Juba’s face softened with relief. Then his gaze fell down along her body. His cheeks darkened. “My lady,” he stammered, “your dress…”
Selene looked down, saw that her torn shift was hanging open, exposing much of her just-budding chest to the man. She blushed and grasped the opening shut, thinking despite herself of her mother’s bared breast and the way her father’s torn shirt had been pulled closed. She tried to say something, but among her fear, horror, and revulsion, no words would come.
“Here,” Juba said, his hands quickly working to free his cloak. “Take this.”
Head bowed low to avert his gaze, he hesitantly stepped forward, right arm outstretched with the white cloth. Holding her torn dress with one hand, Selene snatched the cloak from him with her other. She wrapped it quickly around her own shoulders, letting it fall around her body like a robe. “Thank you,” she managed to say.
Juba nodded, glanced up hesitantly and then smiled. “It’s my pleasure. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
Selene started to say something more, but one of the doors leading out of the chamber opened loudly, revealing the high priest of Zeus-Ammon in his finest garb. “Lord Juba,” he said, “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.”
Juba looked over at him and smiled. “Not at all. I was just talking with one of your anxious acolytes.”
The high priest turned to where Selene stood and instinctively spoke her name. Even as the words escaped his lips, he seemed to be trying to swallow them, his eyes wide at both the shock of seeing her and the horror of having given her away.
Juba stared at her, his face unreadable. “Selene?”
Selene backed away like a caged beast, but she could only manage two steps before her back was up against the wall.
Sounds from the great gallery suddenly echoed into the chamber: cheers, salutes, movement. “He’s here!” the high priest gasped.
Juba blinked and shook his head as if waking from a dream. Then he rushed forward, quicker than Selene could react, and grabbed her arm. “You’ve got to hide,” he whispered, voice urgent.
Selene agreed, struck dumb with confusion. Was he helping her? Why would he do that?
Juba looked around, his eyes desperate. He spotted the open door behind the high priest and reached down to lift her up with his right arm, as easy as he carried his helm in the other. He hurried her over as the sound of footsteps grew louder. The doorway was a gaping mouth of shadow compared to the prismatic light of the central chamber. Juba’s grip was firm but soft, protectively secure over the looseness of the cloak he’d given her to wear. His body was warm through his armor. Selene started to say something as he set her down inside the door, started to ask why he was helping her, but he held a strong finger to his lips. The footsteps were very close.
Selene reached up to touch him, but he was already pushing the door shut, cutting her off from the light of Alexander’s tomb. Her hand went forward in the sudden dark and touched only hard wood over-strapped with iron.
She stood in silence and felt a shiver run up her spine from something other than the slightly cooler air in the hallway. There was a small lamp lit a short distance from the closed door, and her eyes quickly adjusted to focus on the door. She leaned forward to rest her ear against the crack between thick boards, and she closed her eyes to listen.
“Lord Octavian,” she heard the high priest say. “You grace this place with your presence.”
Selene felt her fingers flex against the wood of the door, as if she might tear through it, but she forced the rage down until it was only a tightening in her jaw. She moved her ear away from the door long enough to look around and see that there were no weapons nearby. Perhaps if she went down to some of the other tombs she’d find something, but she was certain she’d have no chance of killing him right now even if she did.
Patience, she told herself. Patience.
Selene put her ear to the door once more. “Juba, you’ve lost your cloak,” a voice said. A commanding, arrogant voice. Not Juba’s. Not the high priest’s. Octavian’s, she decided.
“Lost it this morning. On the road. A beggar girl was in need of warmth.”
“And you gave her royal linen?” The tone of Octavian’s voice was mocking. He sighed loudly. “Your too-warm heart will cost me dearly one day, I fear.”
“I hope it does not,” Juba said. His voice sounded weaker than that of his older adopted brother. Selene imagined him with his head lowered.
“So. This is Alexander.”
“Yes, my lord,” the high priest stammered. “The Great Conqueror, son of Zeus-Ammon, king of Macedon and Egypt, Persia and—”
“Spare me the list,” Octavian interrupted. “I haven’t the time.”
“As you wish,” the high priest said, his voice quiet.
“Don’t you think he looks smaller than you expected?” Octavian said.
“I don’t know,” Juba said. “I suppose we always imagine the men of legend to have been larger than they really were. He was, in the end, just a man.”
The high priest of Zeus-Ammon made a coughing noise, but apparently the other two men ignored him. “But a man who did great things,” Octavian said.
“Yes. He was that.”
There was silence for a moment, then Selene heard someone else approaching the chamber. “Ah, the wreath,” Octavian said.
“Wreath, my lord?” the high priest asked.
“Yes, priest. A conqueror, I’ve come to pay my respects to the man who built that which I’ve conquered,” Octavian said. “Open it up.”
“My lord?”
“The coffin. Open it up so I may place a wreath upon him.”
“But this … this is highly irregular,” the high priest said. He seemed to gather himself. “I cannot allow it.”
“Very well,” Octavian said, his voice cold. “Legionnaire?”
“Yes, Imperator,” a fourth voice answered.
“Fetch a hammer.”
“No!” the high priest blurted out.
“No?” Octavian asked. “Then open it up.”
Several seconds passed before Selene heard keys shaking. Boots shuffled on stone. Four locks were unlatched. Then came grunting, followed by the sound of something heavy sliding away.
“Remarkably preserved, isn’t he, Juba?” Octavian said.
“So he is. His armor in particular is…” Juba’s voice abruptly trailed off. Selene felt her heart pumping hard in her chest. If he was looking at Alexander’s armor, he was looking right at the Shard. If he saw it …
“Is what?” Octavian asked.
Selene strained to hear what was happening, her ear pressed as hard as she could bear against the door.
“Is what, Juba?”
He’d seen it. He had to have seen it.
“What?” Juba said. “Oh, sorry, brother. I was … just thinking about this. This moment, I mean. It’s extraordinary. I’m honored.”
Selene let out a breath that she didn’t know she’d been holding. Juba had seen the Shard. She knew it. But he hadn’t told Octavian. And he had shut her behind this door when he ought to have given her, too, over to him. Her mind reeled with questions enough to make her feel dizzy.
From the other side of the door she heard movements that must have been the sound of Octavian placing a wreath on Alexander’s corpse. When he was done, the high priest asked him if he would like to see some of the tombs of the Ptolemies, starting with Alexander’s own general. Selene smiled to hear it. She was in the hall where some of the most recent members of her family were entombed. Getting Octavian into another of the halls would perhaps give her a way out of the mausoleum.