The Shards of Heaven by Michael Livingston Page A

fighting. “I just don’t know anymore,” Vorenus muttered.
    â€œAntony should go to Rome. It’s what Caesar would’ve done.”
    Vorenus shook his head. “When Caesar crossed the Rubicon he did so as a liberator, not a conqueror. You know that as well as I. But Antony … as soon as he cast his lot with Egypt he became like a foreigner to the people. Attacking Octavian in Italy would only make him look worse.”
    Pullo frowned. “I just don’t like this fight,” he repeated. “Antony or Octavian. Isn’t much of a choice, is it?”
    â€œIt’s not our choice to make, Pullo,” Vorenus said, struck by the honest truth of it. “We cast our lot when we came to Egypt, I think. Octavian would have our heads if he could. I think our fate is Caesarion’s.”
    Pullo said nothing for a long time. “Well, I don’t understand why they can’t just live in peace,” he finally said. “Octavian can keep the west; Antony can keep the east. Just like it’s been.”
    Vorenus smiled at his friend’s naive optimism and was starting to reply when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a shape move among the shadows inside the palace, along the base of the inner wall. Staring after it, he thought through the rotation of the guards, trying to recall whether any had business there at this time of the night. He felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach.
    â€œI mean, I guess there’s the problem that Antony proclaimed Caesarion to be his father’s only true heir,” Pullo continued.
    â€œPullo,” Vorenus whispered, eyes still fixed below.
    â€œI guess that means Octavian lied about Caesar’s will, about how Caesar had meant for him to be his heir. That can’t make Octavian too happy, being called a liar and all.”
    â€œPullo—”
    â€œBut I still don’t understand why Octavian needs to attack—”
    â€œPullo!” Vorenus said, his voice rising to a hushed shout.
    â€œWhat?” the big man asked, seemingly annoyed with having lost his impressive chain of thought.
    â€œThe guard,” Vorenus said. “Call them out quietly. Don’t let anyone in or out of the council chambers. Lock the gates. Then take a strong contingent toward the northeast quarters, checking for intruders.”
    Pullo just stood, looking confused. “Why?”
    â€œJust move!”
    Pullo blinked, actually snapped to attention, and then rumbled off, his hulking form blocking the interior light in the seconds before he vanished inside.
    Vorenus turned back, trying to catch sight of the figure again among the various pockets of shadows within the confines of the palace’s thick walls. When he failed to find it, Vorenus looked down over the balcony. The stone wall was sloped below him, not unlike the sides of the massive pyramids up the Nile. Farther down, the smooth surface disappeared into the black shapes of a garden shaded by palm trees. He could make his way back through the commotion, he knew, back through the winding stairs and rooms, but the straightest line would be the fastest.
    Taking one more look to memorize the place where he’d last seen the intruder, Vorenus stepped up onto the edge of the stonework. His knees ached, and his aging back seemed to groan from the anticipation of what was to come, but duty was duty. No matter how old he got. No matter who that damn Octavian thought he was.
    With a final glance at the moon, Vorenus dropped down into the dark.

 
    5
    O NE M UST D IE

    ROME, 32 BCE
    Three weeks after he’d brought the Trident of Poseidon to Rome, two weeks after he’d used Octavian’s coffers to send Laenas to Alexandria, Juba left the Forum and began walking the paved streets west through the colorful stone labyrinth of Rome, down toward the Tiber and Caesar’s family villa beyond it. He wore civilian clothes, the sash and symbols of his estate left