Jan

7

Four Shards of Heaven: Chapter 2

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 2

Alexandria, 32 BCE

Lucius Vorenus, feeling a now-familiar tiredness in his forty-five-year-old bones, leaned against the stonework atop the palace wall and looked down into the cleared square of the inner courtyard where Caesarion was practicing his swordwork in the fading light. Working against Vorenus’ old friend Titus Pullo, the seventeen-year-old co-regent of Egypt had stripped to his loincloth to reveal a body filled out with lean muscle that flexed beneath a sheen of thick sweat — a fact that Vorenus could see did not go unnoticed by the small gathering of servant girls in the long shadows of the west alcove, who whispered between giggling smiles as they watched Caesarion work. As chief of the palace guard, Vorenus knew the boy — young man, he had to correct himself — had taken some curiosity-driven pleasures among at least some of the girls, but thus far he had not slept with any of them, a fact Vorenus found appropriate even if Pullo did not. But, then, Pullo had no qualms about taking advantage of the servants himself, and he was no man to make judgments of character or morality.

Vorenus and Pullo had also disagreed about whether it was appropriate to teach Caesarion how to fight. After all, as pharaoh of Egypt Caesarion was, according to current Egyptian rite, the earthly embodiment of the god Horus. He should never have need to lift his hand in anger. Besides, it seemed to Vorenus potentially harmful for the pharaoh to be seen in need of tutelage in anything.

While the uneasy peace with Octavian had lasted, Vorenus’ opinion had carried the mind of Cleopatra. But once Antony had declared Caesarion to be the legal heir of Julius, once he donated Roman territory to the royalty of Egypt, the peace had been broken. With the inevitable war to come, Vorenus could do nothing but concede that reality, as it had in Rome so many years ago, had intervened. Caesarion might well be called upon to fight for his life once again — a possibility only heightened by the whispers and rumors from the north, which spoke of pending open conflict.

The clash of steel echoed loudly in the courtyard as Caesarion over-reached on a thrust and was promptly disarmed by the experienced Pullo. Vorenus had never known the big man to be patient with anything in his life, but he was strangely so with Caesarion, stooping to pick up the pharaoh’s fallen weapon and handing it back to the young man even as he quietly told him where he’d gone wrong and explained not only how to avoid such a problem but also how to turn the problem into an advantage should the need arise.

Though he still felt uneasiness about such martial training for the young man, Vorenus could hardly deny its effectiveness. Neither he nor Pullo could recall a more gifted and able student, qualities that extended, according to the chief librarian who acted as Caesarion’s tutor, into the intellectual realms as well. Indeed, the Greek Didymus often compared the boy’s wide-ranging capabilities to those of his father Julius, who was at once one of Rome’s finest generals, orators, politicians, and warriors — though by mutual and long-standing agreement all those involved with the child’s up-bringing had kept such comparisons out of Caesarion’s earshot.

Since he was already the boy who could inherit the world, they saw no need to give him any more cause for arrogance than necessary.

In the courtyard the two men were in melee once again, and Vorenus watched Pullo test his charge by deliberately setting up the very same conditions that a minute earlier had caused Caesarion to over-reach. This time Caesarion feigned the mistake, baiting the far bigger man into attempting a second disarm that the young man smoothly shrugged off and used to press his own advantage, temporarily putting Pullo on the desperate defensive until they parted for breath. Pullo laughed loudly — again, a historically uncharacteristic reaction from the wide-shouldered legionnaire — and clapped Caesarion on the back, prompting a victoriously raised arm from the young man and quietly gleeful claps from the girls in the shadows. Caesarion laughed, too, though when he saw the girls out of the corner of his eyes he blushed and lowered his arm.

“Does the training go well?”

Vorenus turned to see old Didymus laboring up the stairs from the depths of the palace. The scholar’s long locks of gray-to-white hair were tumbled haphazardly around his head, and they stood out bright as he stepped into the sun, his hand resting against a wall of sand-colored stone covered in the glyphic Egpytian writing that was still, to Vorenus’ Latin eye, nothing but bizarre shapes and pictures. Even after so many years in Egypt, Vorenus could recognize only the most common of them, like the snake-like image for the Nile.

Pullo, of course, had only managed to learn to read the glyphs that indicated ill-reputed places of vice.

Vorenus noted that the approaching Greek looked, as he always did, out of place. Even after a near-lifetime of service in Egypt — the last fifteen years as chief of the Great Library in Alexandria, said to be the largest library the world had ever seen — Didymus refused to adopt Egyptian garb and instead wore a Greek toga over his gaunt and aging frame. Not that Vorenus could say much to such a decision: both he and Pullo typically retained their Roman uniforms, even though neither of them had served as legionnaires since the day Caesar died and fate or chance brought them to the dead dictator’s villa with Antony, and Pullo — slow of mind but fast to fight — saved Caesarion’s life. Their shared outsider status had, however, made the two fighters and the librarian companions of a sort in the ever-bewildering court of Egypt.

“His swordwork’s coming along well enough,” Vorenus said once Didymus was close, nodding in satisfaction. “Good balance, good footwork. He just needs strength and experience. Given time Pullo thinks he’d be a great fighter.”

“Balance would be important, I imagine.” The Greek squinted against the red light of the setting sun, darkening the long wrinkles carved in his face.

“Balance is everything,” Vorenus said, returning his attention to the practice below. “You must stay low and light on your toes, yet high and stable on your heels: equally ready to root and thrust or dodge and parry. Especially in close combat fighting with weapons like the Roman gladius — short swords that require proximity to kill.”

“I see,” Didymus said, the vagueness of his voice imparting how little he did.

Vorenus smiled. “And how goes our young pharaoh’s schooling?”

“We shared some quite fascinating reading this morning, actually,” Didymus said, voice brightening. “We’re reading some of his father’s works. Caesar’s commentary on the Gallic Wars has been most interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Indeed.” The Greek grinned. “Did you know you’re in it?”

“Well the Eleventh was heavily involved in the defeat of Gaul.” Vorenus’ voice swelled a little with pride. “I should be surprised if the legion were not mentioned.”

“Of course it is. Often and with great regard. But I don’t mean the legion, my Roman friend. I mean you.”

Vorenus turned, squinted at the librarian. “Me?”

“You, Lucius Vorenus.” Didymus, still smiling, nodded his head down towards the courtyard. “And our dear Pullo, too, astonishingly enough.”

Vorenus stared, struck momentarily speechless at the idea of being mentioned in Caesar’s books.

“Oh, don’t get too big-headed, my friend,” Didymus said. “The two of you are only mentioned once. But I can say with some authority that it’s far more space than most men have ever been accorded in the words of Caesar.”

“Both of us?”

“In Caesar’s discussion of a battle against the barbarian Nervii.”

A spark of recognition finally shook the astonishment from Vorenus face and he allowed himself a sighing chuckle. “I didn’t know Caesar took notice of such small things.”

“From the sound of it there were few there who did not take notice.”

Vorenus shrugged, but the smile on his face did not disappear. “I’ve not thought of that in a long time.”

“The two of you were really sworn enemies?”

“Is that how Caesar described us?” When Didymus nodded Vorenus looked back to where Pullo appeared to be describing how best to shield off a high volley of arrows. “Enemies is too strong a word. Competitors, perhaps.”

“Rivals for influence?”

“Distantly so. We knew of each other, and certainly we vied for honors and advancement, but I spent little enough of my time thinking about Titus Pullo.”

“Caesar says he broke the lines to prove himself the better man.”

Vorenus chuckled. “Perhaps Caesar knew him better than I. For my part I would guess he only grew impatient with the slow pace of his phalanx and left his comrades behind in an effort to end the battle more quickly alone. Perhaps some hide of female flesh had caught his eye on the way to the fight that morning; he was likely anxious to return to her.”

Didymus laughed, apparently finding it easy to picture Pullo thus and glad to get more than a few words out of the normally reticent Roman. “It didn’t go well for him.”

“Oh, his fight went well enough at the beginning. Pullo is a beast in a fight, especially in the kind of blind rage he was in that day. But even the momentum of an enraged Titus Pullo will eventually be stopped in the mire of battle-mud. He killed many, but the Nervii cut him off, surrounded him and, in little time at all, wounded him.”

“So your enemy — your rival — impetuously charged into the enemy lines, foolishly allowed himself to be surrounded and set up for slaughter, took what might well have been his mortal wound, but you went in to save him anyway?”

“Romans don’t leave Romans behind,” Vorenus said.

“But surely –”

“We don’t leave each other behind,” Vorenus repeated. “And, besides, I would be lying if I said I thought much about it at the time. I don’t even recall if I was completely aware that it was Pullo. I just saw a man go down. He needed help, so I went.”

“I see,” the scholar said.

“Is this not how Caesar tells the tale?”

“Near enough. He says you didn’t want Pullo to outshine you.”

Vorenus laughed again, more quietly. “Caesar always thought me a more ambitious man than I am.”

“Caesar also said that Pullo in turn had to save you.”

“That is true,” Vorenus said, nodding. “I fought through to him, got him to his feet and started to haul him back to the lines when I took a spear across my thigh.” Vorenus lifted his left foot to a crack in the stone wall. Didymus saw numerous scars up and down the Roman’s leg, but Vorenus traced a particularly bold one just a few inches above his knee. “Pullo’s wound was in his right shoulder; he couldn’t hardly raise his arm to fight. And I couldn’t hardly walk. So I held the barbarians off us both while he half-dragged me back into our lines.”

“Caesar says your actions rallied the men.”

“It wasn’t our intention, but I think it did. We were taken to tent, but I heard the legion put up a terrific cheer. And the men did indeed press forward in our wake and make great slaughter among the enemy. They battled on, but I think the Nervii were essentially broken that day.”

“And you and Pullo became friends.”

Vorenus’ smile was genuine. “We did,” he said. “Caesar saw to it that we were never separated within the legion. When he made the decision to come to Egypt after Pompey, he even personally transferred us to the Sixth so that we might accompany him.”

Didymus had wondered how the two men he knew as legionnaires of the Sixth had been members of the Eleventh in Gaul. “Your presence was meant to inspire the men?”

Vorenus shifted a bit uncomfortably. “Something like that.”

“And here, too, he singled the two of you out, did he not? Sending you for Cleopatra?”

Vorenus raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

“You did,” Didymus said. “The night we met. You told Antony that you and Pullo had been the ones to bring the queen back to Alexandria before Ptolemy’s forces besieged you all. That’s why Pullo saving Caesarion was the second time Cleopatra became indebted to him. I’m a scholar, my boy. I don’t forget such interesting facts.” A mischievous glint lingered in his eye. “For instance, I’ve read some reports that say that because Ptolemy was watching the gates of the palace during the siege you smuggled Cleopatra to Caesar in a rug.”

“Something like that,” Vorenus said, his jaw tight.

“You brought the queen to Caesar, prompting their love, bringing us Caesarion and saving Egypt from the destruction it would have faced at the hands of Rome if Ptolemy had followed his path. As you did at Caesar’s villa on the night we met, you saved this realm.”

When Vorenus said nothing, Didymus continued. “But I’m most curious to know for how long, Lucius Vorenus. You said Pullo thinks Caesarion could be a great fighter given enough time. So I guess I’m wondering how much time he — or any of us — has.”

Vorenus turned to face the older man, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t follow. No man can or should know the time –”

“No, no. You misunderstand me. Even secluded in my books as I am, I’ve heard the rumors of war. And now I find you up here alone and deep in thought. So I wonder, naturally, how much time we have.”

Vorenus knew well that Didymus had few enough friends, keeping to himself either in his rooms at the palace or lost amid the countless rows and stacks of scrolls and books in his library. It surprised him, then, that the scholar would know anything of the war-rumors. “And where do you hear such things?” It probably didn’t matter, but with the increasingly ill news Vorenus was taking a more careful eye to security in the palace than he had in years.

Didymus looked over the wall and saw Pullo and Caesarion return to exchanging blows. “Our young master there, actually,” he said, joining Vorenus in leaning against the stone. “Before we began our reading session this morning.”

Of course. Cleopatra knew only too well about the swirling whispers, and she’d surely told Caesarion as part of her recent efforts to involve her co-regent more heavily in the affairs of state. Caesarion had been co-regent only in name for so long that it was hard for Vorenus to remember that relationship, too, was changing. “I’ll need to suggest he be less loose with his tongue to non-military personnel,” Vorenus said. “No offense implied.”

“And none taken. I have no business in such affairs. Though I do have an interest, as you might imagine.”

“As do we all.” Vorenus said. “But yes, the rumors are worrisome.”

“And?”

Vorenus took a long, slow breath. The news would be known all over Alexandria soon enough, despite his attempts to keep it quiet. “There’s no doubt Octavian’s forces are moving, making small, fact-finding strikes at Antony’s territories in the north,” he said. He looked down at the two men practicing in the square, tried to shake the sudden images of battle from his, head. “If the war has not already begun, it will do so soon.”

Didymus followed Vorenus’ gaze down to Caesarion with his own and sighed. “Do you think we can win?”

“Antony has nearly half of Rome behind him,” Vorenus said. “Including both consuls. Much of the east remains loyal to him, including your old homeland.”

“We Greeks fear imposition. For all his unpredictability, Antony is a man who respects traditions and makes them his own, as he has here in Egypt. Octavian is a man who would make the world Rome, so to speak.”

“I think he is that,” Vorenus agreed. “Ruthless, ambitious, arrogant — but brilliant. He’s raised legions to equal Antony’s, and at the head of his armies stands Marcus Agrippa, perhaps the finest general at sea. We would underestimate them at our peril.”

“You think Octavian will win.”

“I don’t know. Between Antony and Octavian I can’t imagine what any Roman should think.” He raised his head to look north, out to sea as if some reflection of the impending doom might there be seen. “But I know that Egypt will be won or lost in the balance. We’ll know which soon enough.”

The sound of children brought Vorenus’ attention once more to the square below. Cleopatra’s three youngest children, the nine-year-old twins Cleopatra Selene and Alexander Helios, and the littlest one, five-year-old Ptolemy Philadelphus, all fathered by Antony, had appeared from the bright-stoned palace to cheer their older half-brother as he finished the last of his martial lessons. Behind them swept Cleopatra herself, her long thin gown draped close to her sleek body, the cloth whispering to the steady sway of hips that, even nearing the age of forty, could still drive men to madness. Her raven-black wig of hair fell in perfect straight drapes against the muscles of her back, its sheen matched only by the oiled, rich tan of her smooth skin, and her long-fingered hands, wrists bangled with gold, clapped quietly. She tousled her eldest son’s close-cropped dark hair as the other children gathered around him, then spoke to Pullo.

Pullo, predictably but almost pathetically, still found it difficult to talk in her presence, so it was no surprise that when the queen finished speaking he only gestured: raising an arm to point up to where Vorenus and Didymus leaned against the wall, watching.

Cleopatra turned, her dark eyes glinting with a promise of unbridled seduction that was, for her, a look of natural habit. The sunlight seared through her garments to hint at the dark circles tipping her still-firm breasts, and her red-painted lips parted in a weary but thrilling smile. “A messenger has come,” she said, her voice somehow strong despite the breathless sound of it. “It’s news from Rome. A council is being called, and Antony fears the worst.”

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Four Shards of Heaven: Chapter 2

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