Octavian repeated. “You paid him well?”
“Very,” Juba said. He tried to meet Octavian’s eyes, but he found it difficult to do so. “To keep his silence.”
“Silence is important,” Octavian said.
“I agree,” Juba said quickly. “Absolutely.”
Octavian smiled gratefully, as if they’d come to an understanding. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m glad we can agree on the need for secrecy in this, well, business,” he said.
Juba nodded, tried to show his calm by lowering the Trident he held out in his hands. He wanted to look back at Quintus, but was afraid to do so.
“You’ve been practicing?” Octavian asked.
“Every moment I can,” Juba said.
“Every moment but those in which you’ve wandered in the market, offering the Trident to the view of woodworkers.”
The artifact slipped slightly under Juba’s fingers, but he caught it again. “All but those, yes. And I never walk long, naturally, I—”
Octavian held up his hand, cutting off his younger stepbrother. “Of course not, Juba. I know you wouldn’t toy with the future of Rome like that.”
Juba had to build the courage to look up and meet Octavian’s gaze. “I need time away to regain my strength,” he said. “Working the Trident is … taxing.”
Octavian’s face fell soft with pity. “Taxing? If you are ill I have the finest doctors of the Republic at my whim, dear brother. If you’re tense I can bring the most beautiful girls to your bath, to your chamber, perhaps?”
“No, no.” Juba felt the heat of his anxiety flush his cheeks, and he hoped it would seem that his primary concern was embarrassment before the guards. “It’s hard for me to admit—you know how proud I am, my brother—but it’s nothing so, well, physical.”
Juba’s attempt to wrest some control of the situation from Octavian seemed to work, as his stepbrother didn’t respond immediately. “Explain.”
Juba let his eyes pass over the praetorians with obvious concern.
“They can be trusted, Juba. Speak freely.”
“Well, it takes a kind of inner effort to work it.” Juba felt his heartbeat calming in his chest as he wove his way into honest truth. “I cannot sustain it yet for any length of time. It’s like tapping into a cistern. There’s only so much in there before you must wait for it to be replenished. I’m trying to learn how to make it last longer, Octavian, but I’m not there yet. My walks help me get ready.”
Something like genuine concern appeared on Octavian’s face while Juba spoke. “You’re better now, then?”
Juba thrust his chin forward slightly, head up and strong, as if trying to stand like a man before the older, bigger guards. “I am.”
“I’m heartened to hear it,” Octavian said. He walked up to the younger man and put his arm around him. The two of them started moving toward the front of the tent. “You’ve clearly thought things through.”
“I’ve tried.”
They were nearing the flap. Octavian stopped abruptly. “Then you ought to have thought, dear Juba, about what attention it would have brought that poor woodworker to have garnered such a windfall. You ought to have thought about the fact that I’d have no choice but to have him killed.”
Killed? Juba swallowed hard, felt certain he could hear his own heart beating in his ears. That old man was dead?
“And you ought to have thought especially about the consequences of lying to me.”
Juba knew what happened to those who betrayed Rome. If Octavian knew the truth of his plans, if he knew about the Ark and Alexandria, the best he could hope for was a quick death—though the cross, he knew, was far more likely, far more in keeping with Octavian’s style. Or being thrown from the Tarpeian Rock, screaming the seconds to his death on the crushing stones below. As his mind wailed in terror, Juba concentrated on appearing shocked at the accusation. “Lying?”
“You told me that none knew of the Trident but you and me.”
“The staff was broken. And he didn’t know what it was—”
“Not the woodworker. That was a small matter, brother. I’m speaking of this slave, who’s not just known of the Trident but helped you practice with it.”
Juba turned instinctively to look at Quintus, who’d now managed to lift himself to his knees. He was staring at them tiredly, his chest heaving. The old man said nothing but shook his head from side to side.
“He’s a slave,” Juba said. “I didn’t think he mattered.”
Even as the words came out, Juba regretted them. The body of Quintus—his old friend, the closest thing to a real father that he’d ever had—sagged, and his face trembled.
Octavian stared down at the old man as if looking at a beast of burden. “I suppose you’re right, of course,” he said. “Which is why I didn’t feel bad asking him to try to use the Trident himself.”
“But why—?” Even as he started to ask the question, Juba knew the answer.
“To see if just anyone can use it,” Octavian said, voice objective with logic. “I wasn’t about to try it myself, you understand. Or to subject one of the guards to it. Goodness, no. You saw what it did to him: if you hadn’t walked in when you had, he would’ve died. I don’t want to lose a good man like that.”
The full truth of Octavian’s thinking struck Juba hard in the gut. “But a slave isn’t a man,” he whispered.
“Precisely so,” Octavian said, pride puffing his voice as if he’d just led a prized student to a proper conclusion.
Quintus knelt, swaying slightly—in grief or exhaustion, Juba couldn’t tell. He imagined the slave’s heart breaking.
“And, since we can’t have him talking, either,” Octavian continued as he turned to the praetorian to his right, “kill him.”
The guard didn’t hesitate. His nod was almost imperceptible, but within a heartbeat he had pulled his gladius free with an effortless, smooth movement and was stepping forward. Quintus at last moved, coughing out assurances of his silence as survival instinct staggered him to his feet and he tried to retreat toward the back of the tent. He tripped, fell to a knee, and then the guard was there, his arm coming back along his side in perfect thrusting form. The old man knelt, tears running clean paths across his dirty skin as his eyes pleaded with the impassive killer. Juba felt paralyzed, knowing he could do nothing without bringing further suspicion upon himself but also knowing he couldn’t just stand by and watch Quintus die. Caught between terrors, he shut his eyes.
“Wait.”
Octavian’s voice was not loud, but when Juba opened his eyes again he saw that the praetorian was as motionless as a statue before his old friend, who’d raised his arms to shield his face.
“Return to your position, praetorian.”
The guardsman sheathed his blade as smoothly as he’d removed it and strode back to take his place by the others. The fact that he’d almost murdered a man in cold blood didn’t seem to register on his face.
Juba felt himself breathe again. The old man’s arms fell away from his face and something like hope appeared in his eyes.
“You said you agreed with the need for silence,” Octavian said to his younger stepbrother. “‘Absolutely,’ you said. An interesting choice of words. But a good one. The need for silence is absolute.” Octavian’s eyes narrowed. “You do it.”
Juba blinked, his mind racing. “Do—?”
Octavian smiled gently. “Be not so innocent with me, little brother. You know quite well what I mean. What is necessary here, what absolute silence demands.” His head tilted toward the slave. “Kill him.”