The legionnaires, much to Vorenus’ shock, saluted and began carrying out Pullo’s instructions. The one who’d brought the blanket for Vorenus paused, looking uncertainly down at Antony’s unconscious form. “Sir, what should we do with, um—”
“Pullo,” Vorenus whispered. “We can’t—”
“Get him out of the rain, for one thing,” Pullo said. “He’ll be in a bad enough mood when he wakes up. No sense adding a cold to it. Let’s take him below with Vorenus here. It smells to the highest heaven down there with all those blasted rowers, but it’s warm and relatively dry.”
Vorenus tried to help as much as he could, but Pullo still had to half-carry him down the trap while three other men carefully brought Antony along. The hold stank—they always did—but Vorenus was glad that Pullo was right about the warmth. And there were a few open rowing benches near the front. The bodies on the floor beside them attested to what Pullo had done to ensure control over the captured rowers. Vorenus ignored the dead, broken men as his comrades stretched him and Antony out on the wooden seats.
“Pullo,” Vorenus said after the other legionnaires had moved away to take positions between them and their prisoner rowers. “Do you know what you’ve done? At best you’ll be dismissed from the legion.”
The big man smiled, nodded. “Just didn’t think today was a good day to die after all,” he said.
Vorenus started to say something more, but Pullo had already turned to the rowers, his voice reverberating between the walls as he boomed orders on his way back toward the trap. “You call this speed? My one-armed grandmother can turn an oar quicker than you lot! Faster! Faster! You two,” he said to a couple of the watching legionnaires, “tell them to keep rowing for all they’re worth or I’ll come down and bust another head or two.”
The two legionnaires saluted as he passed by. The third looked expectant. “Me, sir?”
Pullo stopped at the base of the ladder, his first foot two steps high upon it. “With me, son. There’s sails to get ready. We’ve got a queen to catch!”
20
RETURN TO ALEXANDRIA
ALEXANDRIA, 31 BCE
Caesarion sat like a statue upon the throne atop the walls of the Lochian palace, the royal scepter upright in his hand, unfocused eyes stylized with black paint, the tall crown of a pharaoh perched atop his freshly shaved head. While his mother had been away he’d enjoyed the freedom to grow out his hair, but now that she was returning, he’d shaved it back to his scalp in accordance with custom. He would become annoyed with the practice, he knew, but for now, with the heat of the high sun adding to the heaviness of the crown, he was glad for the lack of additional weight on his head. Even with slaves steadily waving palm fronds around them, the air was dreadfully stifling. Helios, whose health had taken another downturn in the past week, had been too weak to handle it, so Caesarion had sent the grateful boy back to the cooler shade, along with the useless slaves and the rest of the platform party. Only Selene and Vorenus remained close to him now.
For his part, Vorenus refused a seat, preferring to stand between the two remaining thrones despite the obvious discomfort of the wounds he wouldn’t acknowledge. “It’s hard to believe,” the old soldier said as another cheer went up from the throngs of people surrounding the harbor.
Caesarion wanted to nod, but he didn’t dare do so with the tall crown on his head. There were thousands upon thousands of people in sight; seemingly the whole of the city had turned out for Antony and Cleopatra’s triumphant return. The wide surface of the harbor itself was awash with bright swaths of bobbing color where the cheering people had thrown flowers into the sea—to carpet the victors’ path home. It was, indeed, hard to believe. “They’ll know the truth soon,” Caesarion said. “The truth will come out.”
“It’s known in whispers already,” Vorenus said. “News always flies ahead of the army.” He’d been back only a day—the stolen Roman trireme acting as a forward ship to inform the city of the pending return—and Caesarion was still having a hard time growing accustomed to the new tiredness in the older man’s voice. Much had changed in the months they were apart. He wondered if Vorenus felt the same way.
“We’ve tried to keep it quiet,” Selene said, her voice stoic. That, too, seemed to have changed, Caesarion noted. Especially after what they’d learned from Didymus and Jacob. His half-sister seemed more and more a woman in a girl’s body, even if that, too, was changing. Sitting here now her upright bearing might as well be their shared mother’s as she sat in regal, divine impassivity and watched the lie unfolding below them. “But it won’t last.”
Caesarion made a sound of agreement. “The traders already know of the defeat, and of Octavian’s movements east, cutting off our allies one by one. We’ve bought them off as best we can, but it’s only a matter of time.” From the corner of his eye, Caesarion saw Vorenus shift on his feet, and he thought he saw him wince. “Please,” he said, “I’ll have a chair brought up.”
Vorenus shook his head, visibly stiffened. “Wouldn’t be proper,” he said.
Caesarion let out a careful sigh, not breaking his impassive expression. Moving his eyes alone, he saw that Cleopatra’s massive flagship was crawling past the mountain-like lighthouse at the head of the harbor. The ship’s oars were in careful, patient time, and its decks were alight with gold and metals that shined in the sun. He had to fight back a smile. His mother had always been good at theater.
The glinting of the ship hurt his eyes and he had to look away, not for the first time cursing the fact that they’d not had clouds this day.
“Tell me again about the wave,” Caesarion said. “The one that destroyed the ships.”
“Like the wrath of a god,” Vorenus said. “Unnatural. Like Neptune’s anger unleashed.”
“Poseidon’s,” Selene said.
“If you like, my lady,” Vorenus said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Poseidon’s Trident, Caesarion thought, sensing that Selene was thinking the same thing. Didymus said Juba was looking for it.
“Some of the men are saying Octavian has the gods on his side,” Vorenus said.
“I think not,” Caesarion said. “I think Didymus is right: there’s only one God. Didymus thinks He’s dead. Jacob thinks He’s just fallen silent. Either way, He has nothing to do with creation anymore.”
“You think this wave has something to do with this man Juba?” Vorenus asked.
“It might,” Caesarion said, glad that Vorenus didn’t ask whether he agreed with Didymus or Jacob. “He was looking for Poseidon’s Trident. Perhaps he has it. That’s not the biggest worry, though.” Since they’d found this moment of quiet solitude during the celebrations, Caesarion had been slowly explaining to Vorenus what they had learned in Didymus’ office. It helped to explain it to someone, he thought. And he trusted no one more than Vorenus. If anything needed to be done because of it all, Vorenus would be the man he’d call upon. It would’ve been Pullo, too, if he hadn’t been forced to remove the big man from his service when he’d arrived in Alexandria in chains. Better removed from service, though, than the public execution Antony had intended him to carry out. Caesarion hoped that Antony would accept Caesarion’s decision to exile the big soldier into Didymus’ care instead. He was just too good a man to lose. And he’d saved Caesarion’s life back in Rome, after all. It was only fair to return the favor.
“You said something about the real threat being the Ark, and the possibility that Juba wants the ‘real’ Scrolls of Thoth, since they’re not what Didymus had originally thought,” Vorenus said, not bothering to cover up his obvious confusion.