The Shards of Heaven (47 page)

A thin veil of what looked like luminous blue smoke curled about the Numidian like a tornado, sucking the air out of the tunnels. In front of him, the four archers assigned to help protect the Ark were in various states of torture: each of them was screaming in a rain of his own blood, the worst of them shrunken down and in on himself as if his skeleton was being crushed within his body.

Just then Caesarion jumped into view on the other side of the Ark, and his hands gripped the two angels on its top. His shoulders began to shake, and his eyes shut. The twisting clouds spinning about the two men and the Ark between them began to turn faster and faster.

“Did-mus,” Pullo croaked through clenched teeth.

Didymus managed to pull his attention away from the Shard-driven storm of power on the platform. He looked down at Pullo, who'd pushed his back up against the pots and was shaking and jerking like a man in seizures. The big man's eyes seemed to be going in and out of focus, as if he couldn't keep the world in sight.

“Pullo,” Didymus said. “I … what can I do?”

“Vorenus,” Pullo whispered. “Vorenus.”

“It's Didymus. I'm here.” The air around them seemed to groan, but Didymus didn't look. He wanted to see, to understand, but he wanted more to help the man who'd been his friend even when he didn't deserve to have one.

“Vorenus,” the big man repeated. “Save … Ark. Caes-ion.”

Didymus started to ask what Pullo wanted Vorenus for, if that's what he was wanting, but an exhalation of wind jerked his gaze upward. The storm around the Ark had calmed slightly, and it seemed to his eyes more green than blue now. Juba had staggered back toward him and Pullo, only a few steps away, and Didymus thought for a moment about reaching out and grabbing his feet out from under him, about doing something to help Caesarion, even if he could save no one else. But he knew, deep down inside, that he was a coward. He was weak. Why else had he gone along with Octavian's plan to kill Caesarion so many years ago? Why else had he led Juba here now? Had there really been no choice? And he could do nothing against a man such as Juba, he rationalized. He was a librarian, not a warrior. Not a man like Pullo.

A high-pitched tinkling sound came to the scholar's ears. The surface of the platform shimmered as a haze of dust formed upward and swept across it. Didymus watched it slide past them, past Juba, gathering between the Numidian and the Ark, a swirl of debris that took the shape of a wall. Inch by inch, up from the platform, it grew more and more solid.

An iron wall, his scholar's mind noted. An iron wall that will seal Juba away from the Ark. And us with him. That's interesting.

The wall ceased forming for a moment, the storm abating slightly. Juba stepped back toward the Ark, one leg coming up over the low half of the wall. His arms were reaching out.

“No,” Caesarion said, his voice booming with otherworldly power.

Didymus, without thinking, dove atop Pullo, protecting him with his body an instant before the storm exploded outward in a flash of green fire, scattering debris that pounded bruises into the librarian's back. He felt but did not see as Juba soared over them, and he heard his body skittering across the paved walkway into the deeper dark.

The silence that fell around him next was so sudden that the librarian thought for a moment that the concussive force of the energy burst had deafened him. But then he heard the rasp of Pullo's quick and shallow breaths beneath him, and the call of frightened seagulls out below the bridge.

“Caesarion,” he heard Hannah say from somewhere on the platform beyond the Ark. “Stay with me. I see it, Caesarion. I see the boat.”

Didymus pulled himself off Pullo, his face excited. “Do you hear, Pullo? Vorenus is coming. We'll get you—”

Pullo wasn't looking at him. His gaze was fixed on a point behind him, up the walkway toward the Ark chamber.

“Didymus,” he said, his voice a whisper of concentration. The big man wasn't shaking anymore, and he seemed extraordinarily calm. “Get me the lamp.”

The librarian complied without thinking, turning and picking up the lamp before he looked up and saw Juba, walking slowly toward them.

Pullo reached out and took the lamp from his hands. “Tell Vorenus I'll miss him,” the big man said. “And he may be right about the gods. I'll know soon. Now go.”

Didymus gathered himself to his feet, looking from his friend to the Numidian, who was walking like a man possessed, ignoring everything but the Ark in front of him.

“Go,” Pullo repeated.

The librarian looked once more to the man on the ground. Pullo was still staring at Juba, the lamp hot in his hands. “But Pullo—”

“Go.”

Didymus backed away, tripping over the big man's useless legs and staggering to keep his feet. Juba was very close.

“Vorenus always said there'd be judgment in death,” Pullo said, his voice deceptively strong.

Juba stopped walking, turning his attention toward the big man. Didymus stumbled two steps, three, to the edge of the canal. He leaned out into the cold, momentarily still air.

“If so, I'll see you in Hell,” Pullo said, and Didymus, turning for one last look at his old friend, already jumping for the water, saw him toss the lamp over his shoulder into the oil pots behind him.

The librarian broke the surface of the canal a moment before the churning fire of the explosion tore through the air behind him. The water around him shook violently, tumbling him like a stone for the second time this day. He dove deep before kicking his way up, feeling for the direction of the air as concussive blasts rocked the canal in waves, one after another. And then, just as he reached the surface, the ceiling between Didymus and the new wall beside the Ark fell into darkness as the stones of the collapsing tunnel sealed him inside, shutting out the sun.

*   *   *

Didymus heaved himself, dripping wet and more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life, up out of the canal and onto the fractured stones of the walkway. Dust glowed like sprinkling, slow-falling rain in the slivers of light that shone through the few gaps in the wall of rubble that had come down across the end of the canal where Pullo had lain. Light shone, too, like thin drapes hanging down from cracks that the quaking explosion had torn in the ceiling above. The librarian groaned, aching in seemingly every part of his body. The sound of small rocks rattling down through the rubble, or calving off the ceiling to splash into the canal, echoed loudly in the cavernous space.

The scholar hobbled painfully toward the ruinous wall of collapsed stone. From beyond it he heard the muted sound of movement. His first thought was of Pullo, but the big man had to be dead. No one could have survived that.

There was one gap, perhaps a few inches wide, near eye level, and he approached it first, leaning forward to put his eye to it. There were clouds of dust outside, but through spaces in the drifting haze he could see the Ark, littered with dust and small bits of shattered rock but protected from the force of the blast and the collapsing tunnel by the short metal wall that had formed up beside it. Hannah stood behind the Ark, her garments singed, her long hair grayed with chalky dust, but otherwise seeming unharmed. She was waving at someone, and as Didymus watched, the prow of a trireme glided into view, pushing through the debris-littered sea. The sun shone brightly on its decks and on the platform, and the librarian realized that the bridge that ought to have sheltered them must have been destroyed in the blast.

The trireme slowed and stopped. Didymus heard the thump of a plank falling on stone, and then his heart leaped to see Vorenus run into the line of his sight. Pullo's friend—God, he thought,
Pullo's
friend—knelt behind the Ark, Hannah bent down, too, and when they stood, Vorenus had Caesarion in his arms like he was cradling a child. Caesarion's chest rose and fell. He was alive.

Vorenus and Hannah moved away, out of sight. Egyptians came, six or seven of them, and they lifted the long poles on the sides of the Ark between them, carrying it down to the trireme.

Didymus smiled to himself tiredly. It was gone. Pullo had done it. The Shard would be safe now. Caesarion would be safe now.

Vorenus came back to the wall, began throwing rocks out of the way, fist by fist, as if he meant to tear his hands to stumps on his way through the rubble.

Didymus felt his throat catch before he managed to speak. “Vorenus,” he croaked. “Stop.”

Vorenus looked up, eyes searching the wall. “Pullo?”

“It's Didymus.”

“Didymus? Where's Pullo?”

Didymus had to close his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at him. “He's gone, Vorenus.”

“Gone?”

“He's … dead, Vorenus. He … he saved us,” Didymus said, trying but failing to be strong. “He was hurt. He … told me to tell you—”

The librarian's voice finally gave out and his words choked off in a sob. When he finally had control of himself, he opened his eyes and saw that there were tears on the face of the Roman, his jaw tight with emotion. “What did he say?”

“He said to tell you … he said you were right. About the gods. You were right all along. He said he'd see you soon.”

Vorenus coughed out something between a laugh and a sob. “Always was a lying bastard,” he said. Then he swallowed and his face grew hard. “Thank you, Didymus. I … I—”

“Just go,” Didymus said. “Hurry. Go.” His own words made him think of Pullo, but he managed to set that memory aside for the moment. “Get out of here, all of you.”

Vorenus seemed about to say something more, then only nodded. But he didn't move, and his eyes remained downcast.

The sound of shuffling and a grunt of pain came to Didymus out of the dark behind him. He turned and saw in a distant ray of light that Juba was limping toward him along the walkway. No longer a man possessed, he seemed instead a man defeated. As Didymus watched, he fell over against the wall to rest for a moment, his hands gripping the broken end of an arrow protruding from his side. With a jerk and a gasp he ripped it from his body and dropped it, the wooden shaft clattering on the ground.

The scholar turned back to the wall. Vorenus was still there. “Go,” he said again, voice stronger with desperation. “Take care of him. See that he reads his books, okay?”

The Roman's smile was grim when he looked up. “Good-bye,” he said.

Didymus didn't know who Vorenus was addressing, but he decided to speak for both of them. “Good-bye,” he whispered.

Vorenus started to go, shouting something to the trireme even before his back was turned. Didymus heard oars hitting the water, and the ship began to move. Vorenus took one last look at the wall, face hard as its stone, and then all Didymus could see was the sea.

The shuffling of Juba's feet was louder now. Didymus turned and watched the Numidian approach, close enough for the librarian to tell that the man's clothes had been ripped and torn to tatters by the force of the explosion, that his dark skin was sooty with streaks of black. He'd pulled all the arrows from his body while Didymus had said his good-bye to Vorenus, and now damp streaks of red spotted his sides. Only his breastplate seemed untouched. He looked tired beyond exhaustion, like a broken man, and there was both confusion and acceptance on his face. “It's gone, isn't it?” he asked, voice hoarse.

The scholar didn't need to ask what it was that was gone. Not knowing what else to do, he helped the Numidian hobble painfully over to the wall. There was nothing more to be seen through the gap, but the stones there gave the Numidian a temporary place to rest his weight.

Didymus wondered, absently, if this adopted son of Caesar would kill him for helping his friends. Or perhaps he'd simply turn him over to the other adopted son of Caesar as some kind of peace offering. He didn't even know if that made sense, and he himself was far too tired to care.

A cascade of stones scattered down off the ceiling nearby. Didymus didn't flinch, but he recognized the danger in an academic way. “We should go,” he said.

The Numidian had sat down on the pile of rubble beside him. He bowed his head. He was looking at his hands, as if he expected to see something more upon them than scrapes and dirt. “I think I killed men today,” Juba said quietly. “I don't … remember clearly.” He sounded more tired than even Didymus felt.

The librarian took a deep breath, thinking about what to say. “I don't know,” he finally said. “It all happened so quick. I don't understand even what I think I saw.” It was true, he decided, after a fashion.

“And this man?” Juba asked.

Man? Didymus looked down at the ground and saw, after his eyes adjusted, first the torn and half-burnt clothes and then the shape of the man beneath them.

“Caesarion was here,” Juba said weakly. “I think we fought. Is it him?”

The librarian had to step around the body and kneel in order to get a look at the dead man's face. It was an act that would have turned his stomach once, but it seemed a small thing after what he'd already seen this day.

Jacob was badly burned, his hair gone, but Didymus could still recognize him. And the blackened sword still protruding from his stomach was all the confirmation he needed.

“Is it Caesarion?” Juba asked again.

Didymus stared into Jacob's lifeless eyes, but it wasn't the dead Jew that he saw. It was his old friend, Titus Pullo, who'd given the last of his life to let Caesarion escape with the Shard. Pullo, the bravest, strongest man he'd ever met. Didymus felt tears upon his cheeks, tracing through the numbness of his emotions.

“Well?”

Didymus blinked up at Juba, who looked down through sunken eyes, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion. Didymus swallowed hard, stood, and then did the bravest thing he could think to do, just the sort of thing he thought Pullo would do if he were still alive: he lied. “It is,” he said, letting his emotions quake his voice. “Burned badly, but it's him.”