The Shards of Heaven (39 page)

“Is what, Juba?”

He'd seen it. He had to have seen it.

“What?” Juba said. “Oh, sorry, brother. I was … just thinking about this. This moment, I mean. It's extraordinary. I'm honored.”

Selene let out a breath that she didn't know she'd been holding. Juba had seen the Shard. She knew it. But he hadn't told Octavian. And he had shut her behind this door when he ought to have given her, too, over to him. Her mind reeled with questions enough to make her feel dizzy.

From the other side of the door she heard movements that must have been the sound of Octavian placing a wreath on Alexander's corpse. When he was done, the high priest asked him if he would like to see some of the tombs of the Ptolemies, starting with Alexander's own general. Selene smiled to hear it. She was in the hall where some of the most recent members of her family were entombed. Getting Octavian into another of the halls would perhaps give her a way out of the mausoleum.

“No,” Octavian said. “I came to see a king, not dead people.”

“Of course,” the high priest said, though his voice sounded both hurt and confused.

“Leave me,” Octavian said. “I need a few minutes alone. All of you. Not you, Juba. Please, stay.”

Selene heard the sounds of many feet moving away. Even after she could hear them no more, neither Juba nor Octavian spoke for perhaps a minute or more.

“You've done it,” Juba finally said. She heard his own footsteps now, getting closer until the door beneath her head creaked slightly with the weight of his presumed leaning. She could hear his voice as if it were in her own ear. “Alexandria is yours.”

“We both know I could not have won this victory without you, brother,” Octavian said.

“It would've been won without me, I'm sure,” Juba said.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But even if so, it would not have gone so well. The Trident was”—Octavian let out a chuckle—“well, a gift of the gods.”

“As you say.”

“I know this has been hard on you, Juba. We might have done things we aren't proud of, but it was all for the greater good, my brother. You must remember that. It was all for this. Antony is dead. Rome is whole. Our father's dream is alive.” Octavian paused for a moment, but Juba remained silent. “Of course, though I'm in your debt, we both know I cannot proclaim this openly.”

The door creaked slightly. Selene surmised that Juba was nodding his head. “I wouldn't want you to do so,” he said.

“We'll find something suitable, though,” Octavian said. “A province for you to govern, perhaps. Titles. A rich woman for your bed. And wealth enough. You needn't worry about that.”

“Just a quiet corner with my books,” Juba said. Selene felt she could sense the honesty of his response like a flow of warmth through the wood.

“Of course. Perhaps you'll read of more artifacts, more weapons of the gods.”

“What of the Trident? You'll keep it, I suppose?”

“For now. For safekeeping, and in the hope it isn't used again.”

The door heaved with Juba's sigh of relief. “Never would be too soon,” he said.

“For the greater good,” Octavian repeated. “Remember that.”

“Greater good. Yes.” There was a pause for a moment. “And what fate for Cleopatra and her children?”

“Hm? What care do you have for them?”

“No care,” Juba said. “Just curiosity.”

“Cleopatra will want to commit suicide, of course. Follow Antony out with honor. I'll not have that. She's being arrested to prevent such a rash end, kept alive to be taken to Rome for my Triumph. I'll enjoy that.”

“Caesarion?”

“There can only be one son of Caesar, one emperor. I'm told he's gone to ground like a cornered rabbit. But whatever hole he's crawled into, we'll pull him out of it sooner or later, and that will be that.”

“Not the other children, though?”

“I haven't decided. Why? Have you a thought?”

“I don't think you should kill them.”

“Ah, that weak heart again.”

“No, it's not that. It would just show the … mercy of the son of a god if you spared the children of your enemy.”

“Cuts close to you, doesn't it?”

“It does. Caesar had mercy on me after my father fell, and I would have the same done for them. More than that, though, I think it would show your willingness to forgive the sins of the past as you move forward to a new Rome. It would be well received at home, I know, especially since Antony left your own sister to take up with Cleopatra and give rise to these children.”

Selene listened hard to the silence. She thought she could hear Octavian pacing. “I suppose Antony's children could be spared,” he said. “Perhaps I'll even adopt them. It would go over nicely with the Senate: pardon to those who move forward. I like that very much.”

“So you'll spare them, then?”

Octavian laughed. “If it pleases you, yes. I will.”

“Thank you. It's for the best anyway.”

“I suppose.” Octavian sighed. “Well, it's a small matter in the moment. More pressing is the basic security of the city. The palace will be secure shortly, and Delius has put together some excellent plans for the transition of local control. I should see to it.”

“Of course. I was hoping I might help to secure the Great Library.”

“If you'd like,” Octavian said. His voice sounded distracted. “Just be careful. I can't afford to lose you.”

“The … guards you assigned me haven't failed to keep me protected yet.” There was something hard and pained in Juba's voice, like resentment.

“Good. And they'll remain with you.” If Octavian noticed the tone in Juba's voice, he didn't show it.

“One last favor,” Juba asked.

“Yes?”

“Could I have a few minutes here alone?”

“Alone?”

“Without the guards. I just … I want a few minutes to reflect here.”

“So sentimental.” Octavian chuckled. “It's all that stands between you and being a great leader of men, Juba. You cannot be sentimental when the survival of the state is at stake.”

“I can imagine so.”

Selene heard the sound of footsteps, and Octavian's voice was growing quieter. “Very well,” he said. “Your guards will wait outside. Leave him in one piece, my brother!”

Once Octavian's voice had receded, Selene leaned back away from the door, expecting it to be opened. What would she say to him? She had so many questions, she didn't know where to begin. He'd been her enemy, had he not? But he'd also hidden her. And the feel of him had been so comforting, so protective. And he'd argued to save her brothers. Why? And what did the tone of his words mean when he spoke of his guards?

Selene stood in the half-dark for long minutes, lost in her thoughts as she watched the door, waiting. When it still hadn't moved, she leaned her ear back to it and heard shuffling sounds of cloth from the other side. Grunts. And then a repeat of the sliding sound she'd heard earlier. Creaks of leather and the quiet ringing of metal. Then, at last, footsteps coming closer.

The door swung open and Selene squinted in the blinding light. Juba was there, filling the frame, back-lit by the rays of sunlight that spun colors around Alexander's closed crystal tomb. As her eyes adjusted she could see that there was a new smile on the Numidian's face. And something more had changed, too: he was wearing Alexander's armor, and its black stone shone like dark fire upon his chest.

 

25

T
HE
E
NEMY
OF
M
Y
E
NEMY

ALEXANDRIA, 30 BCE

Didymus sat on one of the curving stone benches in the main hall of the Great Library of Alexandria, awaiting the end. The Roman soldiers had given up trying to use their shoulders and axes to break down the barred and reinforced front doors, but he knew that they were only gathering their strength for another assault. Probably the final one.

They were getting a battering ram, he supposed. A massive, iron-capped length of wood that would splinter the locks and the bars, opening up gaps like wounds. He and his fellow scholars would try to fill the openings, to ward off the Romans, but he knew they'd fail. They were librarians, not soldiers. He'd known that before he'd left for the Serapeum, when he'd given the order to barricade the Great Library in his absence. He'd known it when he then decided to leave the Serapeum—and the chance to see a Shard—in order to return here for the end. The Romans would get through, and the low reflecting pool between the ten pillars in the entry hall would be stained first with rivulets of bright red and then, as more of their blood spilled out into its waters, it would mix to a soft, pleasant pink. After that, if history was any indication, the conquering Romans would burn the Library and the bodies of its defenders—some, no doubt, still alive—to ash.

Didymus looked down at the central round pool at his feet, saw the steadily rippling reflection of the light of this new day streaming through the eastern windows of the dome high above him. Closer still he saw the three staircases spiraling round the walls of the six-sided hall, and the doors to the ten halls of knowledge and all the books beyond. The doors were, for the moment, bolted and barred shut, but it didn't matter. Breathing deep, he could still smell the scrolls.

Didymus was glad, at least, to know that he'd probably not live long enough to smell the smoke.

The librarian felt an instinctive chill run up his spine and he stood, hoping movement would get his mind on something other than the thought of fire and screams. He walked around the pool, only to find himself staring back down the pillared entry hall to where half a dozen of his fellow scholars were slumped, in exhaustion, around or against the makeshift barricades they'd pushed up against the front doors. The turned-up desks and boards and bookcases looked obscenely out of place. He'd always thought of the Library as a temple, meant to be kept as orderly as one.

There was a noise from above him: the sound of fast footsteps approaching. He'd stationed a lookout up in his own office, a fine vantage point to the open courtyard in front of the Library, and it seemed that they'd spotted something. The ram, he supposed.

The face that appeared at the railing belonged to Thrasyllus, one of the youngest of the scholars who'd chosen to remain at the Library after he'd told them of Antony's death and the fall of the city and gave them free pass to leave. He had always been a driven young man—a student of astrology, which Didymus found unfortunate—yet his usual confident surety was gone for the moment. He appeared both frightened and confused.

“What is it?” Didymus asked.

“Master,” the young astrologer said, stuttering in his haste, “there's a man outside who wishes to talk to you. He calls you by name.”

“Who?”

“A dark-skinned man. But he wears the crest and markings of Caesar's own family.”

Didymus swallowed hard. “Juba.”

“He isn't alone,” Thrasyllus said.

Of course not. Juba would bring many soldiers to destroy the Library. He'd have a special interest in its destruction, Didymus imagined. “How many men?”

“No men, master. He's with a young girl.” The look of confusion on the astrologer's face deepened. “I … I think it's the lady Selene.”

*   *   *

Didymus was staring out his office window at the encircling Romans when Thrasyllus knocked quietly on his door.

“Please, come in,” Didymus said as he turned around, trying to make his voice sound more in control than he felt.

The door opened and the young astrologer bowed out of the way to reveal Selene, who rushed forward quickly. Didymus crouched down to embrace her. He started to tell her how sorry he was for the death of Antony before it struck him how little the words were in comparison to her loss. But he realized, too, that he had nothing more to give. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered.

She'd raised her arms around his neck, and he felt them shiver. “Me, too,” she said. And then she let him go, stiffening as if she were embarrassed by her sudden show of emotion. She ran her hands down a simple linen dress that appeared to be slightly too big to be her own. Her eyes were wet as she blinked away from him, looking toward the door.

Didymus stood, his gaze following hers, and he saw, standing in the doorway of his office, the man who was unmistakably Juba, the adopted Numidian son of Julius Caesar himself. He was wearing his finest dress uniform, the helm in the crook of his arm gleaming with fresh polish, though Didymus' attention was drawn quickly to his strange way of wearing his white cloak. Didymus had only seen such cloaks pulled back off both shoulders, but Juba's hung from his right shoulder alone, such that it draped across the front of his chest to hang half over the short sword at his left hip. The thought ran across Didymus' mind that he could later research whether this was a Numidian custom. It wouldn't take him long to do: he knew precisely where he'd find the book he needed, and he knew it was written in familiar Greek. It wouldn't take long at all. But then, as soon as he imagined the halls of scrolls, he pictured them in flames, the little bits of burning papyrus fluttering in the smoky air like bright butterflies.