If Octavian was bothered by the pitching sea, he didn’t show it. He stood, stance wide and arms on the railing, swiveling his gaze to take in the unfolding events of the battle. Not far away a firepot exploded on the deck of one of their triremes, scattering men in silent flames.
“See how that ship’s oars grow sloppy,” Octavian said to Juba, ignoring the fire to point to one of Antony’s nearby Egyptian-built ships. Its rowers were clearly no longer in rhythm, some moving forward while others pulled back. With many of its legs thus tangled, others completely stilled and hanging limp in the water, the great bug of a thing appeared to be wounded, only limping its way toward them under the heavy onslaught of archers and ballistae.
“It won’t be long now,” Juba said, not certain what event he was referring to but hoping against despair that it would be a victory without use of the Trident.
“No,” agreed Octavian, eyes still scanning the horizon. “Not long.”
“The Imperator’s plan has been a fine one,” Delius said, his voice steady and cold, betraying no emotion as he watched Octavian surgically destroy the men he’d called friends and comrades.
Octavian just nodded, and Juba watched his adopted brother’s lips move in little whispers, as if he were working over a problem in his mind, debating with himself as he calculated the next move in his game. The fire on the trireme started to spread, a nearby bireme steering close to take on evacuees.
“No sign?” the Imperator asked over his shoulder, his gaze elsewhere.
For the better part of the last hour, Octavian had been sending some of the smaller ships forward in feinted attacks. His aim was twofold, he said. First, the little charges forced Antony’s rowers to break rhythm as they attempted to maneuver their hulking vessels to counter the threats, and this could only serve to tire the men further. Second, and perhaps more important, each would-be attack gained information about the fleet facing them. And Octavian hoped to acquire one piece of information most of alclass="underline" “Antony,” he’d told them again and again. “Give me Antony.”
The signalman’s own gaze was skipping among the ships around them, looking for messages. “Nothing certain, sir,” he said. “Agrippa does report ranged engagement with a heavy ship forward of his position.”
Octavian’s gaze was still out on the water. “He must be close. He’d be near the center if he’s on this flank.”
“He is,” Delius said.
“I believe you,” Octavian said. The slightest hint of a frown creased the corners of his eyes as he stared out into the storm toward his admiral’s big ship. “Signal Agrippa. Two triremes forward. See if it’s Antony.”
Even as the signalman began the message, Octavian turned his back to the water to address the older general behind him. “Delius, I want proof this war is over. Proof that Rome is whole again. I want Antony on this ship today. Alive. Rome depends upon it.”
Delius, still wearing the polished finery in which he had appeared before them the night before, saluted. “It shall be done, Caesar.”
Caesar. Juba chewed on the word. A family name, of course. But increasingly a title, a claim to power in its own right. Would Caesar himself have approved?
“Very good,” Octavian said. “Pass word down to the decks: all ready to row. We’ll push soon.”
The ship swayed. Delius went down the ladder. The rain fell. The men below shouted their readiness to attack. After a time, Delius returned. Minutes passed.
“Message from Agrippa, sir,” the signalman finally said, breaking into a smile. “It’s Antony’s flagship, sir, right where you thought.”
“Good.” Octavian’s own smile was almost imperceptible. “Forward to the position, Delius. You’ll lead the boarding party. And send word to the fleet: all ships forward.” He took a deep breath, but for all the calmness in his voice he could have been talking about the weather. “This ends now.”
The praetorians grinned. Delius snapped to a salute then slid down the ladder once more. The signalman relayed the Imperator’s commands with earnest excitement, and a great, growing cry went up into the storm.
The steady beat of the oars began.
“Come stand beside me, Juba,” Octavian said.
Juba came to the railing of the tower, trying not to think about the last time he stood thus next to Octavian on the sea. Around them, the fleet was moving forward. Their own path began to turn, angling toward Agrippa’s ship in the distance. “Yes, brother?”
“Does it bother you that the men call me ‘Caesar’?”
“No,” Juba said with as much confidence as he could muster. “It’s your name by right of inheritance.”
“Then it’s your name, too, is it not?”
“No. Well, yes, but I’m undeserving of it.”
“Ah, but you’ve Caesar’s mind for the strategy of war,” Octavian said. He swept out an arm across the closer ships moving into position, the more distant ones in flames, the rising and falling swarms of missiles, the storm and the waves dotted with the drowning and the drowned. “This whole campaign is a testament to it.”
Juba thought through different responses, abandoned them all. In the end, he tried to change the subject. “Why send Delius to take Antony?”
“I need to know his loyalties. If he turns to stand alongside Antony in the end, he’ll be cut down.” A volley of arrows rained down on the ship, the men below them raising their shields in tortoise formations. Octavian didn’t move. He was relaxed and unflinching as the bolts rattled down on the roof above their heads and fell, harmless, to the deck. “If he remains loyal to me, he may prevent Antony from taking full honor of victory from me.”
Their big ship was moving fast now, cutting a diagonal line across the engaging fleets, driving hard for the presumed location of Antony’s flagship. Everywhere he looked, Juba saw men dying in the rain. From his campaign. “Full honor?” he asked distractedly.
“By preventing me from taking him back to Rome in chains, to face the Triumph I will be owed.” Octavian’s face brightened momentarily, and he looked over to Juba as if he’d just thought of something interesting. “By killing himself, brother, like your blood father did to avoid Caesar’s rightful triumph.”
Juba blinked, trying to keep down a surge of rage. “Of course,” he managed to say.
“Antony is just the sort to do it, I’m certain. Trapped, he’ll fall on his sword before he’ll face Rome’s justice.” Octavian’s jaw was hard as he returned his gaze out toward the approaching ships. “I’d rather lose him to the waves,” he said.
Out of the storm the shape of a massive quinquereme emerged, its deck a chaos of men in combat. Two triremes were already engaged with Antony’s vessel. As their own vessel approached from the western side, Juba could see that the second of them had just followed the first in successfully ramming the flagship’s flank: its bronze ram was buried in a splintered wound in the ship’s side, and its marines were starting to climb grapple lines to heave themselves into the melee on Antony’s deck. Through a momentary pause in the misty sprays Juba could see that Antony’s rowers were thrusting spears through their oar ports, trying to stab the legionnaires as they climbed. There was still a strong defensive knot of men on the flagship’s deck—presumably where Antony was—but even through the distance and distraction it was clear that the addition of the second trireme’s men would quickly overpower the defenders. If Antony was still alive, Juba thought, he would be overwhelmed by either Agrippa’s men or his own blade soon enough.