The Shards of Heaven by Michael Livingston

aftermath, not in the decision-making itself. As such, he had little interest in remaining to stay and listen to the din. Slipping to the back of the raucous crowd, he made his way between glyph-inscribed columns to a short passage flanked by guards. Nodding to them both, he followed the hallway to a broad balcony looking out across the city.
    The noise was still buzzing out here, but it was quiet enough for thoughts. Quiet enough for regrets.
    Beyond the palace walls, Alexandria was a pool of torch-lit windows in stone facades—winking and glittering beneath a cloudless, half-moon sky—bounded by the black of water. It was beautiful—he’d always thought so—but it wasn’t home. It wasn’t Rome.
    Vorenus breathed deep of the cooler air carried up from the water, trying to clear his head.
    Replacement legions? Was he really no longer a Roman? Why had he come here if not for Rome? If not for Caesar and for all he’d meant to do? And didn’t Octavian claim to be fighting for Caesar, too? Didn’t that make Octavian’s fight his fight?
    Yet to storm the temple of the Vestals …
    Vorenus shook his head in the half-dark. It was hard to imagine such sacrilege, even if it did uncover Antony’s betrayal of Rome. And betrayal was what it was, without doubt. The Donations were bad enough, promising Roman lands to Egyptian royalty—he’d told Antony it wasn’t a good idea—but to abandon Rome for burial in Alexandria was a slap in the face of all that they’d ever fought for. All that Caesar had ever fought for.
    Was it not for Caesar that he and Pullo had fought and bled in Gaul? Was it not for him that they’d left their legion to come to Egypt so long ago? Was it not for his memory that they’d agreed to return here, to protect his son?
    Vorenus blinked out at the lights blinking back.
    Caesarion. A young man. But a good man, Vorenus was sure. Honest, respectful, intelligent, and strong. Truly Caesar’s son.
    Then again, fighting for Caesarion meant fighting Rome. How could he do that?
    â€œMind some company?”
    Vorenus didn’t need to turn to recognize his old friend Pullo. “Please.”
    The big man joined Vorenus in leaning against the wall, gazing out at the city that had so strangely enwrapped their lives. “It’s getting a bit heated in there,” he said.
    Vorenus nodded. “Any indication of the wind?” Not that it mattered. Duty was duty. Or should be. Had been, at least.
    â€œAntony’s angry.”
    That brought an honest smile to Vorenus’ face. “When is he not?” he asked.
    Pullo’s own smile was grim. “He’ll go to Greece to lead the defense. The only question is whether Egypt will go with him.”
    Vorenus let the air out of his lungs and was suddenly struck by the memory of his breath rising into the winter-grayed skies of Gaul, above snowfields strewn with stains of red amid leafless trees. How often had he thought he’d left war behind, only to find it at his heels? And for Rome. Always it had been for Rome.
    â€œI don’t like this fight,” Pullo said.
    â€œHave you liked any?”
    â€œSure. I guess. I mean, I liked smashing heads in Gaul. And our fight here in Egypt.” Pullo’s voice grew wistful. “That was a piece of work, you must admit. One legion surrounded but holding back the tide. Nine months—”
    â€œI was here,” Vorenus whispered.
    â€œWell, you know. Some fights are good fights. But Romans against Romans…”
    â€œApparently we’re not Romans anymore, Pullo. Didn’t you hear?”
    â€œBah.” Pullo spat out into the night. “They said the same of Caesar once, didn’t they?”
    True. But was this the same? The people loved Caesar, but he knew they didn’t feel the same for Antony. And fewer still loved Caesarion, the foreign prince for whose sake Antony claimed to be