The Realms of God--A Novel of the Roman Empire (The Shards of Heaven, Book 3)

by Michael Livingston

The woman’s eyes had rolled up toward the sky. They went wide in shock, and in the same moment the light that fell upon her face was the color of blood.

  All the world, it seemed, was bathed in it.

  Selene looked up, and she saw that the moon, hung far above, was glowing red, fierce and full of rage.

  She felt a primal fear, an animal’s fright at forces it could not understand. She thought of angry gods. She thought of war and portents of doom. But more than that she thought of Lapis and Isidora and all the others who were dead because of the Shards.

  “No,” she said, turning away from the blood-red moon to the dying woman before her. She tore open her own dress, fingers finding buckles and unclasping them one by one. “You’re not dying tonight.”

  The Aegis fell away, and the red light fell upon her exposed skin as she set it upon the ground. Then she gripped the blood-slick shaft of the arrow. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then she yanked it free.

  Lapis gasped. The wound bubbled.

  Saying a prayer of hope to gods that weren’t there, Selene lifted the Aegis and set it firmly upon the woman. She buckled it as best she could. One of the Romans, she saw, was rising to his feet. He was holding his head, but he was holding his sword, too.

  Selene ignored him. She reached down to lift Lapis into her arms. Her hand fell into her satchel and grasped the Shard there.

  Then, with a kick toward the sky and the stars and the blood-darkened moon above, they took flight.

  10

  THE MOUNT OF ABRAHAM

  JERUSALEM, 5 BCE

  It had been three days since they’d met Antipater’s mother on the road to Jerusalem. Three days since they’d at last arrived in the ancient city of the Jews and entered Herod’s great palace.

  Three days, then, since Antipater had been arrested by his father and put on immediate trial with the help of Varus, the Roman governor of Syria who—by happenstance, it seemed—had been in town to inspect the garrison there.

  The arrest had been shocking in its abruptness, and the trial had been shocking in its speed. The widow of Herod’s brother Pheroras had confessed her affair with Antipater and their plan to poison the king. Servants had given testimony of the illicit affair. And Pheroras’ widow had even brought forth what was left of the poison. Despite being the son of Caesar, Tiberius had recused himself from the proceedings in order to reassure Herod and his men of his innocence even though he’d arrived with Antipater. Thus it was Varus who had summoned a condemned prisoner and made him drink the poison in view of the court. The man died in front of them all—thrashing, seizing, coughing up splatters of blood as his eyes rolled to white. Even so, it had seemed that Varus had been inclined to have pity on Antipater, for it was a difficult thing to condemn a prince.

  It was only then that Herod had produced a small bundle of documents. In it were forged letters, in which Antipater’s rival siblings seemed to incriminate themselves in the plot to poison Herod. The letters were, the court saw, brilliant matches for the handwriting of the innocent siblings: perfect forgeries only exposed for what they were by another letter, this time in the clear hand of Antipater, in which he described the entirety of the plot to his co-conspirators.

  Didymus had tried hard to feign surprise. But of course he knew who those conspirators really were. He knew what they were. And he knew how such evidence had come into the king’s possession, because it had also been three days since he’d managed to slip that same bundle into the hands of Herod’s guards, after Thrasyllus had risked his life to steal it.

  Herod had wanted his son executed on the spot. Varus agreed that Antipater was guilty, but as a mere governor he announced that the fate of royalty was beyond his station to decide. Antipater’s fate would be determined by Caesar himself. And so Antipater was led away, screaming and weeping, to spend his days in a deep and dark cell of the palace, while letters requesting guidance were immediately sent to Rome. Antipater’s co-conspirators were less fortunate. The widow of Herod’s brother was sentenced to death, as were a handful of other servants. Antipater’s mother was banished from the city. And Antipater’s friend Antiphilus—who was said in the letter describing the plot to have been the one who procured the poison—was sentenced to immediate execution if he was ever found.

  Only then had Didymus realized that while Tiberius and Thrasyllus were both in the court, the two demons who’d kept watch over them seemed to have disappeared.

  They weren’t gone, though. Didymus hadn’t seen them, but now and again in the days since he would feel their presence in a passing chill at the back of his neck, or in a sudden breath of unexpected cold that washed into him. He had no doubt that he and the astrologer were somehow still being watched.

  Even now, as he stood upon one of the balconies of Herod’s palace and stared out over the ancient city of Jerusalem, he was certain that dark, unblinking eyes were out there somewhere, staring up at him.

  From the room at his back, Didymus heard the sounds of Tiberius making notes on a wax tablet. The son of Caesar had been writing a great many such notes to himself, Didymus thought, though whether it served as an unusual activity for the heir to the empire, the librarian did not know. He at least suspected that Tiberius was trying to find a new path forward for his aims. Antipater’s arrest had completely destroyed his plan to take control of the Temple following the assassination of Herod. The anxious tapping of his stylus on the wooden frames of the tablets or of his fingers on the top of the desk at which he sat were, like the quiet heartbroken weeping of Thrasyllus in the night, a background of noise that Didymus had grown far too accustomed to hearing since they’d arrived in Judaea. Given his own status as a veritable prisoner of Tiberius, Didymus suspected that such sounds would have been all he’d hear regardless of their whereabouts, but they were especially difficult to avoid because the storm that had recently pounded the city had kept them all inside, confined them to close quarters with the windows shuttered.

  The storm, it seemed, had followed them across the sea, arriving the day after they rode through the towered gates of Jerusalem. It was an unseasonable rain, they were told, and its sudden tumult had caused the astrologer to mutter more than once about the signs of the gods—as if the very existence of the Shards of Heaven that they sought didn’t invalidate both gods and divine signs.

  But today the rain had finally abated. When it did, Didymus had immediately thrown open the shutters to take in the sunlight and the city below. No matter what else was happening, the librarian’s academic mind thrilled to at last experience Jerusalem.

  He hadn’t been lying to Thrasyllus back on the boat out of Alexandria when he’d told him of the Jewish scholars who more and more frequently visited the Great Library. He’d often heard them speak in wonder of Jerusalem. They called it the most holy of sites.

  Didymus also knew much about the place from the various books about the east that he’d read over the years—not least because the history of the Jews figured so prominently in the history of the Shards. The Ark had been kept in this city, as had the Trident once, and of course the Seal of Solomon was probably hidden somewhere in its Temple still. But even beyond such facts, the City of David had been central in the history of the Jews. Indeed, it had been central to the whole history of the eastern end of the Mediterranean: the wars fought over its control were numerous. When Didymus and the others had approached Jerusalem, the scholar had seen first-hand why the city had been witness to so much conflict: it sat at the point of high land where the deep valleys of Hinnom and Kidron met, a site from which its occupiers could control a wide swath of the landscape around it. These natural protections had been supplemented by the construction of high walls that encircled its inhabitants and made the place seem, at least from the point of view of the librarian, impregnable. Didymus had heard much about the enormous building projects that had been undertaken by King Herod, including the strengthening of those thick walls, but when Didymus had first seen Jerusalem he had felt that it was a place as
old as time itself.

  The palace of Herod was just one small part of the massive building programs the king had undertaken during his reign. A fortress, it was built against the tall western walls of the city, immediately adjacent to its main gate, overlooking the Hinnom Valley. From the balcony high upon its side, the librarian had a commanding view of the bustling streets of the city.

  Didymus heard Tiberius sigh behind him, and he reluctantly turned around enough to see the Roman setting down his stylus. “We need a Messiah,” the son of Caesar said.

  Sitting in a chair across the room, Thrasyllus looked up. “A what?”

  Tiberius peaked his fingers in front of him, staring across the space at the younger scholar. To Didymus the Roman seemed to be weighing something in his mind. After a few moments he pointed at one of the open books upon the desk at which he sat. “Do you recognize this?”

  “A book.”

  “Not a book. The book,” Tiberius corrected. He picked up the stylus again and used the end of it to gesture around the room. “At least as far as these people are concerned. It’s their scriptures.”

  “I know something of it,” Thrasyllus said. The astrologer exchanged a quick glance with Didymus, knowing that they’d both read of the Ark of the Covenant in its pages. “But I know nothing of a Messiah.”

  Tiberius turned to look at Didymus now. His eyes were even darker than they usually were, as if he’d not slept well in days. “Do you?”

  Didymus saw no point in lying. “I do. A Messiah is a liberator. The word means ‘anointed one,’ I believe, because a Messiah is usually anointed with the holy oil of the Temple here in Jerusalem.”

  “So it’s a Jewish king,” Thrasyllus said.

  “That’s right,” Tiberius said.

  Didymus frowned for a moment, thinking. “Actually, I don’t think it has to be. Sometimes a high priest is called a Messiah. And I believe their scriptures call Cyrus, king of the Persians, a Messiah, and he was hardly a Jew.”

  Tiberius cocked an eyebrow. “Why Cyrus?”

  Didymus turned and pointed out across Jerusalem. “Because of that,” he said.

  The other two men rose and joined him at the balcony, following the line of his outstretched arm to where he pointed. “The Temple,” Thrasyllus said.

  Didymus nodded and let his arm down as they all stared at the massive building on the higher side of the city opposite them. It was white stone, like much of the city, but it stood taller than anything in sight—its height surpassing even the high towers of Herod’s palace. The Temple was surprisingly fortresslike. From the vantage point of the palace balcony Didymus had been able to make out the multiple runs of high walls that enclosed smaller and smaller spaces upon the leveled platform of the Temple Mount. He could even see the long courses of the retaining walls below it all, which helped hold in the dirt and rock they’d surely used to level the area. At the center of it all was the structure of the inner Temple itself: an imposingly tall structure of polished white stone that gleamed in the sunlight, crowned with a ring of gold. The sides of the building were smooth, but the front edifice had four marble columns framing great wooden doors. “That’s not the First Temple,” he said.

  “Herod rebuilt it,” Thrasyllus said, seemingly anxious to show his knowledge.

  Didymus nodded. “He did. But what he was rebuilding wasn’t even the First Temple. It was the second. At least the second.”

  “Explain,” Tiberius said, his eyes narrowed.

  “The mountain beneath the Temple is said to be where their great patriarch Abraham once nearly sacrificed his only son in order to prove his fidelity to their god.”

  “An evil god to ask such a thing,” Tiberius said.

  The librarian shrugged. “Most gods are,” he said. He blinked, surprised that he’d spoken so frankly—especially when Tiberius’ adopted father was already spoken of as if he were a god like Julius Caesar before him—but Tiberius didn’t seem disturbed in the slightest. “Anyway, there might have been a shrine of some kind built there at that time. And later on, it was King David—”

  “King of the Jews,” Thrasyllus said.

  “Yes, king of the Jews. King David later built a shrine there to commemorate his own coming to terms with their god, and then his son, Solomon, replaced it with what the Jews call the First Temple.”

  Now it was Tiberius who interrupted. “When the Seal was first hidden.”

  Didymus nodded, knowing how little he could hide from the Roman. Though Tiberius came and went from their quarters, the scholars very rarely left. Indeed, since Alexandria almost the only contact they had been allowed with anything other than each other had been the old tomes that Tiberius insisted they pore over looking for clues to the exact whereabouts of the Seal in the Temple. The son of Caesar took regular updates on their research, reading over their shoulders, telling them to work faster, ensuring that nothing they found was kept from him. “If we are right, then yes: Solomon had possession of the Shard and hid it beneath the First Temple.”

  “We are right. I’m certain.” The gaze of Tiberius focused on the magnificent structure in the distance. “And it’s still there. I can feel it.”

  I hope not, Didymus thought. Then, looking back out at the Temple himself, he continued. “What Solomon built stood as the heart of the Jewish people and their religion until it was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar and the Jews were taken to Babylon as slaves. Sixty years later Cyrus and his Persian armies had captured Babylon and sent the Jewish slaves back here to Judaea. He passed a decree that they be allowed to construct what they call the Second Temple. It was that building that Herod has repaired and expanded, and it was that victory and decree that led to the Jews calling Cyrus a Messiah. He liberated them.”

  “But you said we need a Messiah now,” Thrasyllus said to Tiberius. “I don’t understand. You’re Rome.”

  Didymus, too, turned toward Tiberius as his own thoughts finally coalesced. “Not liberation for Rome. Liberation from Rome. If a new Messiah arose, the people would fight against Rome. There would be chaos. And in the chaos—”

  “The Temple could be taken,” Thrasyllus whispered.

  Tiberius nodded, looking out past them both at the building in the distance. “We can’t kill Herod now, but the greater plan was a good one,” he said, speaking as if they were all in assent as to the necessity of the task. “We simply need to be patient. We need to bide our time. A Messiah will set the city on fire, and in the destruction we can still use Varus and his legions to secure the Temple—just as before. It’s only a matter of how to begin. Fire comes from flame. And every flame begins with a spark.”

  Didymus stared out at the peaceful city, shivering as he imagined the bloodshed Tiberius was willing to unleash.

  “And I think I know what we need,” Tiberius said, seemingly talking as much to himself as to either of the scholars. He grinned, nodding out toward the Temple in the sun. “That’s our tinder and our flint. And Herod, I believe, can easily provide the iron we will strike against it.”

  * * *

  Later that day, Didymus and Thrasyllus were alone in their room when four of Herod’s guards came for them. The armed men said nothing of where they were taking them, but the scholars knew they were powerless to do anything but comply. Without a word, the guards led them along dark passageways, down narrow stairs, and finally through a thick wooden door out into a small garden beside the palace where they’d been kept.

  Tiberius was there, with a small squad of six legionnaires. He smiled when he saw the scholars approach, and he made a show of opening his arms to embrace them in welcome. “My friends,” said the son of Caesar, “I am pleased you could come. I want you to witness this.”

  Didymus looked over at Thrasyllus as Tiberius pulled him close, but it was clear from the astrologer’s expression that he was equally uncertain about what was happening. “What are we to witness, my lord?”

  “You’ll see,” Tiberius said. He nodded to Herod’s guards, who immedia
tely began marching toward the gate. The little party of Romans followed.

  Herod’s palace stood at the southern end of the walled fortress that was the royal district of Jerusalem. High and thick walls separated this area from the rest of the ancient city, and when the sun drew down toward the west—as it was now—Herod’s great towers drew daunting shadows over the tiled roofs and open squares of Jerusalem. The fortress itself was a kind of town within the city: beyond the palace itself, it had gardens and pools, bakeries and barracks, essentially everything Herod might need to remain safe and comfortable even if Jerusalem rebelled against him.

  The gate that they passed through into the ancient city was massive and heavily guarded, and the difference between the clean and well-tended grounds within the fortress and the dirty and chaotic public streets outside it could not have been more striking. Even as the day was drawing toward evening, Jerusalem was a busy, buzzing hive of merchants and markets and travelers. The streets were filled with people who seemed to be going somewhere, and they were lined with merchants shouting to hawk their wares to them all. It was raucous and bewildering, yet Didymus found it a strangely soothing relief of life after the seclusion of the locked chamber in the palace.

  His relief was short-lived. Only minutes after they entered Jerusalem’s busy streets, the librarian felt a wash of cold come over him. And when he looked behind, he saw that two pale and familiar figures had melted out of the crowds to glide in their wake.

  Didymus again glanced over at his fellow scholar. The astrologer had looked behind, too, and when their eyes met Thrasyllus swallowed hard in fear.

  The path they followed wound from street to street, but their destination was quickly clear as the great edifice of the Temple rose before them.

  Everyone called Herod’s work on the Second Temple a restoration, but in truth it was far grander in its aim. In a project befitting his own enormous ego, Herod had begun by declaring nature unfit to his purposes: the flat summit of the Mount of Abraham—leveled in the days of King Solomon if not generations earlier—was simply not big enough to contain the grand scope of his vision. Massive retaining walls were built around it, and bucket by bucket slaves filled the empty spaces behind them with dirt and stone scoured from the valleys below. By the time they were done, the Temple Mount had more than doubled in size. The perimeter was lined with porticoes, and at its northwestern corner a fortress stood sentinel over the complex, housing a garrison assigned to protect its grounds. Along its southern edge, the side they were approaching, Herod had ordered the construction of a giant stoa—a wide, column-filled expanse that was enclosed from the elements and populated by merchants and meeting spaces. The fall from the point of its red-tiled roof to the valley below the retaining walls was measured in hundreds of feet.