The Shards of Heaven by Michael Livingston

appearing shocked at the accusation. “Lying?”
    â€œYou told me that none knew of the Trident but you and me.”
    â€œThe staff was broken. And he didn’t know what it was—”
    â€œNot the woodworker. That was a small matter, brother. I’m speaking of this slave, who’s not just known of the Trident but helped you practice with it.”
    Juba turned instinctively to look at Quintus, who’d now managed to lift himself to his knees. He was staring at them tiredly, his chest heaving. The old man said nothing but shook his head from side to side.
    â€œHe’s a slave,” Juba said. “I didn’t think he mattered.”
    Even as the words came out, Juba regretted them. The body of Quintus—his old friend, the closest thing to a real father that he’d ever had—sagged, and his face trembled.
    Octavian stared down at the old man as if looking at a beast of burden. “I suppose you’re right, of course,” he said. “Which is why I didn’t feel bad asking him to try to use the Trident himself.”
    â€œBut why—?” Even as he started to ask the question, Juba knew the answer.
    â€œTo see if just anyone can use it,” Octavian said, voice objective with logic. “I wasn’t about to try it myself, you understand. Or to subject one of the guards to it. Goodness, no. You saw what it did to him: if you hadn’t walked in when you had, he would’ve died. I don’t want to lose a good man like that.”
    The full truth of Octavian’s thinking struck Juba hard in the gut. “But a slave isn’t a man,” he whispered.
    â€œPrecisely so,” Octavian said, pride puffing his voice as if he’d just led a prized student to a proper conclusion.
    Quintus knelt, swaying slightly—in grief or exhaustion, Juba couldn’t tell. He imagined the slave’s heart breaking.
    â€œAnd, since we can’t have him talking, either,” Octavian continued as he turned to the praetorian to his right, “kill him.”
    The guard didn’t hesitate. His nod was almost imperceptible, but within a heartbeat he had pulled his gladius free with an effortless, smooth movement and was stepping forward. Quintus at last moved, coughing out assurances of his silence as survival instinct staggered him to his feet and he tried to retreat toward the back of the tent. He tripped, fell to a knee, and then the guard was there, his arm coming back along his side in perfect thrusting form. The old man knelt, tears running clean paths across his dirty skin as his eyes pleaded with the impassive killer. Juba felt paralyzed, knowing he could do nothing without bringing further suspicion upon himself but also knowing he couldn’t just stand by and watch Quintus die. Caught between terrors, he shut his eyes.
    â€œWait.”
    Octavian’s voice was not loud, but when Juba opened his eyes again he saw that the praetorian was as motionless as a statue before his old friend, who’d raised his arms to shield his face.
    â€œReturn to your position, praetorian.”
    The guardsman sheathed his blade as smoothly as he’d removed it and strode back to take his place by the others. The fact that he’d almost murdered a man in cold blood didn’t seem to register on his face.
    Juba felt himself breathe again. The old man’s arms fell away from his face and something like hope appeared in his eyes.
    â€œYou said you agreed with the need for silence,” Octavian said to his younger stepbrother. “‘Absolutely,’ you said. An interesting choice of words. But a good one. The need for silence is absolute.” Octavian’s eyes narrowed. “ You do it.”
    Juba blinked, his mind racing. “Do—?”
    Octavian smiled gently. “Be not so innocent with me, little brother. You know quite well what I mean. What is necessary here, what absolute silence demands.” His