Juba thought a long time before he replied. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, for it’s only the truth. These generals ponder and debate this tactic and that decision when no facts are known, when the ground, as you say, is undetermined.”
“If it is to be ground,” Juba said.
Octavian looked over at the younger man. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Antony is the finest general Rome has—or had. You said so yourself, remember? And with Egypt added to his legions, he may even have the bigger army.”
“One reason we’re moving for Greece so quickly. Before he can gather himself.”
“Of course. But I wonder if this is enough to undo his advantages.” Juba paused before taking the calculated plunge. “I wonder if we might be better off to keep the fight on the waves.”
Octavian stared at Juba for a long moment. “Antony will have bigger ships.”
“Yes, but ours will be faster, and we should have more of them. Speed and numbers beat size.”
Octavian frowned a little. “The Roman way is to fight on land.”
Juba shrugged, seeing it all unfold before his mind’s eye. “That, too, will probably come. But there’s no reason to fight Antony at his strongest. Force him to fight on the water first. And even then sit back. Refuse to give battle at close quarters.” Juba paused to lean a bit farther over the rail, gesturing to the iron ram cutting through the water just beneath the quinquereme’s prow. “Antony will try to ram us down, no doubt. It was the Carthaginian way, it’s been our way: build up speed to cave in the side of the enemy’s vessel and send him to the depths. Like you said, he has bigger ships. It’s precisely what he’ll try to do. But most of our ships will be like that little ship out there. Biremes or triremes. So we use our maneuverability to get out of the way, to stand back and rain fire from afar. Only when he’s weak should we close in and go for the kill. We use our advantage.”
Octavian’s frown had gradually turned to a grin as Juba talked. When the younger man was done, Octavian’s eyes were sparkling with delight. “You’d make our father proud,” he said.
Juba’s smile was more sheepish. “Well, it’s just an idea, anyway.”
“No, it’s a great idea,” Octavian reassured him. “As you said, ‘use our advantage.’”
Juba agreed. “Leave nothing to chance,” he said.
Octavian’s smile grew even wider, and his gaze returned to the little bireme cutting the waters about a stadium away. “Our every advantage, no?”
Something about his stepbrother’s smile, his tone, and his unbridled enthusiasm, made Juba’s heart stop cold. He said nothing.
“Yes. Every advantage,” Octavian repeated, as if Juba had agreed. “You said you’re feeling better now, didn’t you?”
Juba had to force himself not to bite his own lip. “Not perfect. But better.”
“Excellent.” Octavian pushed himself away from the rail, took two steps toward the rear of the ship, and gestured to someone.
It took Juba a moment or two to spy the recipient of the signal, but soon enough there was no doubt: five of Octavian’s personal praetorian guardsmen were moving forward, one man surrounded by four. Even from nearly the full length of the ship, Juba could see that the man in the middle was carrying the shrouded bundle of the Trident in his arms. The sight of it, so welcome once, now made him want to weep.
Octavian whispered something to the praetorians after he took the Trident. At once the five men took up positions immediately surrounding the two adopted sons of Caesar. As Juba watched, more praetorians—raised by some unseen signal—came forward to join them. It took Juba the better part of a minute before he realized what they were doing.
“Why are they shielding us from view?” he asked.
Octavian was carefully unwrapping the Trident, and Juba noted that the cloth was not wrapped in the same way as when he himself had last finished using it. He wondered if Octavian had indeed tried to use it. “We want to keep our secrecy, do we not?”
“Of course,” Juba said, unable to shake the sinking feeling in his stomach.
When the Trident was finally revealed beneath the bright sun, Juba took in his breath instinctively. The metal sparkled in the light: gold, bronze, and silver. And among it all was the blacker-than-black stone in its casing, its darkness lending even more brilliance to the surrounding metalwork. The woodworker’s repair work, Juba thought grimly, was beyond description. The staff shined.
Octavian, too, gazed at it longingly, a look that Juba had no doubt had been repeated often over the past few weeks. At length the Imperator handed the Trident over to Juba, only hesitating a moment before letting it go. “So,” he said. “Cups, jars, barrels. Child’s play, I should think.”
Juba nodded dumbly, forcing his mind to cease inserting other words into his stepbrother’s list. Quintus. Man. Body. Blood.
“Neptune is the god of the sea. This, his domain. This, his Trident.” Octavian chuckled quietly, as if thinking of an old joke. “Assuming he doesn’t appear to snatch it away, let’s see what it can do, shall we?”
Juba looked from the gleaming metal Trident to the long stretches of surrounding sea, littered with rowing vessels like so many insects crawling upon the water. His feeling of dread, though he would not have believed it possible, grew deeper. “I don’t—”
Octavian clapped him on the back, forcing him to square up to the railing and the sea beyond. The little bireme bobbed in front of them. “So coy,” he said. “Yet so keen on the best strategies of war. It’s a strange mix, brother.”
Juba feigned ignorance of his meaning, wondering if he’d really felt the Trident wiggle in anticipation beneath his hands.
Octavian leaned over his shoulder, arm outstretched as if they were on the hunt and he was eyeing a hare in the brush. His finger lined up perfectly with the exact center of the bireme, causing Juba to swallow hard. “Let’s see you sink it,” he said. His voice was calm, as if the bireme, with its six dozen rowers working belowdecks and its forty-odd legionary marines atop it, were just another barrel. “A rising wave, perhaps? Or the opening of the sea? It’s up to you.”
Juba locked his eyes on the bireme to avoid looking at Octavian, to avoid glancing around at the entrapping praetorian guard. Even so, he tried to keep his eyes unfocused, to keep from seeing the individual men moving on the distant deck, the faces as they talked and laughed under the warm Mediterranean sun. No, his mind screamed. No.
Octavian had leaned back, was watching with sharp interest. “Use your imagination, lad. I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”
Juba’s fists tightened on the wooden staff to keep from shaking. That he had indeed thought about it was something he still couldn’t admit to himself. How could Octavian have known? “I—”
“We need to know if it works. As a matter of strategy. Imagine being able to drown Antony and that Egyptian whore Cleopatra,” Octavian said, almost spitting the names of his enemies. “Imagine ending it all at once, in one wall of your power. Saving Rome. Saving the lives of these thousands of other men. Perhaps my own. Perhaps your own.”
Juba wasn’t sure if it was a threat or not, but everything in his being told him to treat it as one. “But, Octavian, I don’t think—”
“Oh, but I think you can,” Octavian said. “And you will. Now.”
Juba swallowed hard, felt his head nodding agreement over the cries of his conscience. His hands, too, seemed to be moving of their own accord—turning the wooden staff until the head of the Trident was square to his shoulders and he could see, between the coils of the entwined snakes, the rhythmically surging bireme. And its men.