The Shards of Heaven (23 page)

Feeling a restless tiredness, Juba stood and tossed his stick into the fire. Though young, he'd increasingly felt a kind of weariness in his legs, something he'd begun noticing more and more since his return to Rome from Numidia. That this coincided with his increased usage of the Trident—of the black stone—had not been lost on his mind, hard though he tried not to think about it: whenever he did, he imagined leeches, grown fat on blood. The only thing that seemed to help was movement, so without direction he left the tent and began to walk, stretching his legs despite the uncertain looks of the other men in the camp. He didn't have to look behind him to know that at least one of the praetorians had stood, too, and was following.

He'd left the main camp and was halfway down the road toward the busy harbor that Octavian's admiral, Agrippa, had constructed along the coastline beaches, when a messenger arrived, panting. Though the young man appeared to be close to Juba's own age, and Juba held no formal rank or command, he nevertheless bowed deep and stammered out apologies for disturbing him on his walk. Only then did he pass along the word that Octavian—“the Lord Caesar, Son of the God”—had requested his immediate presence in council.

Juba looked toward the sea with longing, then nodded, turned, and began to trudge back to the camp, wondering what was so important that it couldn't wait until morning.

*   *   *

Even at this late hour, Octavian's spacious tent was a hive of activity, with a nearly constant flow of messengers bringing in reports and taking out dispatches. It truly was the headquarters for the campaign: all activity in the army spread out from this one central location, just as the actions of a body grew out from the mind. So when Juba entered the tent to find a flurry of comings and goings, of snapped salutes and creased papers, with the indefatigable Octavian explaining three different things to four or five attentive men at once, his first thought was that nothing was out of the ordinary. Even the pockets of higher-ranking generals scattered through the space, focused on their engagement of myriad duties as they carried out the administration of the tens of thousands of men at their disposal, seemed no different than they had on any of the dozens of times Juba had been in the Imperator's tent. Why, he wondered, had he been summoned?

It was only then, as he looked around the room for an explanation, that he found the obvious cause of his summons: a man standing at rigid attention not far from the tent's flaps. He wore the full battle dress of a general, as if he intended to take the field immediately: his armor flashed in the lamplight, and his horsehair helm was tucked perfectly in the crook of his arm. Only the inevitable splashes of mud on his greaves marred the perfection of his presentation. He might well, Juba imagined, be standing before the people of Rome in a Triumph—except that there was, Juba noticed as he took the measure of the man, a hollowness to his eyes. A man standing not in triumph, Juba decided, but defeat.

Octavian at last noticed Juba's entrance, and after a few final dispatches he ordered the tent cleared for council. In less than a minute, the only men remaining in the tent—and they were all men, of course, a fact that Juba knew was a point of pride for Octavian's soldiers as they looked across the lines toward Antony and his Egyptian queen—were Octavian, five of his highest-ranking commanders, the brilliantly dressed general Juba didn't recognize, and Juba himself, who tried to ignore the heated glares that three of Octavian's commanders shot in his direction. Bad enough that he was allowed to be present, but clearly Octavian had held up the council until his arrival.

There was no throne as such in the tent: Octavian preferred to sit at a simple chair—not so simple as the stool in Juba's tent, but simple nonetheless—that was positioned behind the central map table. The chairs of his commanders stood along the sides of the table, so that their war councils had, to Juba's eye, the appearance of a small dinner gathering. Octavian had been standing off to the side of the room when Juba had entered, and he let out his breath now in a long, tired sigh that seemed too dramatic to be real. Then he walked over to stand behind his place at the table, the rest of the men following suit. Juba's place was, as ever, just to Octavian's left. He walked to the spot without looking at the other generals and stood along with them in silence, waiting for Octavian's next move. Juba hoped it was an order to sit down.

“I'm sorry we've kept you waiting, Delius,” Octavian said to the newcomer once everyone was in position. He gestured to the opposite end of the table, where a seat was left open.

Juba thought on the man's name a moment before connecting all the threads: one of Antony's top generals.

Delius approached the designated seat, but he did not sit down. His back straight, his chin raised in a sign of pride belied by his eyes, he thumped his free hand to his chest and then thrust it out in a formal salute. Octavian, his face serious, returned the salute crisply—another of the many small things he did for which the common men loved him.

“Thank you for receiving me so late, sir,” Delius said.

Octavian smiled warmly. “It's no trouble at all.” He gestured toward the tent flaps. “As you can see, we were still quite awake and at work. There's truly no better time. I regret only that our fires have already grown cold. All I can offer you is some fine Roman wine, fresh from the vineyards of home.”

It was a subtle aggression, Juba knew. Antony's forces had been cut off from their supply lines for long enough that the thought of good drink ought to make the most self-controlled man salivate. A few of the other generals grinned. Juba just watched Delius.

The general's only reaction was a knowing, tired smile. “My thanks to you, Imperator,” he said, emphasizing the title. “Perhaps later, if you will allow me.”

Octavian nodded. “Please, sit,” he said.

Juba wouldn't have thought it possible, but Delius' back grew even straighter. “I prefer to stand.”

Gods!
, Juba thought, but then Octavian was shrugging and sitting down himself. The other generals followed suit, and Juba gratefully took his chair.

“So,” Octavian said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “To what do we owe the presence of so high-level an emissary, Delius? Has Antony sent you to call for my surrender?”

Once more there were smiles around the table. A couple of the generals laughed quietly, trying not to show disrespect but finding it difficult: Antony had so often called for their surrender that it had become a sort of joke between them.

“No, my lord,” Delius said. “I believe he is done doing so.”

“Another call on my honor to fight him man to man, then?”

“No, Imperator. I come of my own accord.”

The sniggers of the generals ceased at once, as surely as someone snuffing a candle. Octavian's smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed probingly. “Of your own?”

Delius opened his mouth as if he meant to say something more, but his jaw froze, trembled for a moment, then clamped shut. With careful, deliberate movements, he withdrew the helm from the crook of his arm and set it before him as if on display. A half-breath later, he gripped the ornate handle of the gladius at his hip and unsheathed it in a smooth motion before setting it down beside the helm. His jaw was so tight with emotion that Juba wondered if he might crack his teeth.

Octavian pushed back his chair to stand, his own back straightening to match Delius' upright posture.

“I give you my sword,” Delius said. “And my life, should you wish it. It is forfeit.” His eyes glanced down to his bare blade, the edge shining in the flickering light. “I would have fallen on it already, but I wanted—”

“No such talk,” Octavian said, interrupting him. With quick strides he came around the table to stand face-to-face with the older general. “We'll have no talk of suicides here, my friend.”

Delius had the look of a man on the verge of weeping. “I have fought Rome. My honor—”

Octavian shook his head. “Your honor is intact. You did what you thought was right. Nothing more. Come, Delius,” he said, offering his hand. “Let us be strong in friendship now.”

Delius hesitated only a moment before he took Octavian's hand and gripped it firmly. The Imperator of Rome smiled kindly and leaned forward to embrace the distraught man.

“You did your duty,” Octavian said. “There's no shame in that. Just as there is no shame in doing your duty now that your path is clear.” They separated, and Octavian held him by the shoulders, looking hard into his face. “I forgive you, Delius, and I welcome you to my council. Please, sit. Take your proper place.”

Octavian let him go, spun to address the tent flap. “Wine!” he shouted. “Seven cups for my council!”

There was instant movement from outside the tent, the sound of feet moving in response to the command. Octavian turned back to the table, his smile genuine.

Delius had not moved. He seemed more in control, more at peace than he had been. “Lord Imperator,” the general said. “There is something more.”

Octavian's eyebrow arched upward. “Oh? What more?”

“News,” Delius said. “Antony attacks tomorrow.”

Several of the commanders around the table gasped, and they began to talk all at once. A soldier appearing at the door with wine was quickly waved away.

“Silence!” Octavian said, marching around to stand at his place once more, leaning over the map spread out before them. His gaze passed across the various representative blocks of wood upon it, signifying the latest information on troop numbers and placements. “He's too weak,” he said. Then he looked up to Delius. “Does he mean to try and break out south?”

Delius' jaw clenched again, in obvious anger this time. “No, despite my advice that he do so.”

Octavian bobbed his head in positive agreement. “It is sound advice, sir. We are too strong on this front.”

“He means to attack by sea,” Delius said.

A couple of the commanders started to speak again, but Octavian's raised hand silenced them. “Go on,” he said.

“It is Cleopatra's plan, I believe,” Delius said, his distaste for her palpable. “In the morning they will attack your fleet in two waves, hoping to destroy you on the sea since you'll not fight on land. Barring improbable victory, they hope to break your lines and make it to the open water beyond the isle of Leucas. From there they will hoist sail and flee for Alexandria.”

There was silence for a moment as Agrippa, Octavian's admiral, moved representative blocks off the Actium shoreline and into the gulf. “Three and one?” he asked, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Delius looked confused for a moment, then nodded in understanding. “Yes. Antony will divide his fleet into four relatively equal parts: the first wave will have three commanders, the second only one.” Agrippa began separating the pieces accordingly. The other men watched. “Heavier ships in back, including the treasury,” Delius said, leaning over the table to correct him. “Cleopatra herself will command the second wave. The first will be centered on Insteius, with Caius Sosius to the south. Antony will lead the north flank.”

Agrippa moved some more pieces around, creating an open-backed rectangle of ships framing the entrance to the gulf like a squared-off wave. Behind it, Cleopatra's fleet was a single line. He placed little flags amid the pieces, marking the place of the commanders. Once Delius indicated his agreement with the representation, the admiral began arranging their own fleets in a larger, encompassing crescent-moon shape, framing Antony's forces.

“Not a bad plan,” Agrippa said, with the slightest hint of approval in his voice, like an artist studying another's work. “The wind will be north to south. Antony surely hopes to burst against it with a hard row, then roll up our own north flank, pushing us south against Leucas. It's not a bad plan at all, given what they have to work with.”

A knowing smile had been working its way across Octavian's mouth. “Then Agrippa and I shall command our north flank,” he said. “The south is yours, Marcus Lurius. And to you goes the center, Lucius Arruntius.” Two of the commanders nodded, seemed to puff up a bit. “Agrippa will work out the rest of the placements, but we must have a mind to our overall strategy.”

Lucius frowned. “Strategy, my lord? It is a naval engagement. Ranged weapons once they can reach: archers, ballistae, flame pots. Once we close in, we ram them as best we can manage, then board and fight.” He looked around the table, saw approving nods from the other generals. “Right?”

Octavian, still smiling, sat down in his chair and steepled his fingers to his lips. Delius at last sat, too. “That is traditional, yes,” Octavian said. “But have you a better idea, Juba?”

All eyes turned to the forgotten seventeen-year-old at the table, none kind. Juba swallowed hard, shocked to be thrust to the center of attention. He wanted to shrink down and disappear. “I … I don't know—”

“No, you don't,” Lucius said. “How could you—”

“I think you do,” Octavian said, ignoring Lucius. “Indeed, we talked about just this, I recall. Not two weeks after we put to sea. You told me you thought it best
not
to engage in such a situation.”

“Not to engage?” Lucius guffawed, but the few who joined him did so nervously. Delius just stared.

When Octavian still looked expectant, Juba at last managed to gather himself. “Lord Delius,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn't crack, “am I right that Antony has lost too many men to outfit his full fleet?”

Delius agreed. “He'll likely burn the rest tonight. A few dozen, perhaps.”

Agrippa leaned out and made a few adjustments to the pieces on the map.

“And Antony's men are weak, are they not? Lack of food and good water? There's talk of much bad air in the camp.”