The Shards of Heaven by Michael Livingston

Author:Michael Livingston [Livingston, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy, Historical, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781466873315
Google: 4dWxCAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0765380315
Goodreads: 25664300
Publisher: Tor Books
Published: 2015-11-09T11:00:00+00:00

17

OCTAVIAN’S GLORY

ACTIUM, 31 BCE

From atop a covered siege tower raised above the deck of the Imperator’s flagship, Juba watched the battle unfold with a growing feeling of unease. His stomach was already twisted and knotted from the pitch and roll of the storm-troubled waves, both amplified by his height above the water, but he knew that his sense of dread was more than mere seasickness or even the fear of death. Octavian, he was certain, was going to make him use the Trident of Poseidon again.

This highest level of the tower was scarcely populated. Aside from himself, the only men standing with Octavian were six praetorian guards, the traitorous general Delius, and a signalman with flags, relaying the Imperator’s messages to the fleet. A few arrows had slipped around the edges of the metal roof above them and lay broken underfoot. And a long chest, containing the Trident itself, was strapped to the rear wall nearest the ladder. All else on the platform was spray and rain and the echo of shouts from the common men on the decks far below them.

This flagship was one of their few relatively large vessels, and Octavian had arranged for it to be centered in the mass of their northern flank, facing Antony’s personal assault. A long line of smaller, faster, and—Octavian had noted this in particular during their planning the previous night—more expendable triremes lay before them, stretched out into the waves and weather and taking the brunt of the attack so far. Just at the edge of his sight to their left, Juba could see another of these larger, hulking ships in the storm: the quinquereme with Agrippa aboard. As he watched, one of its tall ballistae launched a rock big enough to be seen through the thick rain as it hurtled skyward.

If Octavian was bothered by the pitching sea, he didn’t show it. He stood, stance wide and arms on the railing, swiveling his gaze to take in the unfolding events of the battle. Not far away a firepot exploded on the deck of one of their triremes, scattering men in silent flames.

“See how that ship’s oars grow sloppy,” Octavian said to Juba, ignoring the fire to point to one of Antony’s nearby Egyptian-built ships. Its rowers were clearly no longer in rhythm, some moving forward while others pulled back. With many of its legs thus tangled, others completely stilled and hanging limp in the water, the great bug of a thing appeared to be wounded, only limping its way toward them under the heavy onslaught of archers and ballistae.

“It won’t be long now,” Juba said, not certain what event he was referring to but hoping against despair that it would be a victory without use of the Trident.

“No,” agreed Octavian, eyes still scanning the horizon. “Not long.”

“The Imperator’s plan has been a fine one,” Delius said, his voice steady and cold, betraying no emotion as he watched Octavian surgically destroy the men he’d called friends and comrades.

Octavian just nodded, and

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