The Gates of Hell

by Michael Livingston

  The Shards. It was telling the others to get the Shards.

  The other two demons stood. They opened their mouths in their perfect but unnatural smiles. Then all three turned and walked toward the charred corpse of Isidora, sliding with the grace of slow-moving dancers across the old stones of the temple.

  “Come on,” Selene whispered, gripping the straps of the Aegis and dragging Juba with them. When she could only move him a few feet farther away, she began to cry. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. All my fault.”

  God had died to give them all the freedom to choose. Right or wrong, good or evil, she’d always had a choice. No one had forced her to sneak away from the palace so many years ago, to make her way to the Great Library, where she’d first learned about the Shards of Heaven. No one had forced her to confront Caesar. No one had forced her to bring the asp to her mother. No one had forced her to swear to avenge the death of her parents, or even the rape she had suffered at the hands of the vile Tiberius. No one had forced her to convince Juba to come here, to reach for greater power than she’d already been blessed to receive.

  She’d had a choice. She’d always had a choice. That was what God’s sacrifice had given her. That was His gift.

  Yet she’d chosen vengeance. God had given her true life, and at every turn she’d chosen death.

  No more. Weeping, she looked up at the great expanse of the heavens above her. The clouds and storm were gone. The stars shone down. God wasn’t there. Even the heaven where He’d once existed wasn’t there. Not truly. But it still felt right to pray upward, to direct her plea for forgiveness into that silent canopy of night.

  And then she swore, to whatever memory was left of God, that she was done with vengeance. If somehow they survived, she was through with dreams of death. She would live in peace, no matter the cost.

  Just let us live, she prayed. And if not me, then my husband. A good man. Let him live.

  The demon who had spoken—the leader, Selene decided—had reached Isidora’s body. It looked at it with disinterest for a moment, as if studying a foreign thing. Then the other two came, and they reached down with their perfect hands, each of them grabbing a Shard. Isidora’s blackened fingers cracked and crumbled as they effortlessly lifted the artifacts away. Little was left of the Lance of Olyndicus, and even the metal housing of the Trident had been twisted and deformed by the energies that had consumed the young girl, but the two Shards were still there. They were untouched. They still gleamed, blacker-than-black stones, as hauntingly beautiful as the demons who held them. The leader kicked at the corpse, sliding parts of it across the weathered stones toward the black pit of death.

  As if obeying some unheard call, the two beings wrapped their hands around the stones. Selene held her breath.

  But there was no arc of fire. There was no rush of storm. Nothing happened.

  The two demons looked up at one another. Then at the leader. As one, all three turned to stare at Selene.

  No, she realized. Not her. They were looking at Juba. They were looking at the Aegis. They needed life. They needed the spark of God.

  “Thrasyllus!” she screamed, plunged into sudden panic and pulling desperately at her husband. “Help me! Please!”

  The demons were moving in perfect steps. They were smiling. “Thrass-lus,” the leader said, smiling as it mimicked her words. “Please.”

  Then Thrasyllus was there, his hands by hers, and he was tugging and dragging Juba away. Her husband groaned, beginning to awaken, but he hadn’t the strength to move.

  The demons were very close now. They did not hurry. They moved with a steady and unrelenting pace, as if they had all the time in the world.

  With the astrologer’s help Selene had dragged Juba past the line of torches, close to the shattered gate of the temple. But it wasn’t far enough. It would never be far enough.

  They would get the Aegis. They would get the Palladium. With the four Shards together they could surely open the gate once more. Selene had wanted vengeance. In her selfish desire for it, she had unleashed unimaginable horror upon the world. They would make a hell on Earth. Her attempt to escape, like the desires that had brought her here, had all been for nothing. And the demons knew it, too. They made lyrical and beautiful sounds to one another as they approached. They were, she knew, laughing.

  She stopped pulling. Thrasyllus stopped, too. Juba was leaned up against her, and Thrasyllus was close beside her on her left. He was crying and talking of his love for Lapis, then begging for his own forgiveness. He had lied, he said. They huddled in their despair, the three of them, awaiting the end. Selene leaned over her husband and saw that he was awake enough to look up into her eyes as she looked down into his. And when she reached down to kiss him one last time upon the forehead, to apologize, he had strength enough to whisper three words to her. “Go, my love,” he rasped.

  “Fly,” Thrasyllus suddenly said.

  Selene looked up. The astrologer was gazing at the stars, tears in his eyes. “What?”

  “Mercury. Libra.” His head jerked as his eyes moved across the heavens. He seemed ready to laugh at the foolishness of what he read there. “Signs say to take flight.”

  Selene’s eyes widened. She rifled through the folds of her dress, searching desperately. The demons were just steps away, tall and mighty, terrible and menacing in their perfection. But in the last moments her hand found it, wrapped around it. She pulled it free, and then she moved one arm around Thrasyllus while with the other she placed the Palladium upon the Aegis.

  Juba’s hand had somehow fallen atop hers, and together they dropped down into the fast-filling dark, only to rise up again in flight.

  Riding a shaft of wind, arcing against the moon and the stars, they flew for the shore, for the sea, for the ship that would speed them away. Behind and below them, the frustrated cries of the demons sang a wordless song of horror. And around them, upon them, the city was awakened to screams that soon filled the night.

  EPILOGUE

  THE LIGHT OF THE SUN

  MEROË, 22 BCE

  Vorenus stood on the northern balcony of the royal palace of Meroë, seat of the kingdom of Kush. He was, for the moment, alone with his thoughts. Most of the city was gathering below, all of them cheering the new temple that was about to be dedicated in honor of the Kushite victory over Rome—a victory that he knew was not true.

  He had seen such a celebration before, years ago in Alexandria, when Antony and Cleopatra had returned from the battle of Actium. That, too, had been a lie. Rulers, he’d found, had a way of doing that.

  Not that he could blame the Kandake. With Rome’s conquest of Egypt complete, the Kushite queen knew that the next kingdom up the Nile—Kush, with its rich iron mines—would surely be the next target for their insatiable domination. So the Kandake had done what she’d had to do: she’d made a deal with the Nabataeans of Petra, who were already worried about what would happen if the Romans managed to open a direct route to the spices of Arabia. It was a masterful plan, one that Vorenus admired for its seeming simplicity. The Nabataeans would agree to guide the Roman legions from Egypt through Arabia, but they would take the most time-consuming and dangerous path possible. The Romans could be expected to react with trade sanctions against the Nabataeans, but the Kandake agreed to help minimize their impact by opening up Kushite markets—including increased access to her precious metals—on favorable terms to the people of Petra. And in the meantime, while the Roman legions were wandering the desert of Arabia, the Kushites would have descended the Nile in a massive raid on a relatively unprotected Egypt, establishing their strength while burning towns like the one at Elephantine and destroying fortifications like the garrison at Syene. The power of Rome would be checked on two fronts.

  It was a brilliant plan.

  The only thing she had underestimated was Roman resolve.

  Augustus had relieved the prefect of Egypt when he’d at last returned from Arabia with the limping remnants
of the legions he’d marched into the desert. He’d appointed Petronius in his place, who had immediately set himself upon the task of restocking the garrisons, rebuilding the fortifications, and making plans for a counterstrike on Kush.

  Pullo and Vorenus, who’d spent the years since Elephantine as guests in the Kandake’s court, had told her it was coming, even as she’d set her workmen to constructing this temple dedicated to the very victory that had brought them into her presence—and cost Hannah and Caesarion their lives.

  Below him, the people cheered as trumpets blared in song. But the thoughts of death had turned the eyes of Vorenus to the east, to the dozens upon dozens of sandstone tombs and pyramids lining the horizon. The necropolis of Meroë was sacred ground, and he’d found himself walking there more than once, in the silence, communing with the memory of Caesarion. He’d been a good man, the best of men, and it was wrong that he should die so young. He’d only just started his life.

  It should have been me, he thought to himself. What he could have done differently, he didn’t know, but that didn’t change the guilt. He’d lived, though he was undeserving of more time on this earth. And Caesarion, a young man who deserved everything in the world, had died.

  It simply wasn’t right.

  “Am I disturbing you?” said a voice from the palace behind him.

  Vorenus turned and saw Syllaeus, the Nabataean who had played such a key role in the negotiations between Petra and Meroë. The dark-haired man had a mixed complexion, not unlike that of the Greeks in Egypt, and the way he held himself was mixed, too: his rough hands and his taut muscles spoke of a man accustomed to labor, yet the way he wrapped his robes about him and held his head high, he could just as easily have been a man of the court. Vorenus had found him friendly and interested in what was happening around him in a way that seemed casual but was in truth constantly scheming for an advantage. For all these reasons and more, Vorenus figured Syllaeus was a consummate politician: as likely to push a drowning man under as he was to save him. It was little wonder that he’d been the man who’d guided the Roman legions into the desert, able to walk the men to their deaths in the sands, smiling all the while, and somehow returned a free man, living to tell about it. He was impressive, to be sure, but Vorenus trusted the Nabataean no farther than he could throw him. And his back wasn’t what it once was.

  “Not a disturbance at all,” Vorenus lied through his smile.

  “I am glad for it,” the Nabataean said. He walked up to join Vorenus at the balcony, looking out at the crowds. “A nice temple,” he said.

  Vorenus nodded. “People like a celebration.”

  Syllaeus yawned. It was midday, but Vorenus didn’t doubt the Nabataean had enjoyed a late night. He’d only been in Meroë two weeks, but his drinking and whoring was the talk of the city. Something else he had in common with many politicians. “The Romans will attack Napata in the coming days.”

  Napata was home to the more ancient royal palace of the Nubians, partway between Meroë and Elephantine. It was the last stronghold between the advancing Roman legions and this capital. And Syllaeus was noting the impending attack as casually as he would comment on the weather. Everyone knew the Romans were coming, but their speed was unexpected, even for Vorenus, who nevertheless tried not to act surprised. “I see. And the Kandake is aware?”

  The Nabataean nodded. “I tell her what she needs to know.”

  Vorenus smiled at that. “Which means you think I need to know.”

  “So it does. We will be leaving for Petra earlier than planned. That is, if you and your friend are still planning to join me?”

  Before it had passed into the hands of Alexander the Great, before it had been moved to Alexandria, the Ark, through Hannah’s family, had been kept under the protection of the Nubians for many years. Centuries had passed, but the people of Kush had not forgotten their long-ago charge. When they had seen it on Elephantine, when they had witnessed its power, they had worshipped the Ark and once more taken it into their protection. But the Kandake knew that it could not forever remain in Meroë. Rome was coming, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time and circumstance before it would need to be moved to Petra, to the place where Hannah and Caesarion had wanted to see it go before they died. “We will go with you,” Vorenus said. “All of us.”

  Syllaeus smiled as if this was the finest news he’d heard in days. “Excellent. I’ll make the final arrangements. We will leave in the morning. With Rome on the way, we will need to take a longer route east from here to reach the seaports, but I’ll see to it that things are comfortable for your, ah, cargo.”

  The Nabataean paused for the briefest of moments, and Vorenus kept his face impassive, the way he suspected Caesarion would have, the way Cleopatra would have expected.

  “And of course for the two of you and the little one,” Syllaeus continued. Then his eyes perked up. “Ah! Speaking of them now…”

  The two of them turned toward the palace, and Pullo came lumbering out onto the balcony with his familiar half-limp. On his broad shoulders sat little Miriam, her brown hair bouncing lightly as she held up her hand to shield her eyes from the light of the sun. She laughed, a sound so innocent and pure that Vorenus knew it would never fail to lift the spirits of his heart. Pullo, too, was beaming.

  Vorenus couldn’t help but smile. Though he himself was more and more prone to thoughts of the darkness, his old friend had somehow regained some of his old, familiar mirth since Elephantine. Vorenus was thankful for it each and every day.

  “I’ll take leave of you all,” Syllaeus said. He bowed, then swept back into the palace depths, whistling.

  “Uncle Vor-nus,” Miriam said, smiling as Pullo put an extra bounce in his step. “They’re starting.”

  Vorenus grinned and reached up to jiggle a finger playfully at her rib. She giggled and pushed his hand away. “So they are, little one. Are you wanting to go down to watch?”

  The three-year-old clapped. “Down!”

  Vorenus nodded sagely, then tilted his head toward the balcony edge. “All right, Pullo. Over she goes.”

  Pullo stepped forward and Miriam squealed in mirth, seemingly ready to take flight. The girl, near as they could tell, feared nothing in the world. Vorenus prayed that this would always be so.

  When the big man didn’t throw her, she grabbed his gray hair in her little fists and tugged. “Pul-lo. Fly!”

  Pullo winced and grinned. “Just for that, Miri, I think we will be taking the stairs.”

  “Probably for the best,” Vorenus said. “You need wings to fly.”

  Miriam spread her arms as if she were a bird. “I don’t think so,” the girl said. “I’ll show you one day.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Vorenus looked at his old friend. “Syllaeus says Rome will hit Napata soon. So we will leave tomorrow. Can you be ready?”

  Pullo nodded, bouncing the little girl in distraction, then looked down to the temple and almost laughed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Vorenus peered down where he was staring, and he saw the procession moving toward the temple steps. Four men were carrying a small platform on their shoulders, and a head of bronze was upon it. It gleamed and flashed in the sun, so bright that even Pullo’s bad eyes had been able to make it out: the head of the tall statue of Augustus that had stood over the harbor at Elephantine. “It is indeed. I think they’re going to bury it under the steps of the temple. That way anyone who comes there will step on it.”

  Pullo let out a hearty, booming laugh. “I like these people.”

  “I do, too,” Vorenus agreed. He smiled, though he worried over what the future would hold.

  “Let’s go,” Miriam said plaintively.

  Pullo nodded. “As our lady says.”

  The big man started to turn away when something else caught Vorenus’ eye in the light. Vorenus stopped them, and he reached up to push the necklace that had been Miriam’s mother’s back into her tunic. He patted it there, against her skin. “Remember to
keep it safe,” he said.

  “So she can keep me safe,” the little girl said.

  Vorenus smiled. He’d have time to cry after they were gone. “That’s right. Now run along, you two. I’ll catch up.”

  Pullo headed back into the palace. From his shoulders, Miriam was asking whether she’d be able to see through the crowds. Watching him bend to keep from hitting her head on the high palace archway, Vorenus just smiled as he let the tears come.

  * * *

  The story of the Shards of Heaven continues in

  BOOK 3: THE REALMS OF GOD

  GLOSSARY OF CHARACTERS

  Aelius Gallus. Roman prefect of Egypt, he led an expedition to Arabia Felix that can only be described as disastrous. His Nabataean guide, Syllaeus, seems to have purposely led the Roman legions to their destination by the longest route possible, and most of the men died from the desert heat or unexpected disease over the six months they spent wandering. Worse, his long absence from Egypt left it open to a crippling attack from its Nubian neighbors in Kush.

  Alexander Helios. Son of Mark Antony and Cleopatra VII, twin brother of Cleopatra Selene, he was likely born in the year 40 BCE. He disappears from reliable historical records after the fall of Alexandria in 30 BCE.

  Alexander the Great. Alexander III, born in Macedon in 356 BCE, succeeded his father as king in 336. In his youth he led a number of Greek city-states to revolt against what had been a Macedonian-led alliance, and Alexander quickly set in motion a series of campaigns that led him as far north as the Danube and solidified his position as ruler of a united Greek state. Alexander subsequently moved his armies east against the Persian Empire, then the largest and most powerful state in the known world. He led his men to conquer Asia Minor and Syria, routing the Persian armies and defeating city after city. In 332 he entered Egypt, where he was declared to be the son of Ammon, an Egyptian deity. For reasons unknown, he faced off with the armies of the Kush but refused to fight them. Instead of continuing his campaign south into Africa, he moved north and founded the famed city of Alexandria, which subsequently became the capital of Egypt. Returning east, he captured Babylon and put an end to the Persian Empire before entering central Asia and defeating several states. Alexander then journeyed toward India, where his armies, though successful, finally balked at fighting farther from their Greek homes. Throughout his long career, he is said never to have lost a battle, and though severely wounded on several occasions, he was still reportedly vigorously strong. Nevertheless, he died under uncertain circumstances shortly after returning to Babylon in 323 BCE. After his death, he was placed in a golden sarcophagus, which made its way to Alexandria, and his world-spanning empire soon broke into rival states. His golden sarcophagus was melted down around 81 BCE by Pharaoh Ptolemy IX Lathyros when he was short of money (an act for which the angry citizens of Alexandria soon killed him). Alexander’s miraculously preserved body was at that time transferred to a crystal sarcophagus, which remained on display in the city until its disappearance around AD 400.