Jan

5

Four Shards of Heaven: Chapter 1

2008 | Filed Under Fiction |

Article Series - Four Shards of Heaven

This post part of a larger series of a novel in progress: Go to the beginning.

(I’m dividing Four Shards of Heaven into four parts. Part I is titled “The Scrolls of Thoth.”)

CHAPTER 1

Rome, 32 BCE

When Juba pulled his horse to a stop at the gate, the guards immediately offered to arrange for a slave-driven litter to take him to the Forum. He was a member of Caesar’s family, after all, even if by adoption. It was common courtesy.

Fighting the urge to rest his hand on the leather satchel behind him, Juba respectfully declined. Back in Rome after more than a year away, he said, he preferred to walk. It would feel good to stretch his legs out of the saddle, young though he was, and he knew he would enjoy the slower pace of making his way through the massive city on foot. It would give him more time to think, and on foot he wouldn’t need to worry about the hooves of his steed crushing feet as he pushed his way through the seething masses of people who were crowding Rome’s narrow stone streets.

Though Juba didn’t tell the guard as much, he knew, too, that he would feel less conspicuous on foot. He couldn’t imagine that anyone had followed him, that anyone had any idea what it was that he carried with him, but he was paranoid just the same.

Not paranoid, Juba corrected himself as he dismounted. Just cautious.

He gave quick instructions for most of his baggage to be driven ahead at the soldiers’ convenience, then pulled his satchel from the back of his horse and lifted the strap over his shoulder. He instinctively wanted to open the bag up, to be sure that the papers and the precious object inside were still in order, but he fought the urge down.

The hour was moving towards the evening meal, and already some wagons were starting to make their way through the gates of the city, bringing the next day’s goods to market. Nodding to the men around him, to ensure that his directions were understood, Juba ducked behind a cart overloaded with wheat and entered Rome.

At once his senses were overwhelmed. The bright colors of drying cloth hanging above alleyways. The steady surge of moving people jostling their way through the day. The smells of spices and fires. The shouts of argument from alleys and corners. The laughter from shops and bars. The clattering of hooves and the creaking of wheels. And everywhere the low, steady rumble of the teeming busyness of life, like the buzzing of bees in a hive.

Rome.

One hand on his satchel, Juba walked by memory through the familiar twists and turns of markets and narrow paths. Always upward. Always towards the Forum.

Juba had expected to feel conflicting emotions on his return to the city, but he was astonished at how profoundly he was moved. There was the pride, of course: as an adopted son of Julius Caesar, he had been raised in the Eternal City almost since before he could remember. On her streets he held the kind of respect that accorded with being a member of one of the most powerful and wealthy families in the Republic, and in her embrace he had been given the finest education possible to feed his enormous natural intelligence.

Yet it wasn’t home. No matter how he was made to act the Roman, no matter what swell he felt in his heart to see the seven hills rise over the horizon, Juba would never fit in here.

He’d always known that he was different. It was apparent at the briefest glance in a mirror: his darker-toned skin marked him for an outsider, a North African. And though he’d left his home across the sea too young to remember much of it beyond flashes of memory — most of them accompanied by the face of his father, who’d committed suicide rather than be paraded through the streets of Rome as a prisoner of the conquering Julius Caesar — the fact that he was not truly of this place had always lingered in his soul. He was a Numidian, not a Roman. He’d known that even as a young boy.

But now, sixteen years old and returning from his first visit to his homeland, he felt the separation more keenly than ever. Had this possibility crossed his step-brother Octavian’s mind when he granted him leave for the voyage? Did Octavian know how it would test the younger man’s loyalty?

Certainly it was the time to discern loyalties. Not long after Caesar’s assassination Antony had begun working hard to establish a power-base in the east, eventually even following the lead of his old friend Julius in taking solace between Cleopatra’s sheets. War between Rome and Egypt had thus seemed inevitable even before Juba left for Numidia, but in the time since he’d heard word that Antony had declared Caesarion, not Octavian, the rightful heir of Julius Caesar. More than that, he’d gone so far as to declare his own right to divide the Republic itself by granting Caesarion control over Egypt, with the rest of the east donated to his own three children by Cleopatra, who thereby became the queen-mother of it all. For himself Antony would keep Rome, of course, and the lands to the west. In every act, it seemed, Antony was trying to create an Egyptian dynasty over-spanning Rome.

It didn’t take a scholar to know that nothing good could come of such politics.

Walking through the streets of the city Juba saw evidence of the war to come everywhere. Legionnaires were conspicuously present, their thick leather armor polished and weapons sharp. Shops appeared to be low on the kinds of basic staples that might be requisitioned for troops. And the few senators he saw seemed to be even more heavily guarded than usual.

No doubt, then: Rome stood on the edge of another great war. Octavian against Antony. Rome against Egypt. And the world, it seemed, hung in the balance.

Rounding a corner and seeing the first columns of the Forum rising up ahead of him, Juba sighed. Perhaps Octavian had intended to test Juba on the eve of the war, to be sure where his allegiances were. It would be a gamble, which would not be in keeping with Octavian’s calculating character, but it would be a wise gamble. The only trouble, from both their points of view, was that even in his heart of hearts Juba still didn’t know what he was going to do. He had to tell the truth. But how much? And to what end?

Broad marble colonnades stretched to forward ahead of him, beautiful and inspiring. Workers seemed to be everywhere on scaffolds, building and rebuilding the greater glory of this city that ought to be his home. Juba once more felt the swell of pride and gratitude, but then his hand moved, felt the heaviness of the rusted bronze object through the leather of his bag. For a moment he thought he could feel a kind of warmth there, as if the object were a living thing.

Which, for all he knew, it was.

Juba lowered his head and let his legs take him to Octavian.

He found the Consul of Rome, the most powerful man in the Republic with the possible exception of Antony, standing over a simple wooden table in his private study, his shoulders hunched as he flipped purposefully between the several maps rolled out over its surface. Though Juba himself looked nothing like Julius Caesar, it never ceased to surprise him how little his step-brother Octavian resembled the man. Almost fifteen years older than Juba, Octavian carried some blood of the man who had adopted them both as sons — Julius Caesar was his great uncle through his mother — yet his build was very slight in comparison to Juba’s childhood memories of the great general. He was slight in height, too: even as a young man Juba had been aware of Octavian’s attempts to appear taller than he was by wearing high-heeled shoes. Caesar, it was well known, was a tall man of strong features, and strong eyes.

Octavian had the eyes, at least. Even from the distance of the door, Juba could see that beneath the curls of his dusty blonde hair his brown eyes were intense in thought. Around him, in stacks and piles wherever there was room, were hundreds more scrolls and books, a fraction of the love of knowledge that Octavian had fostered in the younger Juba. Juba noted that his step-brother remained as pale-skinned as ever, another tribute to the love of learning that kept them indoors more often than out. All that would have to change during the war, of course. Juba wondered if his step-brother had come to terms with that yet.

“Wine,” Juba whispered to the legionnaire standing beside the door. “And two cups.”

The soldier nodded and left, the door shutting behind him with a click. At the noise, Octavian looked up and saw Juba, who smiled and bowed slightly.

“None of that!” Octavian said, striding quickly across the room to embrace his younger step-sibling. “Juba, my brother,” he said when they parted, “I am glad to see you.”

“And I you, brother. I’ve been away too long.”

“Just back, then?”

“Of course,” Juba said. “My ship made harbor in Ostia this very morning.”

“You should have sent couriers ahead from the port.” He gestured to the unkempt room with a smile. “I’m ill prepared to receive you properly.”

Juba allowed himself an honest smile, knowing that unless things had changed in their year apart his step-brother had the same small patience for pomp that he had. “It could still be arranged, could it not?”

Octavian narrowed his eyes, then reached up to tousle Juba’s hair. Already at sixteen, Juba was almost his equal in height. “Still a troublemaker, eh? I’d hoped a year out in the wilds of the world would have cured you of that sort of thing. Well, come in. Sit down.”

Juba walked over to one of the benches nearby, carefully setting aside a stack of papers upon it. His leather satchel he set down beneath his feet, trying to pretend it wasn’t there even as it occupied most of his mind. Octavian settled down across from him on the only chair in the room. He let out his breath and yawned, rubbing at his eyes.

“You’ve been busy,” Juba said.

“Things are moving fast,” Octavian admitted. His eyes shot open. “Wine! We should toast your return. And you’ll be thirsty after –”

Juba held up a hand. “It’s already on the way. I took the liberty.”

Octavian shook his head with a smile. “You’re growing up fast, little brother. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it earlier. Things have just been, well, busy. As you said.”

A silence fell between them for a moment. Juba felt his eyes begin to drift toward his satchel, so instead he looked over toward the table with its maps. “Is it true about Antony? Did he truly promise all to his children?”

Octavian nodded. Not sadly, not happily. Just assuredly. “He did. ‘The Donations of Alexandria,’ the people are calling it. He claimed the whole of the west. Egypt for the pretender. The rest to his children by the whore. By no leave of the Senate, no council of Rome. He would undo the Republic.”

“I’d heard it in Numidia, but it’s hard to believe.”

“There’s more,” Octavian said, “not yet well known: two of Antony’s lieutenants returned to Rome recently. They told me about Antony’s will. I didn’t believe what they had to say until the Vestals handed it over and I saw it with my own eyes.”

Juba had to blink back his surprise. The Vestals were a holy authority, their temple a literal sanctuary. “How did you –?”

“My guard stormed the temple.” He sighed and waved his hand as if he was pushing away a meddlesome fly. “Against decorum, I know. But it was too important, Juba. And the Vestals would not listen to reason. I told them this is bigger than traditions; it’s about the fate of Rome itself. But they wouldn’t hand it over until I forced them.”

Juba tried not to blanch at the thought of what Octavian had undone. It might be important, yes, but surely not enough to erode such basic principles? “Well, what of the will? What did it say?”

“It confirmed the Donations, and it made clear Antony’s plan to be buried with Cleopatra in a mausoleum in Alexandria rather than in Rome.”

Juba’s eyes widened. Such an affront to Roman sensibilities was astonishing, almost unbelievable, though if anyone were capable of such egotism, it would surely be Antony. “A mausoleum for Antony and Cleopatra? In Alexandria?”

Octavian nodded his head slowly. “All true. It’s already built.”

There was nothing for it, Juba knew. It was an open preference of Egypt over Rome, a betrayal of the Eternal City itself. “There will be war,” he said, voice solemn.

“I will read the will before the Senate tonight,” Octavian said. His own voice was dispassionate and calm. “I don’t doubt that it’ll be the final undoing. The Senators will vote to strip Antony of his titles and declare him a traitor. So, yes. There will be war. Declared against Cleopatra, of course. Antony will have the legal option of joining Rome against her.”

Silence again as Juba let the finality of it sink in, aware of Octavian’s eyes upon him. “Attack Greece first,” he said at last. “It will draw Antony out.”

Octavian’s face broke into a broad smile and he let out a short laugh. It was one of the few times Juba had seen such pure emotion from his elder step-brother. “You always were the smart one,” Octavian said. “I plan to do exactly that.” He gathered himself enough to narrow his eyes at Juba once more. “You’re with me, then? You’re with the Republic?”

“Of course. Why would I not be?”

Octavian started to reply, then seemed to think better of it. “Good,” he said. “Very good. You’re at the age of military training.”

Juba nodded. “I know. I did much reading during my voyage. Caesar’s works, of course, as well as a new book by the Greek Diodorus –”

“Not everything can be learned in books,” Octavian said. “I’ve learned that to my own sorrow.”

“I know. But knowing the mistakes of history can prevent us from repeating them.”

“Of course.”

“I am prepared to begin my physical training, though.” He made sure to meet Octavian’s gaze. “I know it’s my duty as a citizen of Rome.”

Octavian smiled again. “So it is. But I’ll not have you down amongst the rabble, Juba. I want you by my side. Antony is the finest field general Rome has.” He held up his hand as Juba started to speak. “No. We would be fools to deny the truth of it. Indeed, I want you by my side to help me maintain the measure of such things. It’s easy to grow … too assured of oneself. And with Antony we can afford few mistakes. I plan to use your book learning, my brother: every last bit of history you’ve managed to wedge into that skull of yours. It may save the Republic.”

“It really does come down to that, doesn’t it?”

“Down to what?”

Juba had spoken his thoughts aloud, so it took him a moment to recover himself. “This war, I mean. You and Antony. Republic or dictatorship. Rome or Egypt.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Octavian’s face. “I think so, brother.”

Just then there was a knock at the door, and a servant entered carrying a silver tray with two goblets and a pitcher. Octavian’s face brightened as he stood and turned to face the door. Once his step-brother’s back was turned, Juba let out his breath, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Ah! The wine! Yes, yes. Bring it here.”

Juba stood, too, walking in the opposite direction towards the map table, giving himself more time to think. Behind him he heard his step-brother hastily clearing off a space on the low table between his chair and Juba’s bench. Octavian then took the tray from the surprised servant, shooing him off with orders to prepare a quick meal for him and his guest.

“Yes, Imperator,” the servant said before he hurried off.

Juba stopped walking when he reached the map table. The maps were, indeed, of the Grecian coastline.

Imperator. One of their father’s titles. Only Octavian’s full title, Juba knew, was Imperator Caesar Divi Filius. His step-brother had wisely declined to take on some of the titles that had been offered to him, but he’d had no qualms about calling himself the Son of the God they had made Julius Caesar to be. Nor had he hesitated to take on tribunician sacrosanctity or the many consulships. Would be decline the dictatorship if it were offered? He seemed to think nothing of storming the Vestals’ temple. Would he restore the Republic or, as his father had, continue to expand his powers? And what choice was there in the face of Antony’s betrayal?

The door of the room shut once again, leaving them alone. “I’m sorry, but our meal will have to be short tonight,” Octavian said. “The Senate is already gathering, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Juba said, turning back to him. Octavian was seated, one goblet of wine in his hand and the other held out for him. Juba returned and took it. After he’d sat down, they raised cups, drank.

The wine felt good against Juba’s tongue. He’d missed it while he was away. Home or not, there was nothing like it in Numidia.

“So your voyage went well?”

“It did,” Juba admitted. “Very well. I had a chance to do much writing.”

“Your book on archaeology?”

Juba nodded. “Roman archaeology, yes. Though I found much to read on other subjects, as well.” He again found himself fighting the urge to look down at the satchel beneath his feet. “Many of the libraries there have very old holdings.”

“We should have copies made,” Octavian said.

Juba knew his step-brother’s jealousies at having the freedom to travel and study abroad. Octavian’s own pursuits had been cut off by Julius Caesar’s murder, which had forced him into the political arena. “I think we should,” Juba agreed, “when all is done.”

Octavian drank down his cup, refilled it and offered to pour for Juba, who waved him off. “Well, I’m glad you’re back,” the older man said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s good that you’re back.”

Juba nodded, staring at the last of his cup for a few seconds before coming to a decision at last. He swallowed the remainder, let it wash down his nerves. “You haven’t asked me what’s in the satchel,” he said.

Octavian’s eyebrow raised, but he seemed otherwise unmoved. “I thought you were waiting for the right moment to tell me. Is this it?”

Juba shrugged. “Could be,” he said.

“So it might be worth it to ask?”

“Might.”

His elder step-brother allowed himself a smile. “Well? Tell me. What’s in the satchel? What have you brought back from your trip, little brother?”

Juba set aside his empty cup, reached down and brought the leather case to his lap. It seemed so much heavier than it should be. And warmer. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath.

Octavian leaned forward, the look of amusement on his face pushed away by the Juba’s sudden seriousness.

“The world,” Juba said. His hands rested on the too-warm leather. “I think I’ve brought you the world, Octavian.”

<< Previous in series Next in series >>

Search this site

Recent Comments

Posts by Category

Archives

Work in Progress

Four Shards of Heaven (novel)

Suggested Books

Admin

Jan

5

Four Shards of Heaven: Chapter 1

Article Series - Four Shards of Heaven

Similar Posts

Comments

Leave a Reply

Search this site

Recent Comments

Posts by Category

Archives

Work in Progress

Four Shards of Heaven (novel)

Suggested Books

External Links

Admin

Jan

5

Four Shards of Heaven: Chapter 1

Article Series - Four Shards of Heaven

Similar Posts

Comments

Leave a Reply