Roman encampments, she had learned, were always roughly rectangular in shape: first a ditch was dug, the removed earth being piled just inside of it so that any attacker would have to first climb down and up out of the ditch, then up the mound of earth that had been in the ditch. Atop this inner earthen rampart, the legionnaires then would build a wooden palisade wall, further increasing its defenses. Four towered gates, one in the middle of each side of the great rectangle, were constructed to give the force inside the maximum amount of maneuverability, but the main gate was always faced to the main road or main danger: here it was the road coming up from Segisama, though the Cantabrian hillfort of Vellica was only across the valley.
Everything inside the encampment had its designated place. Roads running between the gates intersected at the staff headquarters, and around this the tents of the many officers and their legions—and all the other additional staff of what amounted to a temporary and astoundingly mobile town—were placed in well-ordered and precisely regulated rows within further quadrants. Even the latrines had their place, set beyond a wide, open space between the walls and the tents, cut down against the base of the mounded earth and carefully constructed so that the human waste ran away from the encampment.
For all that order, for all that precision, a Roman camp was also a place of both sweltering heat and dirt that—no matter that they’d not seen rain for weeks this summer—was perpetual mud. It was also, to her continued despair, a place of harsh smells: smoke from the cooking fires, the reek of oil on leather and bronze, and urine from men and horses.
Shortly after they’d first arrived, Juba had assured her, with loving laughter, that one never really could grow used to it all—at least he never could—but that in time she would grow better at hiding her disgust. Walking between tents, her head held high and face impassive but for the slightest smile of authority, Selene was certain that she’d mastered the art of masking things well. It seemed she’d been doing it her whole life.
Her mother had taught her so much before she took the asp and died. How to pretend. How to manipulate. How to seduce.
And how to love.
Selene was sure her mother wouldn’t approve of the status of the man who had become her husband—Cleopatra was a woman who had seduced two of the most powerful men in the world—but she had no doubt that her mother would approve of the way that she loved Juba. The Romans accused her mother of so much in attaining the affections of first Julius Caesar and then Mark Antony—spells, love potions, and far worse—but Selene knew the truth of it. She’d seen it in her mother’s eyes when she looked at Selene’s father, and the way she spoke of Julius Caesar it seemed there was no doubt that she’d looked at him the same way before his assassination. It was love. Simple and real. She’d loved them, and they’d loved her back.
It was a lesson Selene had learned well. She had Juba’s love.
She’d also, in the end, learned a great deal from her mother about vengeance. She would have that, too.
The Roman soldiers she passed would often stop what they were doing, stare for a moment, and then bow slightly, murmuring in her wake. They were unaccustomed to having a young woman in camp, but she felt no fear among them. It wasn’t just the praetorian who, she knew, trailed along somewhere behind her. It was the fact that most of the men just seemed glad for something beautiful to look upon—even if for only a moment.
Selene also felt safe because the camp, despite all its filth, remained a remarkably well-ordered place. Growing up she’d heard jokes about the Roman need for order, but from inside the ranks of the Roman army she could see so clearly that the strict discipline of the men, extending from their actions upon the field to the precise layout of their tents, was perhaps their greatest strength. And she found that comforting.
By the time she reached the tent that she shared with her husband, at least an hour had passed since Juba had departed. And whatever else she expected upon pulling aside the flap that served for a door, she didn’t expect to see Tiberius standing in the dim light.
“Tiberius,” she gasped, frightened.
He was standing in the middle of the tent. He had his back to her, his head lowered. It almost looked like he was staring at the bed. “It’s Lord Tiberius now,” he said. “I’m fifteen, you know. I’m a man. And Caesar sees fit to judge me among the leadership.”
Selene swallowed hard. “Of course. I’m pleased to know that Caesar thinks so highly of you. It is well deserved.”
When he turned around to face her, she saw for a moment the old darkness in his eyes. Tiberius had long been plagued by a kind of melancholy, something she always tried to cheer him from when they were younger. But then it passed—or the light changed, she couldn’t be sure. He looked softer, more like the young boy she’d known, though his body was indeed that of a young man. He was stronger now. And more stubborn. “But we need no formalities, Selene. We grew up in the same household. We are like family, you and I. It is important for us to remain devoted to one another.”
“It is,” she said. Why was he here? What did he want? “I’m devoted to what’s important.”
Tiberius gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve no doubt.”
Selene moved away from the door toward the little writing desk Juba had placed in the corner of the room. She tried to move with an unconcerned grace, though she felt an uncertain fear in his presence. Her heart quaked and her mind spun with questions. “If you’re looking for my husband—”
“I’m not,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m looking for you.” She felt his stare following her, though she didn’t dare turn to look.
“Oh?” As casually as she could, she let her eyes roll across the small chest where she kept the Palladium. It hadn’t moved. The lock appeared undisturbed. That, at least, was a relief. “I can’t think that I’m of much importance here.”
“You are to me,” he said.
Selene felt his stare leave her, and when she chanced a glance back she could see that he was looking toward the ground, and that he’d begun a kind of slow pace across the floor. “We did indeed grow up together,” she said, turning her gaze back to the desk before he could look up again at her.
“It’s more than that,” he replied. His voice was quiet. “You know that.”
Selene didn’t know how to reply, so instead she said nothing. She stared at the desk, wondering what to say or do, wondering what Tiberius intended, and longing for Juba to return. When she turned, she gasped instinctively. The young man had walked up behind her in his pacing, and they stood nearly face-to-face.
“There’s more,” Tiberius said.
Selene berated herself for having been startled, but her heart simply refused to stop pounding in her chest. The air was hot and swelteringly thick. Tiberius was standing, she realized, directly between her and the flap of the tent. If he did something, she wondered, should she cry out? And if she did, would anyone come? Or would the praetorians simply stand guard as she was overpowered?
“What happened that night?”
She blinked at the unexpected question. “What night?”
“You know which one,” he said. “In Rome. The night you broke into the Temple of the Vestal Virgins.”
Selene did her best to seem impassive, thinking of all her mother had taught her about the game of kings. “You were there,” she said.
“And I know what I saw. Or what I think I saw.”
“So what do you think you saw?”
“A wind,” Tiberius said. His gaze moved off of hers as he remembered. “A sharp wind on a windless night.”
Selene said nothing. Please, she thought, please let Juba come soon. Her guard had said it would be perhaps an hour, had he not? Surely her husband would come soon. Please.
His gaze returned to hers. Piercing and probing. Angry and lusting. “It wasn’t just a little statue of Horus that you stole, was it?”
“I don’t have time to talk about this, Tiberius.” Selene stepped to the side and began to
walk around him, toward the flap of the tent. “I need to—”
His hand shot up and gripped her arm hard, stopping her with unexpected strength. “Was it?”
Selene shrugged her arm. “Let me go, Tiberius. Let me go or I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Selene?” His grip tightened painfully. “Scream? No one here will care. The praetorians will keep the peace well enough. I’ve tested that before.”
Selene swallowed hard. “My husband,” she said plaintively.
“Is away,” Tiberius sneered. “And it was wrong to marry you to him. A jewel like you, in the hands of that dark-skinned beast—”
Her free hand came up almost of its own accord. Without a moment of thought, she struck him hard across the face. She gasped at the suddenness of her own anger, even as she pulled her hand back.
His head had turned with the blow, but Tiberius did not react for a moment. Then he let her go and slowly raised his hand to his face, rubbing at his reddened skin. His jaw rocked back and forth, as if ensuring that it was still functional. “I don’t think that was wise, Selene. I will be Caesar myself one day.”
May that day never come, she thought. To Tiberius she said, “And it was Caesar who chose him for my husband. Do you disapprove of his choices so?”
The young man hadn’t expected that reply, and she could see him working over in his mind how best to respond. They both knew that he didn’t dare insult the decision of his stepfather. “Marriages can be a matter of convenience,” he finally said. “I know that more than most. Caesar chose rightly for now. But perhaps, if you still please me, I’ll find you a more suitable match one day. And I’ll not leave you out ruling some frontier land. I’ll have you in Rome, where the daughter of Cleopatra should be.”
Selene wanted to throw up, but her face, she hoped, was once more every bit as impassive as her mother taught her it could be. She made the slightest bow of her head, an acknowledgment of his authority but not an acquiescence to his threat. “May I go now, Lord Tiberius?”
His jaw clenched once, twice, and then he stepped out of the way.
Selene nodded once more. As she started to step past him, his hand once more caught her arm, tight enough to make her wince. He leaned in toward her, close enough that she could feel his breath upon her cheek. She refused to look at him. She simply stared at the tent flap, willing her husband to come through.
“You know I’ll find out, Selene.” The voice of Tiberius was calm, quiet, yet it was full of a kind of threat that she would not have thought such a young man capable of—at least before now. “What you took from the temple that night. How you caused that wind. It was you. And I’ll find out how. I promise you.”
He let go of her, and Selene walked away, head high and proud and impassive. She pushed open the tent flap, blinking as she stepped into the light. The praetorians had a kind of perimeter around the tent. Their backs were turned away from her, and they stared out into the churning masses of the encampment.
Selene didn’t know where to go, but she didn’t dare stop moving. Without knowing why, she turned and began walking in the direction of the command tent.
The praetorians let her pass. Whether the man who had been assigned to be her guard still followed her, she did not know. But she assumed that he was there.
Tiberius had frightened her. In short minutes he’d pushed her to the point that she wanted to crumble down into the dust. She was scared, and she was angry that she was scared. Fear made her feel weak. It made her feel like that little girl locked away in a Roman prison, waiting to be paraded in golden chains with her now-dead brother.
Coming around a bend in the well-worn path—trying to hold back both her terror and her self-loathing rage—she saw Juba walking toward her. He wasn’t looking up. He was staring at the ground in front of him as he walked, his shoulders hunched with fresh worry. But when he looked up and saw her, whatever brooding thoughts he’d had disappeared into a moment of happiness that was suddenly struck away by a new concern.
Selene tried to smile, tried to erase whatever her husband had seen upon her face, but she knew she couldn’t hide the roiling emotions that played there. She wanted to both weep and scream.
Then he was there, reaching out to swallow her into his loving embrace. She buried herself against his chest for a moment, squeezing him so tightly she could feel the air coming out of his lungs.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
Selene wanted to say so much. But whatever had happened to Juba while he’d been away, it had brought new weight for him to bear. She didn’t want to burden him even more with what had happened to her.
Besides, she thought, her mother would never have allowed herself to feel such weakness, much less show it. She would have steeled herself against the fear and anger. She would have been strong.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I just … I need you to hold me. That’s all.”
8
SIGNS OF DEATH
ALEXANDRIA, 26 BCE
The trap was set along the north side of the canal, where generations of footfalls from a nearby farm had cut a deeply sunken track through the grassy tufts of the higher embankment. The worn track led to a small wooden dock on the water, framed by thick reeds. Knee-deep in the water there, hidden in the concealing brush, the three hired bowmen had their recurved bows at the ready.
Thrasyllus was crouched above them on the sunken dirt path, hidden by the deeper shadow of the embankment on either side. Between the scholar and the bowmen, close enough to whisper between them, crouched the rat-faced man and his brute.
All of them were staring out at the water as the sun glowed a fierce red upon the horizon. A sign, Thrasyllus was certain, of the blood to come.
Finding the men who’d left him bruised and battered that morning had not been difficult. He’d only needed to find the beautiful, black-haired girl who called herself Lapis—wherever she would be, her pimp and his brute would not be far away.
He’d known just where to look for her, of course. For months he had lurked in the shadows, watching the busy street corner where she stood every evening. For months he’d watched as she took the hands of other men and even some women, watched as she was led away from the corner to private rooms and the delights of the flesh. He’d gone to the same corner last night, when he thought this day would see him leaving Alexandria for good.
Some things changed, he’d thought with a smile.
But, thanks be to the gods, some things never did: Lapis was there, just as she ever was, waiting for the next man, as if the events of the night and the morning had never happened.
She had recognized him, at least. That was some comfort. She’d even appeared concerned, calling him “little stargazer” and begging him to leave before Seker—that was the rat-faced man’s name, he’d now learned—showed up.
But of course Seker was just the man Thrasyllus had come to see.
When the pimp arrived, Thrasyllus had been surprised to see that he was alone. Perhaps, he’d thought, the morning had proved that the brute wasn’t needed to deal with such a weak coward.
Thrasyllus blurted out the simple proposition: Capture one man; kill anyone else with him. They would evenly split the bounty on the man’s head, but anything else taken from the dead men was Seker’s to keep.
That had been enough to catch the pimp’s attention. It was enough to stave off a beating and find a quiet place to talk. Thrasyllus had heard Vorenus tell the librarian that he was traveling with only a single companion, so he explained that there was no need for many men. Thrasyllus thought that the massive brute alone could handle it, but Seker had laughed at that. The brute, he said, was an old and broken man who could hardly walk. He would be fine in a fight at close quarters—“He could break you in two if I gave him the word, if you’re lying to me about this”—but he would be close to useless getting from shore to ship. So Seker had agreed to pay for three close-lipped men he knew who were good with bows. Their wage
s, he said, would be paid out of the scholar’s share of the bounty on the man they were meant to capture.
Thrasyllus hadn’t told him who the Roman was. He’d only told him the amount of the award Caesar had once offered for his head. That was enough, it seemed, for the greedy little man.
Things had happened fast at that point. Seker had sent for the scar-faced brute, who lumbered awkwardly into the carriage that was summoned. In short order they had picked up the three men with their wickedly curved bows—how the pimp knew such men, Thrasyllus didn’t ask—and they were headed through the Sun Gate, riding toward the canal east of the city.
After that it was a simple matter of finding the spot for the ambush and waiting for the right barge to pass by.
There weren’t many on the water. Traffic on the canal grew more sporadic the farther one journeyed from the great city, and the sun drifting toward the horizon had made it quieter still.
Between passing ships, Thrasyllus tried to think through what lay ahead. The men he was with were clearly practiced, efficient killers. They had the element of surprise. They would kill most of the men on the barge very quickly. And they would capture Vorenus. With luck, the Roman was as good a fighter as the high bounty on his head would indicate. He would kill a few of these men before he was taken. What happened after that would depend on how many were left behind. Too many, and he’d have no choice but to take Vorenus back to Alexandria to claim the bounty. That was what he’d told Seker they were going to do.
What he hoped to do, however, was something very different. If only a couple of men were left, Thrasyllus could try to convince them to follow his plan to take the prisoner to Elephantine Island and the promise of greater rewards. Gods willing, they would agree.
The astrologer’s fingers ran across the little satchel at his side. Before he’d left to come find Seker, he’d taken a knife from one of the scriptoria of the Great Library. It wasn’t a large weapon by any means, but he supposed it would do. Embedded in the right place in a man’s back, even the smallest blade would surely kill. A man’s life always hung by the thinnest of threads. Books had taught him that. They’d even given him some idea of where and how to strike.
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