“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 might 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.”