“You sound sure,” Didymus said.
Caesarion kept his face impassive, feeling quite suddenly that there was a dance going on between the Jew and the scholar, and that he himself didn’t know the steps.
“Thoth isn’t real,” Jacob said.
“Of course.” Didymus smiled. “The belief in one god is a central tenet of your faith, isn’t it?”
“‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord your God is one,’” Jacob said, the tone in his voice clearly identifying the phrase as memorized doctrine. He shrugged. “God alone is God. There is no Thoth, so he can have no scrolls.”
“So no gods but your own exist?”
“I could not be a Jew and believe otherwise,” Jacob said, before he nodded slightly toward Caesarion. “Begging your forgiveness, Pharaoh Horus.”
Caesarion felt a sudden heat in his face as his trained impassivity failed him. Certain that the emotion showed, he embraced the loss of control and tried to turn it to his advantage in whatever game was being played. “I no more believe myself divine than I believe you don’t know that there’s truth behind the legend of the Scrolls, Thoth or not.”
Jacob’s smile broadened even as his eyes narrowed in measurement. “I misjudged you, lord Caesarion. My apologies.”
“Accepted. Things are not often what they seem, my friend. Octavian’s armies would seem our biggest threat, for instance, but Juba’s goals are not to be misjudged, either.” That he himself didn’t understand Juba’s goals didn’t matter to his point, he figured. Besides, Didymus seemed ready to reveal them. “It’s just important that we be honest with one another here.”
“So it is,” Didymus said. “Juba wrote me a letter, Jacob, asking me to acquire the Scrolls for him. He was certain, for reasons I did not then know, that they were here in Alexandria. Here. In the Library.”
“You would think they would’ve been cataloged,” Jacob said wryly.
Didymus grinned. “Indeed so. I didn’t know anything about the Scrolls other than their legend, yet Juba’s certainty about them was disturbing.”
“I told you: they don’t exist.”
“Not in the way Juba is thinking, no. But that was one of the last things I found out.”
“Didymus began research on the subject at once,” Caesarion said.
“I did,” the scholar agreed, “starting with trying to trace where Juba might have learned what information he had. It took me some months, but I was eventually able to retrace his steps from Egypt to Numidia. It seems the young man—a stepson of Caesar, just like Octavian, and near to your own ages, in fact—had taken an interest in objects of ancient power, objects associated with the gods, like Poseidon’s Trident. And he had a man here in Alexandria looking for the Scrolls of Thoth.”
Seeing the memory of that night, of that assassin, beginning to overtake his friend, Caesarion moved himself in his chair noisily, bringing Jacob’s attention in his direction and giving the scholar a chance to compose himself. “As Didymus said, though, we didn’t know why he was looking for the Scrolls here.”
“But you do now,” Jacob said.
Thankfully, the scholar had once more regained his academic bearing. “I think so, yes. I believe he heard of the rumors that the Scrolls were in Sais.”
“The center for the cult of Neith,” Caesarion said, thinking aloud as he heard the news. “The Egyptian form of the goddess Astarte.”
Didymus looked positively proud. “Exactly so. Most of its holdings have been brought here, which is probably why Juba assumed the Scrolls were here, too.”
“But they’re not,” Selene said from her stool, seemingly eager to take part in the unfolding conversation.
“Absolutely not,” Didymus said, smiling over at her. “As Jacob said, they don’t exist at all.”
“Then everything is okay,” Selene said.
The scholar’s smile was that of a caring, loving father. It was, Caesarion noted with regret, the kind of smile she had seen far too rarely from Mark Antony. “I wish that it were. But in the past months of retracing his steps I’ve learned much about the books that Juba was reading, the questions he was asking. And I know the rumors of what else was once in Sais, what it is that he’s really after. It’s something far bigger and far more real.” Didymus paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he turned back to focus on Jacob. “I’m almost certain that Juba is seeking the Ark of the Covenant.”
Caesarion was sure he saw something dark pass across Jacob’s face, but the Jew’s face was quick to recover its calm. “So you wish to know of the Ark,” Jacob said.
Didymus nodded. “From what I’ve read—many of the same texts that Juba has—it’s an object of almost unparalleled power,” he said. “Associated with a prophet of your people, yes? Moses?”
“That’s right,” Jacob said. He seemed to be speaking more carefully than he had been before. “In the Torah—the sacred text of the Jews—it’s said to have been built in accordance with God’s own instructions, spoken to Moses in the wilderness. It is called the strength of God. It housed the stone tablets of our Law, and its power was enough to destroy the walls of Jericho at a word.”
“But it’s actually older than Moses, isn’t it?” Didymus asked. His eyes were piercing with a need to get at the truth. “The physical ark itself, I mean. That’s where Thoth and Sais come in.”
Jacob said nothing for several seconds, staring across the table at the scholar. Finally he blinked and leaned back deeply into his own chair, all traces of mirth erased from his face. “Few alive know of such things,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost dangerous. “It’s meant to stay that way.”
“We’re only interested in the truth,” Caesarion said, suddenly aware that Khenti had faded out of the background and was standing closer to the young Jew than he was before.
“Not all truth is meant to be revealed,” Jacob said, still focusing on Didymus.
“So much of the story already is,” the scholar replied. “Most of it is all there, in the old books, waiting to be read.”
“You’ve been reading Artapanus and Manetho.”
“I have. They reveal much. As do others. But not all. And we need to know all we can.”
Jacob’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment. “There’s an inscription at the temple of Neith at Sais. Did you see it in your travels? ‘I am all that has been, that is, and that will be. No mortal has yet been able to lift the veil that covers me.’ So it is with God, my friends. Man is not meant to know everything.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Caesarion said, unable to contain himself.
Jacob turned in his chair. “Do you?”
“Each gain in knowledge is progress toward perfecting what we can of this world.” Even as he said it, Caesarion remembered his promise to Vorenus that he would destroy the Scrolls of Thoth if he found them. Were the secrets of the Ark so different? Its power less dangerous?
“So it seems to you,” Jacob said. “And perhaps even to all of us here in this room, or even in this Library, where men seek knowledge as others do religion. But certainly all knowledge isn’t meant for all men.” His smile suddenly returned. “Or would you have the knowledge of Egypt’s coming defeat shared immediately with your people? This afternoon, perhaps?”
Caesarion started to say something more, then thought better of it. Instead, Didymus spoke: “It’s true that the responsibility of knowledge is not something to be taken lightly. Not everyone is ready for the truth about their world, or even about themselves. But it doesn’t follow that the truth should be hidden away forever. It must be passed on until the world is ready to receive it. That is, I believe, what your particular family has been helping to do for generations. It’s why I wanted to meet your father, to talk with him. I think there may be times when the circle of those asked to harbor the truth must grow, for the greater good.”
“What makes you think this is one of those times?”
Didymus took a deep breath. “Because I think I know what Octavian m
ight be able to achieve, what Juba must be working to achieve for him. I know the danger. I’ve learned about the Shards of Heaven.”
Jacob visibly cringed, but he said nothing.
Selene was perched on the edge of her stool. “Shards of Heaven?”
Didymus didn’t look away from the young Jew. “If I can learn what I have, Juba can learn it, too. Octavian can learn it. What then? Do you think he’ll not pursue them? Not just God’s power, but God Himself, Jacob.”
The Jew’s face fell as the scholar spoke, lending him the look of a man defeated. “Tell me what you know,” he finally said.
“And start at the beginning,” Caesarion said, realizing he, too, had moved to the edge of his seat as the tension in the room had grown.
“I’ll explain what I can,” Didymus said. “And perhaps it’s best to begin at the beginning. What do you believe about the gods, Caesarion?”
Caesarion leaned back a bit, conscious of Selene’s presence in the room. Though he’d spoken with Didymus about such things, he’d never done so in the girl’s presence. “I’m unsure in my belief in the traditional gods.”
“None of them?” Selene asked.
“Perhaps not none,” Caesarion said. “But if there are divine beings, I think there is only one, just as Jacob’s people believe.” It was the honest truth, even if he suspected it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“But isn’t Mother—”
“Parents aren’t always right about all things, even if they mean well. Just like half-brothers,” Caesarion said. “They’re not wrong about all things, either. But we do have to think for ourselves, Selene, and I think that the concept of divinity can mean there’s only one God, as the Jews believe, or perhaps none.”
“Why perhaps none?” Didymus asked.
Caesarion frowned. “The Jews define God as all-powerful and good. It’s hard to believe in such a God when there’s such evil in the world.”
“Ah, the problem of old Epicurus.” The scholar smiled knowingly. “Either God wants to abolish evil and cannot, or he can abolish it but does not desire to do so. If he wants to abolish it but cannot, he is impotent. If he can abolish it but does not desire to do so, he is unjust. If God can abolish evil, and truly desires to do so, why then is there evil in the world?”
“Exactly,” Caesarion said. “If evil exists, then a good, all-powerful God cannot exist.”
“Is there no reason to believe such a God exists nonetheless? What about Aristotle?”
“Aristotle?” Caesarion had to think a moment to recall what the scholar was getting at. “Oh, the prime mover.”
“What’s the prime mover?” Selene asked.
“An argument about the nature of all creation,” Didymus said, “but it can be taken for an argument about the existence of a creating God. Aristotle reckoned that all events have causes. All things that move do so because something else moved them. In other words, everything has a beginning. So, too, with creation itself. Something outside of it—outside of time, outside of the world—must have caused it. Something must have set the first movement in motion. A prime mover. God. That’s stretching the philosopher a bit, but it works.”
“Oh,” said Selene, brow furrowing.
“It’s a good argument,” Caesarion said. “But it says nothing about a god’s goodness. And there’s no way to know for certain that creation has a beginning point. Maybe it has always been. I mean, if you can say that God doesn’t have a beginning, you might as well be able to say the same thing about creation.”
“All religions say otherwise,” Didymus observed.
“All religions could be wrong,” Caesarion said, feeling frustrated. Selene gasped a little at his response, but he ignored it. “And besides, what does this have to do with these Shards of Heaven?”
“Because it’s all about God,” Jacob said, his voice small. “Everything leads back to Him.”
It was the response of a man of faith, but Caesarion didn’t dismiss it out of hand. “Please,” he said, “explain this to me.”
“Well, unless I’m wrong,” Didymus said, “creation did have a beginning. God was indeed Aristotle’s prime mover. This God created everything, and I believe He was, in our sense of the word, good.”
“Was?” Selene asked.
“Well, I think that’s the reason evil exists in the world,” Didymus said. “God is dead.”
19
THE HAND OF AN ANGRY GOD
ACTIUM, 31 BCE
Pullo, his long strides quickly closing the distance across the deck, was the first to engage Octavian’s men. Running to catch up, Vorenus watched as his old friend rushed forward into the rail-breaching tide, gladius flashing. The first man Pullo met fell trying to hold his guts in—a task he failed to achieve when his body hit the deck—and the second man had just stepped onto the flagship when Pullo met him with his shoulder lowered, bull-rushing him backward into the railing he’d just crossed. The man’s feet caught on the boards of the deck, and his back arched obscenely before snapping with a loud crack. The upper half of his body fell away, dangling limply over the side, but Pullo was already off of him, spinning sideways, gladius wide and wet in the rain, diving into the next line of boarders.
Then Vorenus was among them, too. He deflected an attacker’s sword into the deck before impaling him on his own blade, and all around him were the sounds of screams and war-crazed shouts. His gladius stuck for a moment in the shaking body of the dying man, and another man, coming up over the side, raised his weapon in glee, prepared to swing for Vorenus’ exposed head.
Vorenus’ blade had passed cleanly through the man’s body, so he did the only thing that came to his mind: he threw himself and the dead man forward, running the bloodied point of the gladius into the would-be assailant and then rolling past them both as the now sticky-wet deck pitched atop another wave. His gladius pulled free with his momentum and he slid into the center mast of the flagship.
Pullo was there, and from the look of his blade he’d just finished off another of Octavian’s men. He looked down at Vorenus with a quick smile of greeting, but he offered no hand before he squared his shoulders to two men facing him and let out a roar. He would kill them both, Vorenus was sure. It was a good day to die.
Vorenus got to his feet and headed back into the fray. Antony’s archers had abandoned their bows in favor of short swords for the close quarters, and they were entirely engaged with the enemy. Bloodied bodies were falling like leaves onto the deck, and Vorenus hoped that the majority of them were from the other side.
Looking around, he could see that the second trireme that had rammed them was bringing men over the side now, too. Beyond it, in the haze of the rain and waves, still more vessels were moving, circling like vultures around a kill.
Vorenus got to his feet and spun to take on the newcomers, adjusting his balance to keep from falling in the pitch and roll of the stormy sea. The tied-off grappling irons were making it worse, he could tell, catching tight to jolt the ships as each wave passed under. More than once in the ensuing bloody seconds and minutes he was knocked to his knees by the tightening ropes and the slick, rain-soaked surface beneath his feet. A few times it seemed that every man was felled by the shifting deck, and the melee paused for a moment while friend and foe alike got back onto their feet. But still they fought on, killing and being killed. Vorenus took a cut across his left forearm blocking a swing meant for his gut. He earned another slash on his right thigh from a man lying along the side railing that he’d thought was dead.
He was preparing to put the latter finally to rest when the sea itself seemed to groan: a low and long yawning that froze his strike and made him stare out into the rain. The waters over the side—he blinked to believe it—were, like a falling tide, receding away to the north, racing in smooth waves toward Octavian’s ships. Even the rain appeared to be slanting back in that direction, as if Neptune himself stood somewhere out in the fog beyond Octavian’s fleet, drawing in his breath. Yet the stormy
northern wind was still pushing against them, as if water and air worked against one another.
The other men aboard the flagship, moments earlier committed to each other’s deaths, had ceased fighting, too. Antony, surrounded by loyal men near the prow, had turned to stare. So did they all.
“By the gods,” one of Octavian’s nearby marines gasped.
“What’s—” started another.
Like a sudden exhalation, matched with an echoing boom that reverberated in Vorenus’ chest, the rain came back against them, faster than even the hard wind itself, stinging like a thousand tiny arrows.
And behind the rain came the roar of an angry god.
Some men stood where they were, transfixed. Some walked forward against the gale, trying to see. Vorenus, without thinking, sheathed his gladius and dove away from it all toward the center mast of the flagship. His hands scrabbled to find holds among the coils of rope there, winding lines tight to his forearms and lowering his head as he braced for the impact. He didn’t need to look up to see the wave rushing toward them. He could feel it in his bones: a terrible, awesome power bent on their destruction.
It hit like a thunderbolt from the hand of Jupiter himself, bursting into the three interconnected ships with a world-quaking power Vorenus could not have imagined. As the instant of the impact stretched out, the noise of fierce destruction was everywhere all at once around him—wood ripping, men screeching, limbs snapping—until Vorenus heard nothing at all and had to shut his eyes against the pain as his body flapped against his grip, pulling the rope into the flesh of his forearms as the water roiled over him. His heart pounded in his chest like a trapped beast eager to flee. Everything churned around him—up, down, in, out—and when he screamed he was uncertain if any noise left his throat.
Sound returned with a disturbed rush of wind. His scream popped out into the air, bubbling the seawater clinging to his face. He felt as if he were hanging in suspension for a moment, then his stomach was in his throat as he felt himself falling.
The Shards of Heaven Page 21
