Didymus looked down at the central round pool at his feet, saw the steadily rippling reflection of the light of this new day streaming through the eastern windows of the dome high above him. Closer still he saw the three staircases spiraling round the walls of the six-sided hall, and the doors to the ten halls of knowledge and all the books beyond. The doors were, for the moment, bolted and barred shut, but it didn’t matter. Breathing deep, he could still smell the scrolls.
Didymus was glad, at least, to know that he’d probably not live long enough to smell the smoke.
The librarian felt an instinctive chill run up his spine and he stood, hoping movement would get his mind on something other than the thought of fire and screams. He walked around the pool, only to find himself staring back down the pillared entry hall to where half a dozen of his fellow scholars were slumped, in exhaustion, around or against the makeshift barricades they’d pushed up against the front doors. The turned-up desks and boards and bookcases looked obscenely out of place. He’d always thought of the Library as a temple, meant to be kept as orderly as one.
There was a noise from above him: the sound of fast footsteps approaching. He’d stationed a lookout up in his own office, a fine vantage point to the open courtyard in front of the Library, and it seemed that they’d spotted something. The ram, he supposed.
The face that appeared at the railing belonged to Thrasyllus, one of the youngest of the scholars who’d chosen to remain at the Library after he’d told them of Antony’s death and the fall of the city and gave them free pass to leave. He had always been a driven young man—a student of astrology, which Didymus found unfortunate—yet his usual confident surety was gone for the moment. He appeared both frightened and confused.
“What is it?” Didymus asked.
“Master,” the young astrologer said, stuttering in his haste, “there’s a man outside who wishes to talk to you. He calls you by name.”
“Who?”
“A dark-skinned man. But he wears the crest and markings of Caesar’s own family.”
Didymus swallowed hard. “Juba.”
“He isn’t alone,” Thrasyllus said.
Of course not. Juba would bring many soldiers to destroy the Library. He’d have a special interest in its destruction, Didymus imagined. “How many men?”
“No men, master. He’s with a young girl.” The look of confusion on the astrologer’s face deepened. “I … I think it’s the lady Selene.”
* * *
Didymus was staring out his office window at the encircling Romans when Thrasyllus knocked quietly on his door.
“Please, come in,” Didymus said as he turned around, trying to make his voice sound more in control than he felt.
The door opened and the young astrologer bowed out of the way to reveal Selene, who rushed forward quickly. Didymus crouched down to embrace her. He started to tell her how sorry he was for the death of Antony before it struck him how little the words were in comparison to her loss. But he realized, too, that he had nothing more to give. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
She’d raised her arms around his neck, and he felt them shiver. “Me, too,” she said. And then she let him go, stiffening as if she were embarrassed by her sudden show of emotion. She ran her hands down a simple linen dress that appeared to be slightly too big to be her own. Her eyes were wet as she blinked away from him, looking toward the door.
Didymus stood, his gaze following hers, and he saw, standing in the doorway of his office, the man who was unmistakably Juba, the adopted Numidian son of Julius Caesar himself. He was wearing his finest dress uniform, the helm in the crook of his arm gleaming with fresh polish, though Didymus’ attention was drawn quickly to his strange way of wearing his white cloak. Didymus had only seen such cloaks pulled back off both shoulders, but Juba’s hung from his right shoulder alone, such that it draped across the front of his chest to hang half over the short sword at his left hip. The thought ran across Didymus’ mind that he could later research whether this was a Numidian custom. It wouldn’t take him long to do: he knew precisely where he’d find the book he needed, and he knew it was written in familiar Greek. It wouldn’t take long at all. But then, as soon as he imagined the halls of scrolls, he pictured them in flames, the little bits of burning papyrus fluttering in the smoky air like bright butterflies.
“My dear Didymus,” Juba said, bowing cordially. “I am pleased at last to meet you.”
Didymus bowed low in response, feeling a chill against the back of his neck like the wind he imagined preceding an executioner’s swing. “Is it to you that I owe thanks for the sparing of this building?”
“It is,” Juba said. He smiled diplomatically. “Though the men remain, as you might imagine, most anxious to burn it nevertheless.”
“I hope they can be dissuaded, prince of Rome and Numidia.”
Juba grinned. “Numidia and Rome,” he corrected.
Didymus nodded, though he couldn’t imagine what difference it made.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Juba said. “All three of us.”
“Of course,” Didymus said. He motioned to the two chairs he’d placed in front of his desk, distantly remembering Caesarion and Jacob sitting in them as they learned the truth of the Shards. “Please, sit down. Thrasyllus, see that we are not disturbed.”
The young astrologer bowed, more deeply than Didymus had ever seen, before he closed the door. Juba held a chair for Selene before settling into his own. Didymus glanced once more out the window, confirming that the Roman army hadn’t moved and wasn’t yet bearing torches, before he, too, sat down. “Well,” he said, “I thank you for sparing the Library so far.”
“I wouldn’t see it burned,” Juba said, the quickness of his response speaking to its honesty. “Though I would do so gladly if it got me what I want.”
When he knew Juba was on his way up, Didymus had pulled from its hiding place the letter from that horrible night, the night that brought them all to this place and to the truth of the Shards and a war greater than any battle between men. He lifted it now from the papers strewn atop his desk. Smears of red still stained its surface, marring its inks. Didymus held it gently in his fingers, turning it over twice before he set it down, faceup, on the wood. Amid the stains he could see the Numidian’s mark. “I don’t have what you’re looking for,” Didymus said, his eyes still fixed on the letter. “I told the man you sent. The Scrolls of Thoth don’t exist. They’re not here. Burning this place will reveal nothing.”
“I know,” Juba said.
Didymus looked up. “You know?”
“It’s not the Scrolls that I’m after. It’s the Ark. The First Shard.”
Didymus felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. A wave of nausea washed over him and he had to swallow the urge to be sick. “Sh-shard?”
Juba smiled. “One of the Shards of Heaven. Like the Trident that my stepbrother Octavian has in his possession. The Ark of the Covenant. I want it. No, I need it. And you’re going to get it for me.”
“How—?”
“How do I know of the Shards?” Juba looked over to Selene. “I’ve suspected some of it, but I know more today than I knew yesterday.”
“Selene?” Didymus looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time: young, strong, defiant. “How could you? To the Romans?”
“Not to the Romans,” she said quickly. Her cheeks were tinged with red, but her chin was raised. “To Juba. We have to tell him everything.”