“Romans don’t leave Romans behind,” Pullo said before his friend could answer.
“But surely—”
“We don’t leave each other behind,” Vorenus repeated. The Greek might not understand it, but it was a principle Romans like he and Pullo knew to their cores. “And, besides, I’d be lying if I said I thought much about it at the time. I don’t know if I was even aware that it was Pullo. Just saw a man go down. He needed help, so I went.”
“I see,” the Greek said thoughtfully.
“That’s not how Caesar tells it?” Pullo asked.
“Near enough. He says you didn’t want Pullo to outshine you, Vorenus.”
Vorenus chuckled again, but more quietly as he thought of Caesar, who’d given him and Pullo so much opportunity for advancement. “He always thought me a more ambitious man than I am.”
“Caesar also said that Pullo in turn had to save you.”
“Ah, now that is true,” Pullo said, laughing loud enough to bring annoyed glares from a group of dour-faced priests walking up the steps. “He fought through to me, got me to my feet, and was starting to push me back to the lines when he took a spear in the leg.”
“Worst hit I’ve ever taken,” Vorenus said.
“Would’ve spiked a boar,” Pullo agreed. “I’d been hit in my right shoulder, just here. Couldn’t raise my arm to fight. He bloody well couldn’t walk. So he held the barbarians off while I dragged his sorry ass back to the lines.”
“Your action rallied the men.”
“It did,” Pullo said, puffing up.
“And you became friends.”
Pullo’s smile was genuine. “We did,” the big man said. “A good team. All these years.”
Looking over to the doorway of the main hall once more, Vorenus could see that more and more members of the council were gathering: Roman generals, priests with colored robes and painted faces, harried servants of every shade. The reality of what was happening came back, as if someone had placed a sack of grain upon his shoulders. “And, gods willing,” he whispered, “more years to come.”
“Aye,” Pullo said, following his friend’s gaze. “Suppose I ought to get back. More folks to get settled. You’ll be seeing to the gate before coming in?”
Vorenus nodded. “If you’ll be okay in there.”
“I’ll be fine,” Pullo said. He gave a nod to Didymus and a smile to Vorenus before wading back toward the crowding hall.
“I’ve kept you long enough,” Didymus said. “And I have business in the residence. I hope that tonight isn’t, well…”
“We’ll see,” Vorenus said, turning and forcing a smile. “As the saying goes, we’re just small fish in a big sea.”
“Then let us hope there are no sharks in the water,” the scholar said thoughtfully. Before Vorenus could reply, the Greek reached out and shook his hand. “Good luck, anyway,” he said. And then he, too, was walking away.
Lucius Vorenus stood for a moment more between his departing friends, trying to clear his mind of troubled thoughts, trying to think of happier times. But no matter how he tried, his memories turned to battle and blood. It was as if war was all he’d ever known.
Sighing in resignation and resolution, he turned and began to march back across the yard to see to the bolting of the gate and the doubling of the guard on the wall.
3
AMONG THE SONS OF CAESAR
ROME, 32 BCE
Juba and Quintus found Octavian, the most powerful man in Rome, standing over a simple wooden table in his private study, his shoulders hunched as he flipped purposefully among the several maps rolled out over its surface. Though Juba himself looked nothing like Julius Caesar, for obvious reasons, it never ceased to puzzle him that Octavian likewise bore so little resemblance to the man. Almost fifteen years older than Juba, Octavian carried at least some blood of the dictator who’d adopted them both as sons—Julius Caesar was Octavian’s great-uncle through his mother’s side—yet his build was very slight in comparison to what Juba remembered of the great general’s. He was slight in height, too: even as a young man Juba had been aware of Octavian’s attempts to appear taller than he was by wearing thick-soled shoes. The great Caesar, it was well known, was a tall man of strong features, and stronger determination.
Octavian had the focus, at least. Even from the distance of the door, Juba could see that beneath the curls of his dusty blond hair his gray eyes were intense in thought. Around him, in haphazard piles wherever there was room, were hundreds more scrolls and books, representing a mere fraction of the love of knowledge that Octavian and Juba shared. Juba noted that his stepbrother also remained as pale-skinned as ever, another tribute to the love of learning that kept them both indoors more often than not. All that would have to change during the war, of course. Juba wondered if his stepbrother had come to terms with that yet.
“Wine,” Juba whispered to Quintus, carefully setting the canvas-wrapped Trident just inside the door. “And two cups. See that we’re not otherwise disturbed.”
The slave gave him a quick nod, both to acknowledge the request and to wish him luck, then he left, the door shutting behind him with a click. At the noise, Octavian looked up and saw Juba, who smiled and bowed slightly.
“None of that!” Octavian said, striding quickly across the room to embrace his younger stepsibling. “Juba, my brother,” he said when they parted, “I am glad to see you.”
“And I you,” Juba admitted. “I’ve been gone for too long.”
“Just back, then?”
“Made harbor in Ostia this very morning.”
“You should’ve sent couriers ahead from the port.” Octavian gestured to the unkempt room. “I’m not exactly prepared for guests.”
Juba allowed himself an honest smile, knowing that—unless things had changed in their year apart—his stepbrother had the same small patience for ceremony that he had. “A proper reception could still be arranged, couldn’t it?”
Octavian narrowed his eyes, then reached up to tousle Juba’s hair. Already at sixteen, Juba was almost his equal in height. “Still a troublemaker, eh? I’d hoped a year out in the world would’ve cured you of that sort of thing. Well, come in. Sit down.”
Juba walked over to one of the benches nearby, carefully setting aside a crooked stack of papers upon it. He tried not to look at the canvas bundle by the door even as it occupied most of his mind. Octavian settled down across from him on the only chair in the room and yawned, rubbing at his eyes.
“You’ve been busy,” Juba said. An obvious thing to say, but it was a place to start.
“Things are moving fast,” Octavian said, then his eyes shot open. “Wine! We should toast your return. And you’ll be thirsty after—”
Juba held up a hand. “Already on the way. I sent Quintus for it.”
“The old fellow survived the trip, did he? Took care of you well?”
“He did. I told him to see us undisturbed.”
“Good, good.” Octavian paused, sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of the wine when you first arrived. Things have just been, well, busy. As you said.”
A silence fell between them. Juba felt his gaze begin to slide toward the Trident, but he wasn’t yet confident enough to bring it up. No matter how many times he’d rehearsed all this in his mind, when it came to the moment, he felt adrift at sea without oars. He looked over toward the table with its maps. “Is it true about Antony?” he asked. “Did he truly promise all to his children?”
Octavian nodded. Not sadly, not happily. Just assuredly. “He did. Everyone’s calling it ‘the Donations of Alexandria.’ He claimed the whole of the west for himself. Egypt for the pretender. The rest to his children by the whore. By no leave of the Senate, no council of Rome. He would undo the Republic our father fought and died for.”