Free The Shards of Heaven by Michael Livingston Page B

voice booming. Vorenus knew the tone well, from boisterous jests over countless tankards of wine. “It was a fine gladius, the likes of which I thought could never be found again, and I despaired to go to battle without it. But a blacksmith traveling with the legion heard of my troubles and offered to make me another, just like the one I lost. Loyal to his word, the blade he made looked the same as the one I lost—only better, I thought, because it was shiny and new. But when I took it to battle, it cracked on the first stroke against the edge of a shield. I learned then that nothing can replace what is tried and true.” He paused for a moment, to be sure he had the attention of the council. “Let him make a new Sixth. Let him make a new Antony. He’ll find the original far superior!”
    There was a shout of determined agreement from the Roman officers and soldiers in the crowded room. Vorenus, too, felt a puff of pride in his chest, though it seemed little enough to contrast the news that he’d been exiled from his homeland.
    â€œWhat of the man who stole your old sword?” one of the younger Roman officers called from the back of the chamber.
    â€œI had him crucified.” Antony laughed. “But not before I used my old friend to cut his balls off and feed them to dogs. I look forward to doing the same to Octavian!”
    There were more shouts of riotous agreement from the Romans, though many of the Egyptians looked disgusted. Vorenus just felt old and tired.
    Stertinius noticeably took no part in the revelry, looking more and more uncomfortable as it died down. Antony, who’d been cheering on his officers, at last took notice and motioned for silence. “What more, legionnaire?”
    â€œOctavian—” The soldier’s voice caught, then he bowed again as if to excuse what he was duty-bound to report. “Octavian raided the temple of the Vestal Virgins, sir.”
    What was left of the smile on Antony’s face fell away at once. “He … raided the temple?”
    Stertinius closed his eyes as his mouth worked over the words before he could speak them. Vorenus wondered if he was saying a prayer for someone’s soul. Octavian’s, for such a desecration? His own, for fear of Antony? “He … he forced them to hand over your will,” the man finally muttered.
    Antony stared. Vorenus noted that while the general’s face was suddenly unreadable, Cleopatra had actually leaned forward slightly.
    â€œOctavian said it confirmed the, uh, Donations. And that it said you’d be buried with Cleopatra—” the soldier’s eyes flew open and fixed on her for a moment—“I’m sorry. The queen, my lady.”
    An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber. Vorenus heard the soft rasp of leather armor as one of the Romans in the crowd shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
    Antony’s face was hard again by the time he spoke. “Yes. So?”
    The messenger’s face was a contorted mixture of hope and despair. His voice, when he found it, was tinged with pleading. “We’re all lost, sir,” he said. “The Senate’s declared war on Egypt.”
    Like the breaking of a wave that roars as it crests, the soldier’s words shattered the silence of the chamber. All at once, it seemed, everyone was talking.
    The co-regents sat impassive in the resulting cacophony, silently listening as one advisor or priest after another shouted out to address them with portents of the gods or opinions about Rome. Antony moved back and forth from the majestic seats atop the dais to the tired messenger at its feet, seething anger. After a minute, he dismissed the shaken Stertinius, who gratefully took his hurried leave. In his wake, other Roman officers converged on the general, anxious to make status reports.
    Whatever the course of the debate to come, Vorenus knew his part would be measured only in the