The Shards of Heaven

by Michael Livingston

  The general’s only reaction was a knowing, tired smile. “My thanks to you, Imperator,” he said, emphasizing the title. “Perhaps later, if you will allow me.”

  Octavian nodded. “Please, sit,” he said.

  Juba wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Delius’ back grew even straighter. “I prefer to stand.”

  Gods!, Juba thought, but then Octavian was shrugging and sitting down himself. The other generals followed suit, and Juba gratefully took his chair.

  “So,” Octavian said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “To what do we owe the presence of so high-level an emissary, Delius? Has Antony sent you to call for my surrender?”

  Once more there were smiles around the table. A couple of the generals laughed quietly, trying not to show disrespect but finding it difficult: Antony had so often called for their surrender that it had become a sort of joke between them.

  “No, my lord,” Delius said. “I believe he is done doing so.”

  “Another call on my honor to fight him man to man, then?”

  “No, Imperator. I come of my own accord.”

  The sniggers of the generals ceased at once, as surely as someone snuffing a candle. Octavian’s smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed probingly. “Of your own?”

  Delius opened his mouth as if he meant to say something more, but his jaw froze, trembled for a moment, then clamped shut. With careful, deliberate movements, he withdrew the helm from the crook of his arm and set it before him as if on display. A half-breath later, he gripped the ornate handle of the gladius at his hip and unsheathed it in a smooth motion before setting it down beside the helm. His jaw was so tight with emotion that Juba wondered if he might crack his teeth.

  Octavian pushed back his chair to stand, his own back straightening to match Delius’ upright posture.

  “I give you my sword,” Delius said. “And my life, should you wish it. It is forfeit.” His eyes glanced down to his bare blade, the edge shining in the flickering light. “I would have fallen on it already, but I wanted—”

  “No such talk,” Octavian said, interrupting him. With quick strides he came around the table to stand face-to-face with the older general. “We’ll have no talk of suicides here, my friend.”

  Delius had the look of a man on the verge of weeping. “I have fought Rome. My honor—”

  Octavian shook his head. “Your honor is intact. You did what you thought was right. Nothing more. Come, Delius,” he said, offering his hand. “Let us be strong in friendship now.”

  Delius hesitated only a moment before he took Octavian’s hand and gripped it firmly. The Imperator of Rome smiled kindly and leaned forward to embrace the distraught man.

  “You did your duty,” Octavian said. “There’s no shame in that. Just as there is no shame in doing your duty now that your path is clear.” They separated, and Octavian held him by the shoulders, looking hard into his face. “I forgive you, Delius, and I welcome you to my council. Please, sit. Take your proper place.”

  Octavian let him go, spun to address the tent flap. “Wine!” he shouted. “Seven cups for my council!”

  There was instant movement from outside the tent, the sound of feet moving in response to the command. Octavian turned back to the table, his smile genuine.

  Delius had not moved. He seemed more in control, more at peace than he had been. “Lord Imperator,” the general said. “There is something more.”

  Octavian’s eyebrow arched upward. “Oh? What more?”

  “News,” Delius said. “Antony attacks tomorrow.”

  Several of the commanders around the table gasped, and they began to talk all at once. A soldier appearing at the door with wine was quickly waved away.

  “Silence!” Octavian said, marching around to stand at his place once more, leaning over the map spread out before them. His gaze passed across the various representative blocks of wood upon it, signifying the latest information on troop numbers and placements. “He’s too weak,” he said. Then he looked up to Delius. “Does he mean to try and break out south?”

  Delius’ jaw clenched again, in obvious anger this time. “No, despite my advice that he do so.”

  Octavian bobbed his head in positive agreement. “It is sound advice, sir. We are too strong on this front.”

  “He means to attack by sea,” Delius said.

  A couple of the commanders started to speak again, but Octavian’s raised hand silenced them. “Go on,” he said.

  “It is Cleopatra’s plan, I believe,” Delius said, his distaste for her palpable. “In the morning they will attack your fleet in two waves, hoping to destroy you on the sea since you’ll not fight on land. Barring improbable victory, they hope to break your lines and make it to the open water beyond the isle of Leucas. From there they will hoist sail and flee for Alexandria.”

  There was silence for a moment as Agrippa, Octavian’s admiral, moved representative blocks off the Actium shoreline and into the gulf. “Three and one?” he asked, eyes narrowed in concentration.

  Delius looked confused for a moment, then nodded in understanding. “Yes. Antony will divide his fleet into four relatively equal parts: the first wave will have three commanders, the second only one.” Agrippa began separating the pieces accordingly. The other men watched. “Heavier ships in back, including the treasury,” Delius said, leaning over the table to correct him. “Cleopatra herself will command the second wave. The first will be centered on Insteius, with Caius Sosius to the south. Antony will lead the north flank.”

  Agrippa moved some more pieces around, creating an open-backed rectangle of ships framing the entrance to the gulf like a squared-off wave. Behind it, Cleopatra’s fleet was a single line. He placed little flags amid the pieces, marking the place of the commanders. Once Delius indicated his agreement with the representation, the admiral began arranging their own fleets in a larger, encompassing crescent-moon shape, framing Antony’s forces.

  “Not a bad plan,” Agrippa said, with the slightest hint of approval in his voice, like an artist studying another’s work. “The wind will be north to south. Antony surely hopes to burst against it with a hard row, then roll up our own north flank, pushing us south against Leucas. It’s not a bad plan at all, given what they have to work with.”

  A knowing smile had been working its way across Octavian’s mouth. “Then Agrippa and I shall command our north flank,” he said. “The south is yours, Marcus Lurius. And to you goes the center, Lucius Arruntius.” Two of the commanders nodded, seemed to puff up a bit. “Agrippa will work out the rest of the placements, but we must have a mind to our overall strategy.”

  Lucius frowned. “Strategy, my lord? It is a naval engagement. Ranged weapons once they can reach: archers, ballistae, flame pots. Once we close in, we ram them as best we can manage, then board and fight.” He looked around the table, saw approving nods from the other generals. “Right?”

  Octavian, still smiling, sat down in his chair and steepled his fingers to his lips. Delius at last sat, too. “That is traditional, yes,” Octavian said. “But have you a better idea, Juba?”

  All eyes turned to the forgotten seventeen-year-old at the table, none kind. Juba swallowed hard, shocked to be thrust to the center of attention. He wanted to shrink down and disappear. “I … I don’t know—”

  “No, you don’t,” Lucius said. “How could you—”

  “I think you do,” Octavian said, ignoring Lucius. “Indeed, we talked about just this, I recall. Not two weeks after we put to sea. You told me you thought it best not to engage in such a situation.”

  “Not to engage?” Lucius guffawed, but the few who joined him did so nervously. Delius just stared.

  When Octavian still looked expectant, Juba at last managed to gather himself. “Lord Delius,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack, “am I right that Antony has lost too many men to outfit his full fleet?”

  Delius agreed. “He’ll likely burn the rest tonight. A few dozen, perhaps.”
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br />   Agrippa leaned out and made a few adjustments to the pieces on the map.

  “And Antony’s men are weak, are they not? Lack of food and good water? There’s talk of much bad air in the camp.”

  Delius nodded once more.

  “Then, no, I don’t think we should engage them,” Juba said.

  Lucius looked incredulous. “But they’ll be even weaker than we thought! We’ll have more ships, stronger men—”

  “I don’t think that’s the boy’s point,” Agrippa said, still staring at the map and ignoring Lucius’ animosity. “Antony’s right flank, the one he himself will command, must row against the wind to reach us. His men are already weak. The farther we make him row, the more tired they’ll be. If we back off, we’ll have more time to riddle his decks.”

  “And have ours riddled, too,” Lucius added, frowning.

  “More than that,” Juba said, feeling a growing confidence. “It’s no secret that Antony’s Egyptian ships are bigger, better than ours.”

  Several of the commanders seemed instinctively ready to defend their Roman-built craft over those of their foreign counterparts, but Agrippa was already once again agreeing. “Without question. Say what you will about that Egyptian witch, but she’s rich.”

  Octavian laughed, and most of the commanders joined in, glad for the break in tension. Delius smiled, too, but noted that Octavian’s ships were smaller and faster.

  “Antony has raw power, we have maneuverability and endurance,” Juba said. “Let’s use our advantage on sea, just as we have here on land.”

  No one objected to Juba’s characterization of their current strategy as a model to be followed, a silence that he took for a begrudging admission that his plan to choke Antony out had been a success. The affirmation, small though it was, gave Juba something to hold on to even as the thought of a battle on the waves—where the Trident would be most effective, most likely to be used—gnawed at his despairing soul.

  “What do you think?” Octavian said abruptly, addressing Delius.

  Delius was staring at Juba, who found it difficult to meet the older man’s gaze. “I think you have even more strength than Antony can know,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Octavian, smiling and clapping Juba suddenly on the back. “You have no idea.”

  15

  THE GREAT LIBRARY

  ALEXANDRIA, 31 BCE

  By the time Selene had hurried across the wide plaza where the two great streets of Alexandria met, the sun was nearing mid-morning. Whether from the warmth of its rays or her physical distance from the mausoleum and the body and armor of Alexander, the girl had managed to put the feeling of cold behind her even before she entered the sprawling complex of the Museum. A series of buildings dedicated to the Muses, the complex had been a place of wonder for Selene even before she knew about the glories of the Great Library: the complex was filled with a staggering array of theaters, temples, observatories, lecture halls, dining halls, living quarters, and a broad walkway where scholars and artists from around the world conversed as they strolled. A place where study and sculpture, song and painting came together to erupt in the flowering of human possibility, the Museum was, for a young girl of Selene’s wide curiosities, a place of dreams.

  And that was before she was allowed to see the Great Library.

  Built of white marble and stone, the Library sat in the middle of the Museum like the physical embodiment of the flowering within the complex: a six-sided, multitiered building crowned with a magnificent cupola that was itself mounted by a gleaming gold statue of a man holding aloft a scroll, opened to the heavens. Just the sight of it stirred her soul when she was Philadelphus’ age. Now that she was older and knew what was within those six walls, under that exquisite dome, she had even more cause for thrill as her feet carried her through the gardens and pathways of the grounds toward its imposing shape.

  Scrolls. Such simple things. She’d laughed about it when Didymus had first told them about the Library: so much care for some papyrus harvested from Lake Mareotis, carefully prepared and rolled into long sheets, then covered with writing. So silly. But she’d soon learned the power of the knowledge in those scrolls, and in the collection in her city. The Great Library, it was said, had been started by one of Aristotle’s students at the very birth of Alexandria, and it had early on incorporated Aristotle’s own library. Fitting, everyone thought, given that the philosopher had been Alexander’s tutor in Greece. The growing wealth of Alexandria funneled into the institution, and the generations of rulers had given the librarians as much support as they could manage. Didymus had described to her and Helios how ships entering the harbor were searched for writings of any kind, which were summarily seized and taken to a series of warehouses nearer the docks. There the scrolls were read by young scholars, and any worth adding to the collection were transferred to scriptoria, where trained scribes efficiently copied them out. Only then were the texts returned to their original owners. Thus, their Greek teacher explained, the Great Library had quickly become the largest repository of knowledge in the world, so big that its collection couldn’t be housed in one building. In addition to the buildings on the docks, the city’s scrolls were also held in some of the catacombs in the city and in the small library behind the walls of the royal palace on Lochias, where the children took most of their lessons. It was on hearing, during one of their lessons, that the Royal Library paled in comparison to the central collection held at the Great Library in the Museum that Selene had first demanded to be taken to see the building that loomed before her this morning. It had not disappointed then, and it would not disappoint now, she was sure.

  If the Muse-inspired men and women on the grounds thought it odd to see a little girl in a slave’s shawl hurrying through the Museum alone, they said nothing. And certainly Selene gave her appearance little thought until she’d entered the fountain-adorned plaza surrounding the building and was approaching the wide, pillar-framed steps of the east-facing entrance to the Great Library itself. Then, seeing the scholars of the Muses standing watch beside the heavy iron doors, she abruptly stopped walking and stood on the paved walkway under the shade of a palm, wondering how she was going to get in. They wouldn’t just let some girl off the street into the Library, would they? Probably not, she decided. And if they didn’t, should she tell them who she was? Or would they take her back to Antirhodos before she got a chance to see Didymus again, to find out whatever Caesarion was finding out?

  “You look as astonished as I am,” said a male voice beside her.

  Selene, startled from her own thoughts, turned to see a young man sitting on a bench just a few feet away, under the shade of the same tree. His body was facing toward the Library, but he’d turned his head to look over at her. He was a handsome young man, she could see, about Caesarion’s age, and his smile was strikingly warm and kind. He was not, however, anyone she knew, so she hastily started to walk away.

  “I’m sorry,” the young man said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Selene turned quickly—too quickly, in fact, as the slave’s shawl slipped from her grip and fell open for a moment, exposing hints of her more luxurious linens beneath. She hastily pulled it closed, hoping he’d seen nothing. She felt safer on the grounds of the Museum than she did at Lochias, but she still didn’t feel totally safe. “I’m not scared,” she said, trying to maintain her composure even as she tried not to appear too royal. It was difficult to do. Talking so close to someone, she wondered if her soft skin and fine hair would give her away, too. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  The man squinted an eye at her in what seemed to her a kind of mock appraisal. “Ah,” he concluded. “I can see you’re not. So you’re here for the Library?”

  “Yes,” she said, biting her desire to scold him about minding his own business.

  “Me, too,” he said, as if she’d asked him the same question. “It’s hard to work up the courage to go in there, though. I had to sit down here for a bit to think about it. An
d besides,” he said, glancing up at the sun, “I was early, and it’s a nice day.”

  “It’s not that scary,” Selene said without thinking.

  “Oh? You’ve been in there before?” He paused, then laughed a little. “What am I saying? A clever girl like you, of course you have. Lots of times, I bet.”

  His accent was a little different from most of those she heard on a regular basis. Not Egyptian, certainly. But not Greek or Roman, either. Nor was his appearance easy to place in any of those cultures: he was dressed in simple, well-used traveling robes, wearing the cloth wrapping atop his head that she’d seen on some of the desert people who had made occasional calls to the court. He had the scraggly beginnings of a beard, and lightly curled locks drifted down from his temples, much longer than the rest of his hair. A strange young man, but he held himself well, Selene thought. Self-assured and satisfied. Not rich, but not poor. A bit better than common, she decided, but probably of little importance. “I’ve been inside a few times.” She shrugged.

  The young man chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking. Then his eyes brightened. “Say, I’ve got an idea. You’ve been in there before, right? And I need a boost of confidence to get in. How about we go in together?”

  “I don’t think—”

  The young man stood, stretching his arms high before relaxing and seeming to shake himself out with a smile. He was, Selene saw, about the same height as Caesarion. And though he didn’t appear to be as strong as her half-brother, and his eyes were not the same deep brown, she thought he could pass for Caesarion’s full-blood brother if he trimmed back his hair. She’d seen that kind of hair before, but she couldn’t remember where. “Plus, you’ll never get in alone,” he said when he was done.

  “I won’t?”

  “Nope. You need to have business in the Library. Or be in the company of someone important. You know, like royalty or something.”