Free The Shards of Heaven by Michael Livingston

and in his mind he felt a new calm, as if a storm of worry had blown away from him. Through a crack in the door he summoned Quintus.
    First, he decided as he waited for the slave’s arrival, he would need Quintus to hire a man to go to Alexandria: a hard and desperate man who would do whatever it took to earn the large reward that Juba would offer with Octavian’s money. Laenas, he was certain, would fit the bill quite nicely.
    Second, he would need to write a letter of introduction to the keeper of the Great Library, the one man who surely knew where the Scrolls were kept. If Juba’s teacher Varro was to be believed, the Greek scholar was a man who’d worked for Octavian before. And even if not, promises of power and Octavian’s money could go a long way toward persuading him.
    Third, he thought with a smile, he would need to track down a good woodworker. After all, if the Trident of Poseidon was once more going to be wielded on earth, it was going to need some repairing.

 
    4
    N EWS FROM R OME

    ALEXANDRIA, 32 BCE
    Vorenus could see that the road-weary Stertinius, the Roman messenger to the Egyptian court, appeared even more exhausted as he stood in the middle of the tall-columned council chamber of Alexandria, facing the high-stepped dais where Cleopatra and her freshly bathed son sat in gilded wood chairs, their ornate headdresses framed by firelight. Beside them, in a chair only slightly less opulent, sat Cleopatra’s lover, Antony, his eyes dark and brooding beneath his gray-tinged curls of red hair, his jaw tense as he stared at the messenger. The vizier and at least a dozen high priests of various Egyptian gods and goddesses were arrayed about the marble dais and the rug-covered stones at its feet, their paint-enveloped eyes warily judging the poor, dust-covered soldier standing uneasily in their midst. Interspersed among them all were dozens of Roman officers and soldiers under Antony’s command.
    One of the last to enter the hall, Vorenus took careful note of the full crowd, unable to shake his continuing feeling of anxiety about the security of the royal family.
    Pullo, he saw, was standing with a small group of Romans a few paces behind Antony’s seat, looking nearly as miserable as the road-beaten soldier waiting to make his report—Vorenus knew only too well how uncomfortable such official proceedings made him. Pullo was a man of deeds, not words, and though he was rarely called upon to speak at such occasions, the mere thought that it might happen often left him almost paralyzed with fear. Vorenus swung around the gathering crowd to reach him, observing the number and names of the guards on duty—their distance from the royals, their armaments—and approached his friend from behind. “Care to make a speech?” he asked when he got close.
    The big man started a little at Vorenus’ voice, but there was genuine relief in his eyes when he moved aside to let Vorenus stand beside him. “Not me,” he said quietly. “I’d rather screw a Gallic whore.”
    â€œYou have screwed a Gallic whore,” Vorenus whispered. “Twice, as I recall.”
    â€œOnly proves my desperation. I’d rather do it a third time than be in charge. You’re the smart one. It’s your job.”
    Vorenus gripped his comrade by the upper arm for a moment then stepped forward to stand directly behind Antony’s seat.
    It was one of the first times he’d seen both Caesarion and his mother in the elaborately formal, dynastic garb that was meant to give them the appearance of Egyptian deities. He noted how uncomfortable the young man seemed to be, trying to stare straight ahead, expressionless as the statues outside the hall. Cleopatra, on the other hand, managed the guise perfectly. Her own expressionless face conveyed whatever emotion one desired to see in it, and her luminous eyes took in everything and nothing all at once. Not for the first time