The Shards of Heaven

by Michael Livingston

  The great gallery of pillars detailing Alexander’s life was usually dim, but this morning it was dark as night, its lamps all lifeless. Selene moved quickly despite her sudden blindness, trusting her memory and urgency to get her where she was going. Ahead, she could see the light-framed portal between this chamber and the central chamber beyond, which was lit from above by windows. Alexander’s crystal coffin glimmered as if beckoning her.

  Moving so fast she was near to a run, she had no time to stop when the shape of a man in Roman armor stepped out from the shadows in front of her. In the instant before she ran into him, she tried to dodge aside but only succeeded in bouncing off his hip and leg. She fell forward into the lighted chamber, her ankle twisting badly on the steps. With a sharp cry of pain she struck the dark stone floor, her loose night shift catching in her feet and tearing as she crumpled to the ground.

  “By the gods, girl! Are you hurt?”

  Selene could not see the Roman, but she could hear that he was coming down to help her. She scrambled to stand, wincing at pains in her ankle and ribs, and tried to get away from him. “Stay back,” she gasped.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” the man said. His boots made shuffling noises in the chamber as he stopped.

  Selene, panting from the pain, managed to limp close to one of the white-marble statues of her mother’s ancestors, and she reached out to it, bracing herself. “Just stay back,” she said, closing her eyes to swallow the pain and try to think what next she could do. With a Roman soldier here, she couldn’t get the Shard. And Octavian’s armies were just outside.

  “I am,” the man said. “I’m sorry. Can I get you some help?”

  Selene at last opened her eyes and turned to look back at the Roman. Her ribs wailed at the movement, but it was not pain that made her take in her breath. The man with her in Alexander’s tomb was a handsome young man wearing fine leather armor. Emblems of eagles held his white cloak back off his shoulders, and the ornate, burnished helm under his left arm was crowned with a shoulder-to-shoulder red crest: all told, he wore the battle dress of a high-ranking centurion at the least, more likely that of a member of Octavian’s most trusted staff. But it was his skin that most captivated her: darker than that of a Roman, dark enough for him to be a Numidian. Selene’s eyes widened as there was only one man that he could be: Juba, the adopted son of Caesar who’d sought the Scrolls of Thoth, the man whose messenger had nearly killed both Didymus and Vorenus on that terrible night. “I’m … I’m fine,” she managed to say.

  Juba’s face softened with relief. Then his gaze fell down along her body. His cheeks darkened. “My lady,” he stammered, “your dress…”

  Selene looked down, saw that her torn shift was hanging open, exposing much of her just-budding chest to the man. She blushed and grasped the opening shut, thinking despite herself of her mother’s bared breast and the way her father’s torn shirt had been pulled closed. She tried to say something, but among her fear, horror, and revulsion, no words would come.

  “Here,” Juba said, his hands quickly working to free his cloak. “Take this.”

  Head bowed low to avert his gaze, he hesitantly stepped forward, right arm outstretched with the white cloth. Holding her torn dress with one hand, Selene snatched the cloak from him with her other. She wrapped it quickly around her own shoulders, letting it fall around her body like a robe. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  Juba nodded, glanced up hesitantly and then smiled. “It’s my pleasure. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  Selene started to say something more, but one of the doors leading out of the chamber opened loudly, revealing the high priest of Zeus-Ammon in his finest garb. “Lord Juba,” he said, “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.”

  Juba looked over at him and smiled. “Not at all. I was just talking with one of your anxious acolytes.”

  The high priest turned to where Selene stood and instinctively spoke her name. Even as the words escaped his lips, he seemed to be trying to swallow them, his eyes wide at both the shock of seeing her and the horror of having given her away.

  Juba stared at her, his face unreadable. “Selene?”

  Selene backed away like a caged beast, but she could only manage two steps before her back was up against the wall.

  Sounds from the great gallery suddenly echoed into the chamber: cheers, salutes, movement. “He’s here!” the high priest gasped.

  Juba blinked and shook his head as if waking from a dream. Then he rushed forward, quicker than Selene could react, and grabbed her arm. “You’ve got to hide,” he whispered, voice urgent.

  Selene agreed, struck dumb with confusion. Was he helping her? Why would he do that?

  Juba looked around, his eyes desperate. He spotted the open door behind the high priest and reached down to lift her up with his right arm, as easy as he carried his helm in the other. He hurried her over as the sound of footsteps grew louder. The doorway was a gaping mouth of shadow compared to the prismatic light of the central chamber. Juba’s grip was firm but soft, protectively secure over the looseness of the cloak he’d given her to wear. His body was warm through his armor. Selene started to say something as he set her down inside the door, started to ask why he was helping her, but he held a strong finger to his lips. The footsteps were very close.

  Selene reached up to touch him, but he was already pushing the door shut, cutting her off from the light of Alexander’s tomb. Her hand went forward in the sudden dark and touched only hard wood over-strapped with iron.

  She stood in silence and felt a shiver run up her spine from something other than the slightly cooler air in the hallway. There was a small lamp lit a short distance from the closed door, and her eyes quickly adjusted to focus on the door. She leaned forward to rest her ear against the crack between thick boards, and she closed her eyes to listen.

  “Lord Octavian,” she heard the high priest say. “You grace this place with your presence.”

  Selene felt her fingers flex against the wood of the door, as if she might tear through it, but she forced the rage down until it was only a tightening in her jaw. She moved her ear away from the door long enough to look around and see that there were no weapons nearby. Perhaps if she went down to some of the other tombs she’d find something, but she was certain she’d have no chance of killing him right now even if she did.

  Patience, she told herself. Patience.

  Selene put her ear to the door once more. “Juba, you’ve lost your cloak,” a voice said. A commanding, arrogant voice. Not Juba’s. Not the high priest’s. Octavian’s, she decided.

  “Lost it this morning. On the road. A beggar girl was in need of warmth.”

  “And you gave her royal linen?” The tone of Octavian’s voice was mocking. He sighed loudly. “Your too-warm heart will cost me dearly one day, I fear.”

  “I hope it does not,” Juba said. His voice sounded weaker than that of his older adopted brother. Selene imagined him with his head lowered.

  “So. This is Alexander.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the high priest stammered. “The Great Conqueror, son of Zeus-Ammon, king of Macedon and Egypt, Persia and—”

  “Spare me the list,” Octavian interrupted. “I haven’t the time.”

  “As you wish,” the high priest said, his voice quiet.

  “Don’t you think he looks smaller than you expected?” Octavian said.

  “I don’t know,” Juba said. “I suppose we always imagine the men of legend to have been larger than they really were. He was, in the end, just a man.”

  The high priest of Zeus-Ammon made a coughing noise, but apparently the other two men ignored him. “But a man who did great things,” Octavian said.

  “Yes. He was that.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Selene heard someone else approaching the chamber. “Ah, the wreath,” Octavian said.

  “Wreath, my lord?” the high priest asked.

  “Yes, priest. A conqueror, I’ve come to pay my respect
s to the man who built that which I’ve conquered,” Octavian said. “Open it up.”

  “My lord?”

  “The coffin. Open it up so I may place a wreath upon him.”

  “But this … this is highly irregular,” the high priest said. He seemed to gather himself. “I cannot allow it.”

  “Very well,” Octavian said, his voice cold. “Legionnaire?”

  “Yes, Imperator,” a fourth voice answered.

  “Fetch a hammer.”

  “No!” the high priest blurted out.

  “No?” Octavian asked. “Then open it up.”

  Several seconds passed before Selene heard keys shaking. Boots shuffled on stone. Four locks were unlatched. Then came grunting, followed by the sound of something heavy sliding away.

  “Remarkably preserved, isn’t he, Juba?” Octavian said.

  “So he is. His armor in particular is…” Juba’s voice abruptly trailed off. Selene felt her heart pumping hard in her chest. If he was looking at Alexander’s armor, he was looking right at the Shard. If he saw it …

  “Is what?” Octavian asked.

  Selene strained to hear what was happening, her ear pressed as hard as she could bear against the door.

  “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

  THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY

  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.