The Shards of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page B

Selene and Alexander Helios, and the littlest one, four-year-old Ptolemy Philadelphus, all fathered by Antony—had appeared from the halls of the bright-stoned palace to cheer their older half-brother as he finished the last of his lessons. Behind them swept Cleopatra herself, her thin gown draped close to her sleek body, the cloth whispering to the steady sway of hips that, even as she neared the age of forty, could still drive men to madness. Her raven-black wig fell in perfect straight drapes against the muscles of her back, its sheen matched only by the oiled, rich tan of her smooth skin. 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 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. Her red-painted lips parted in a weary but thrilling smile. “I’m going to call a council,” she said, her voice strong despite the breathless sound of it. “No matter the word from Rome. Antony fears the worst.”
    No, Vorenus thought: Antony didn’t fear the worst, he expected it. For all Vorenus knew of the man, Antony feared nothing. “I’m going now to see to the messengers,” he called down. “Pullo can oversee the council preparations.”
    Cleopatra glanced over to the uncomfortable Pullo, nodded ever so slightly in the sunlight, then floated off into the shadows, children in tow. Caesarion lingered for a moment, uncertain, before a word from Pullo sent him hurrying after her.
    Satisfied that Pullo could handle things for at least a little while, Vorenus took a deep breath and strode off to greet the men who might be bringing doom to the doorstep of Egypt.
    *   *   *
    When Vorenus arrived, the two messengers were dismounting from their horses in the large yard between the massive stone facades of the main hall of the palace and the walls of the royal residences, a public space that remained relatively untouched by the threat of war. Six Egyptian guardsmen stood in a loose ring a respectful distance around the outsiders, and the typical tumult of the yard—a buzzing, dizzying chaos of servants and soldiers, priests and politicians coming and going seemingly everywhere at once—was parting around them with barely a second glance.
    The two men, Vorenus saw at once, were unquestionably Roman: their legionnaire uniforms differed from his own only in the amount of road dust upon them. Vorenus therefore greeted them properly as fellow soldiers of Rome, thumping his fist to his chest before bringing it forward in a traditional salute. One man returned the gesture immediately, as if from reflexive instinct. The other man, shorter and stouter than his companion, his right cheek marked with a long, finger-width scar, hesitated for a moment before clumsily returning it.
    Vorenus stifled the urge to correct the scar-faced man, reminding himself of how long a road the two men had no doubt just taken. In his early years, long before he and Pullo caught Caesar’s eye in Gaul, he, too, had carried dispatches. He could still remember the bone-tiredness of arrival, when all a man wanted was a bath and a bed. “Lucius Vorenus,” he said by way of introduction. “Senior centurion of the Sixth Legion of Rome. Welcome to Alexandria.”
    â€œThank you,” the first said, apparently the man of rank between them. “We bring news from Rome.”
    â€œFor Mark Antony, I understand.” Vorenus paused while a noisy cart rambled by. “A council is already being gathered to hear it, at the call of Cleopatra.”
    The messenger swallowed hard, looked down at his