“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.