The Shards of Heaven

by Michael Livingston

  Caesarion’s face flushed hot, with anger or sorrow, Vorenus couldn’t tell.

  “Besides,” Vorenus said, deciding at last to be open and honest with him, “it could save your mother. Maybe yourself.” Vorenus doubted this was so—Octavian would surely parade them all in Rome, and Cleopatra and Caesarion, maybe even the younger children, were too much of a threat to be allowed to live—but he supposed there was at least a chance.

  “But the children…” Emotion cracked the young man’s voice.

  “As he said: let them sleep.”

  “I can’t just let him go.”

  “You can,” Vorenus said. “And you must. Perhaps he’s only tired from the day. Perhaps we’ll see him again tomorrow.” He tried to keep his voice light, whispered as it was, but even so he doubted it himself. He felt certain, in his heart, that he’d seen Mark Antony for the last time in life.

  Caesarion’s shoulders slumped, and the tension went out of his arm. The resignation was hard for Vorenus to see in one so young, one with so much promise and potential. For a moment he instinctively wanted to curse the gods for giving the young man such a tragic fate, but then he caught himself. No gods meant no fate. It was just open choice and random chance, that was all. That was all anything was. He’d been a fool ever to think differently.

  Even as Vorenus thought about him, Pullo came striding out of the darkness toward which they were staring, his head instinctively bowing as he ducked under the final threshold. The big man was smiling. “Why so glum, you two?”

  Caesarion seemed distracted for a moment, caught between talking to Pullo and peering back into the dark hallway, but then he, too, smiled, reaching out a hand in greeting. “Oh, nothing, Pullo. It’s good to see you.”

  Pullo took the offered hand, then stepped back to look appraisingly at Caesarion. Vorenus guessed they hadn’t seen each other in many months. “You appear well, lad,” the big man said.

  “And you, old man.” Caesarion’s mirth seemed genuine as they fell into a familiar banter. A part of Vorenus was surprised how suddenly sure of himself the young man seemed, as if all was right with the world; another part expected it of him.

  “Bah,” Pullo said, releasing his grip on Caesarion’s hand to rub the younger man’s head. “Not so old I can’t still best you at arms. Your choice of weapon, too.”

  “Pullo,” Vorenus said, coming forward to shake his hand, too. “Glad to see you.”

  “And I you, Lucius Vorenus. I was able to see some of the fight from the walls. A tough thing.”

  “Could’ve used you.”

  “Yes, you could have.” It wasn’t a boast, just clear fact, and no one treated it any differently. “I’m glad to find you both, though I didn’t expect to find you still up, Caesarion.”

  “Not just a call on Vorenus, then?” Caesarion asked.

  “No. I’m sent for you both.”

  “Didymus?” Caesarion’s voice betrayed something like hope.

  “Aye. He sends his regrets for being forced to send a big brute like me in his stead. But he’s been busy trying to secure the Library should Octavian take the city.”

  “When he takes the city,” Caesarion said, so matter-of-factly that he could have been talking about the weather rather than the destruction of his home, his life.

  “As you say, sir,” Pullo said, falling into the old habits of a legionnaire.

  “Pullo?” asked a girl’s voice from the darkness of the hallway.

  They all turned, Pullo already grinning despite his effort to look stern. “You ought not be up so late, lady Selene,” he said.

  The ten-year-old girl melted out of the darkness, a thin shawl over her shoulders. “I couldn’t sleep since everybody hadn’t come back yet. Did I see my father just now?”

  “Yes,” Caesarion said, his voice moving toward the fatherly when he spoke to his little half-sister. “He did well today. All the men did. Few losses.”

  “He was headed down to the docks,” Selene said.

  “Antony will be retiring to the Timonium tonight,” said Vorenus. “He didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

  “Oh,” she said as she came forward and wrapped her arms around Pullo’s waist. The man bent down to return the embrace, his big hands patting her as gently as if she were a babe. “It’s nice to see you, Pullo,” the girl said.

  “Nice to be seen.”

  “Things haven’t been the same without you.”

  “I imagine they’ve been better,” Pullo said, smiling as he straightened up and Selene let go of him.

  “So the battle went well?” she asked Vorenus.

  “It did.”

  “How could it not with such men to lead it?” Pullo said.

  “But what are you doing here?” Selene asked.

  “Oh, I came to fetch these two,” Pullo replied, nodding his head toward Vorenus and Caesarion. “Didymus wants to see them.”

  Vorenus saw that Selene’s posture straightened. “A meeting? About the Shards?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what about,” Pullo said.

  “At the Library?” Vorenus asked.

  “No,” Pullo said. “At the temple of Serapis. When I left him he was already preparing to go there to meet you.”

  “Now?” Vorenus asked.

  “Right away if possible. I’ve probably tarried too long as it is, though it’s hard not to do so with company so lovely.” He looked down at Selene like a proud father.

  “Can I not come?” she asked.

  Pullo’s face softened toward regret. “I don’t think that would be best. We’re taking a chance traveling across the city at night as it is. Alexandria isn’t as safe for you as it once was.”

  “Someone needs to stay with Philadelphus and Helios,” Caesarion said.

  “He’s sick again,” Selene muttered.

  “All the more reason for you to stay,” Vorenus said. “With your mother and father gone, Caesarion away, and Helios sick, someone has to keep this place in shape.”

  “Besides, your father will want to see you first thing in the morning,” Pullo said. “Isn’t that right, my boy?”

  Caesarion smiled, but his face was taut. “I should hope so,” he said.

  22

  THE TEMPLE OF SERAPIS

  ALEXANDRIA, 30 BCE

  When they’d first left the palace, Caesarion had thought Didymus would be meeting them at the old temple of Serapis just west of the Museum, a triangular building raised where the Canopic Way intersected with the wide boulevard that became the Heptastadion and led out to Pharos and the great lighthouse beyond. But, as Pullo soon told them, Didymus wanted to meet them not there, but at the more distant Serapeum, the newer, grander temple of Serapis set high atop a hill in the southwestern, Egyptian quarter of the city. That massive building, the crowning structure of a three-hundred-year-old acropolis, was a destination for pilgrims from across the world, some coming from as far away as distant Rome to pray before its magnificent blue-stone statue of the god who blessed Alexandria. It made sense that Didymus would want to meet there, Caesarion supposed. The Serapeum had become a repository for many books that had not yet found a home in the Great Library. It was just the sort of place to find the librarian.

  Besides, despite its sprawling size, the Serapeum would surely be deserted. The Roman siege had turned the once-bustling city into a place whose citizens locked themselves into their homes as best they could—from fear of the Romans and the inevitable chaos that would follow Alexandria’s capture. Even the most devout worshipers of Serapis would surely be crowding the older temple in the center of Alexandria rather than the more famous complex along the south wall of the city.

  Khenti had not only insisted on going with Vorenus and Caesarion himself, but he’d also insisted on bringing along a second Egyptian guardsman: a bruising braggart named Shushu. Together, the four of them joined Pullo in walking the silent midnight streets of Alexandria, dressed as simple, if well-armed, commoners. Caesarion carried only a dagger, but
he could see that the other men were making no efforts to conceal the short swords at their hips. He wondered, as they walked, whether they wore the blades so plainly to send a message to anyone who might consider stopping them. Crime had been on the rise in the city, he knew, especially as the night patrols had grown infrequent due to disease, desertion, and death. As Pullo had told Selene back at the palace, the streets were far more dangerous these days.

  Not this night, though: The darkened streets of Alexandria were filled not with roving gangs of thugs, but with a tense emptiness. Even the air of the night, loosely woven with scents of smoke and war, seemed to Caesarion expectant. It was as if the whole of the city was ready and waiting to meet its conqueror. Only when the little party reached the Canopic Way did anything other than an eerie silence greet their passing.

  They were walking in a close group, Pullo in the lead, with Vorenus and Shushu to either side of Caesarion, and they had just turned the corner onto the wide and empty main corridor of the city—not far from the tomb of Alexander—when Khenti, trailing behind, abruptly signaled for a halt.

  “What is it?” Caesarion whispered after they’d stood still for a moment.

  Khenti was looking back down the avenue toward the Sun Gate, body taut like a spring. “I heard something.”

  “I hear it, too,” Vorenus said. “It sounds like—”

  “Music,” Pullo said, completing his old friend’s thought. “I followed a group of legionnaires to the palace, and we all heard it on the way. Seemed to be moving east from the center of the city toward the walls and Octavian’s camp.”

  “Who would be playing music at this hour?” Caesarion asked.

  The big man shrugged. “The other men thought it an omen.”

  Khenti appeared to have relaxed. He looked back at the others. “So what means this omen among Romans?”

  “Antony is often likened to Dionysius, god of revelry and debauchery. God of music,” Pullo said.

  Caesarion frowned. “The music leads out of town. The men think it’s a sign that Dionysius has abandoned Antony?”

  “Something like that,” Pullo admitted.

  “Roman omens.” Khenti sniffed.

  “We should keep moving,” Vorenus said. “We’re only halfway to the Serapeum, and Didymus will be waiting.”

  * * *

  Despite Caesarion’s assumptions, the Serapeum complex was not entirely empty. A hundred wide steps led to the hill-crowning temple, and as Caesarion and his small party approached the gate at their foot, two men melted out of the pillared shadows surrounding the barred entrance, their dark cloaks pulled close about their shoulders and hoods drawn to cast their faces into darkness. Whether they were Egyptian or Roman, Caesarion couldn’t tell, but they stood with the same physical assurance that he associated with men like Khenti: effective, confident fighters. He’d never seen anyone like them at the Serapeum before.

  Pullo, in the lead, drew their party to a halt a few paces from the gate and spread his arms slightly to show his own weapons. “Titus Pullo,” he said. “I’m here to see Didymus.”

  One of the guards stepped forward, hooded head moving up and down them all, as if appraising them. After a few seconds he reached up his hands to pull back his hood.

  “Jacob!” Caesarion said, recognizing him at once.

  “Pharaoh,” Jacob replied, smiling and bowing his head slightly. “I’m glad you could come despite the late hour.”

  Caesarion considered how to reply but in the end only nodded in return.

  Jacob abruptly looked over them. “Were they followed?”

  Caesarion and the others turned and saw six more hooded men melt out of the shadows behind them. Four of them were carrying bows of blackened wood, the fletchings of quivered arrows just visible over their shoulders. One slight man, smaller than his fellows, stood in their lead. Caesarion could only barely make out the glinting of his eyes as he shook his hooded head.

  “Good,” Jacob said, turning toward the temple. “Let’s get inside.”

  “Is it customary to follow your invited guests?” Khenti asked. His voice was steady, not betraying whether he was angry at having been secretly followed, or whether he had known it all along.

  Jacob glanced back, and his smile was grim. “Tonight it is. Come. There’s only so much time.”

  The gate was opened, and Jacob led them up the steps to the red-roofed acropolis, the other hooded figures surrounding them as they climbed into the cool night air. At the top of the stairs they passed through a four-columned portico in the thick, high walls that surrounded the temple proper. Their path between the pillars and altars scattered through the main space of the temple was illuminated by a line of lit oil lamps. The priests of Serapis that Caesarion was accustomed to seeing here were noticeable by their absence. There was no scuffling of movement in the distance, no murmurs or chants that might reveal the stone complex for the temple that it was. Instead, there were only the steady lamps under the stars, leading the way deeper into the complex, and the closer sounds of their own passing. Jacob was in the lead, and the six men who had apparently followed them through the streets now fanned out around their little group as it moved from lamp to lamp. The slighter man whom Jacob had addressed walked to the rear of them all, close behind Khenti. All but Jacob kept their hoods drawn low over their heads and faces. Caesarion, feeling frightened and excited all at once, tried to take his cues from the two Romans and two Egyptians surrounding him, all of whom walked as if they had no worries in the world.

  Back through several hallways and rooms they walked, before they reached the staircase of stone that wound down into a series of hidden passageways and entrances into the deeper catacombs carved into the rock below. Caesarion had never been into these shadowed spaces—they were the domain of the priests—and he was soon certain that he was completely lost. At last they entered a long and broad room, its walls and pillars hidden by cases filled with scrolls half visible in the dim light of the few burning lamps. A series of simple wooden tables were set in the middle of the room, most of them covered with piled manuscripts. At one sat old Didymus, two more hooded guards to either side of him. When he looked up and saw the approaching party, his face brightened despite the gloom in the room.

  “Fine work, Pullo.” The scholar stood and rubbed his hands together as if to dissipate his excited energies before he came around the table to greet Caesarion. “I’m glad you could come. I was directing the fortification of the Library when they came for me. I hope they didn’t startle you. They did me.”

  “No,” Caesarion said, using his most diplomatic smile. “Though I do wonder what business is so urgent and secretive.”

  Jacob had taken up a position near Didymus’ vacated chair. For his part, the royal tutor remained beside Caesarion as Vorenus, Pullo, and the two Egyptian guards spread out around them. “But you do know why we’re here, do you not?” Jacob asked. “You know so much already.”

  Caesarion instinctively glanced sideways at some of the hooded guards who’d taken up positions in a rough circle around the pool of light in the center of the room. “I understand little.”

  “So it is too often in life,” Jacob said. “We cannot answer all, but circumstances dictate that I answer more than we ever could.”

  “Circumstances?” Didymus asked, clear expectancy in his voice.

  “Octavian’s siege, my dear librarian. And his impending victory.” The Jew’s eyes moved to Caesarion as he spoke, and he nodded his head slightly, as if in apology. “We’ve waited as long as we could, hoping against hope, but we’re certain that Alexandria will fall. Perhaps—in fact, likely—tomorrow.”

  Caesarion didn’t dispute the conclusion, much though he desired to do so. Only Antony’s tactical brilliance had bought this night of freedom from the yoke of Rome. That they could count on such results again seemed too much to ask. Even if they somehow staved off Octavian’s armies for another day, another night, Alexandria couldn’t last. To deny it would be fol
ly, and Caesarion prided himself on not being a foolish man. “If, as you say, my city is about to fall to its enemies, I have precious little time for games,” he said coolly. “I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “You’re right that there’s little time,” Jacob admitted. “But nowhere are you more needed than here. We need your help, Pharaoh. More than this city and this kingdom are at stake. The world is hanging in the balance.”

  “The Shards,” Didymus whispered. “I had hoped so.”

  “Yes. The Shards.” Jacob’s tone did not change, making clear the trust in which he held the dozen or so men in the room. “We know without doubt now that Octavian is in possession of the Second Shard. Our spies have seen it. We cannot let him acquire the First.”

  “The Ark of the Covenant,” Caesarion said.

  “Yes.”

  “You told us you knew nothing of its whereabouts,” Didymus said.

  “This is only partly true,” Jacob said. “I know that—like so many other treasures—the Ark is here in Alexandria. But I do not myself know where.”

  “And you need our help finding it?” the scholar guessed.

  Before Jacob could answer, Caesarion shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what he means,” he said. “Jacob may not know where it is, but at least one of these men here does. They don’t need help finding the Ark. They need help moving it. Is that right?”

  “Close,” Jacob said. “We do need your help to move it. But no man here knows where it is.” His eyes, as they did on the steps outside, raised to look past them.

  Caesarion, like the others, turned to look at the slight guard who had followed them in the night. The guard’s hands raised to the cloak’s shadowing hood and pulled it back to reveal long dark hair tied back to frame the smiling face of an impossibly beautiful young girl, perhaps sixteen years old. Only his trained impassivity prevented Caesarion from gasping as Pullo and Shushu did. “I do,” she said.

  “My sister, Hannah,” Jacob said from the table.