The Shards of Heaven (14 page)

ALEXANDRIA, 32 BCE

Vorenus regretted letting go of the balcony railing almost as soon as he began sliding down the steadily sloping stone face of the palace wall. Distances were deceptive in the dark: despite his familiarity with the complex, the garden beneath him seemed to be much farther down than he anticipated. And he was picking up speed faster than he thought he would.

Not to mention that he wasn't as young as he used to be.

He reached out, pressed the leather vambrace strapped to his forearm against the stone. Its metal buckles sent out a flicking trail of sparks in his wake, but it did little to slow his pace.

Vorenus brought his other arm over his face as he hit the first whipping fronds of the tall palms that grew close to the wall. The space of a heartbeat followed before he crashed into the softer leaves of the tended plants below, his legs buckling instinctively and the air leaving his lungs even as he kicked forward and rolled across the hard earth.

He came to rest against the low wall bounding the little garden, and for a moment all he could do was stare at the slow wisps of cloud crossing over the moon above. His right hip throbbed in protest of the exertion. The ribs on his left side positively ached. And he could feel the sting of more scratches than he cared to imagine. He had slid more than four floors along the building. He'd done stupider things in his life, but not many.

Too damn old, Vorenus thought. If he didn't feel the urgency of danger, and if he didn't know that it would hurt too much, he would have laughed at his own foolish mortality. Instead, he painfully pulled himself to his feet, the air only beginning to return to his lungs.

Not bothering to dust himself off, Vorenus started south along the stone path through the garden at an easy trot, speeding up as he caught his wind, his head on a swivel to get his bearings and his mind determinedly pushing away the pain of his fall. The figure he'd seen from the balcony had been moving inward from the main walls, toward the residential areas south of the palace. Cleopatra and Caesarion were safe, he was sure: there were more than enough guards in the council chambers, and Pullo would see to it that everything was secured quickly.

No, it was the children that Vorenus kept thinking about: Cleopatra's younger children by Antony. The twins Selene and Helios, and little Philadelphus. With the council bringing an increase of guards at the palace, there would be no better time to strike at the youngest members of the royal family. Vorenus stole a glance off to his left, where the island of Antirhodos sat low in the harbor. He should have been more forceful about insisting that the family stay in residence at their palace there. He'd been foolish to allow Cleopatra to have her way about moving them all while the new addition was built. Foolish.

Fighting the urge to damn himself for the danger, Vorenus pulled out his gladius and set off at a run.

*   *   *

He'd just entered the main hall of the residential complex, just started making his way toward the quarter where the twins and young Ptolemy would be sleeping, when Selene's hushed shout froze him in his tracks. “Vorenus!”

He turned, lowering his blade slightly so as not to frighten the girl. Selene was looking out from behind the half-open doorway leading not to her hallway, but his own. She looked deeply frightened.

Taking a quick glance to left and right, Vorenus padded over, kneeling to make her feel more at ease. “Selene,” he whispered. “What are you—”

“Didymus' room,” she stammered. “Rome. Rome.”

“Slow down.” Vorenus took her slight shoulders in his hands as if to steady her. “Deep breath. Now. What's in Didymus' room?”

Selene's eyes were wide. “A man,” she said. “From Octavian.”

Vorenus stood, started to tell her to stay where she was. But then he realized that he didn't know if the man was still in Didymus' room. And surely there'd be no reason for the man to go to the librarian's room aside from attempting to use him to get to the children. So her safety had to be his first priority. He couldn't protect her here.

By the gods, where's Pullo?

“Okay,” he said, getting his bearings again. “Stay close. We're going to go help Didymus. If I tell you to, though, I want you to run, okay? Doesn't matter why. Just run, as fast as you can, for the council chambers. Don't look back. Got it?”

Selene nodded vigorously. It wasn't much of a plan, Vorenus knew, but at least it was something. And, gods willing, some of the other guards would arrive soon.

Didymus' room wasn't far down the hall. Fortunate, since Vorenus took every step as another reason to curse himself for leaving so few guards in the residential areas, for not insisting that the family stay in the much more secure palace on Antirhodos.

When they got close to the librarian's room, Vorenus tried to push his guilt back out of his mind to focus on the moment. He crept forward cautiously, his gladius drawn and ready, while with his spare hand he pushed Selene as far back as she was willing to go. At the door, he leaned his ear against the wood.

Nothing. He wondered if he was too late, if Octavian's assassin had already come and gone, leaving Didymus dead in his wake. Or perhaps he was forcing the librarian to lead him to the children's rooms.

Vorenus was just starting to pull away when he heard the Greek's voice within. “I can't,” Didymus said.

“Not what I want to hear,” another voice replied. Selene was right: he did sound Roman. And vaguely familiar.

Laenas.

Vorenus listened with increasing silent rage as the assassin revealed Didymus' role in the assassination attempt on Caesarion's life, the near-murder of that innocent child that set him and Pullo on the path to this place, this time: cast out by Rome, enemies of the very state they desired so much to serve.

Didymus! If Vorenus wasn't hearing it for himself, he would never have believed it.

And what were these Scrolls of Thoth that the assassin's employer was after? Why were they so important?

“I just don't know where it is,” he heard the Greek reply to the assassin's questioning.

“I know,” Laenas said. “So you don't have a reason to live, either.”

Vorenus heard, unmistakably, the metallic glide of a blade being drawn. He envisioned, in the eye of his mind, the scar-faced Roman moving in for a strike.

As he had many years before, wading into the thick of the barbarians in Gaul to rescue his wounded rival, Pullo, Vorenus acted without thinking. That Didymus had once betrayed the royal family—that even now he might be willing to sell them all to Octavian if he actually had access to the Scrolls—didn't cross his mind in the moments after he heard Laenas pull a blade.

The door wasn't the thickest wood, and it wasn't barred. With a single step back and one head-lowered shoulder-thrust forward, Vorenus was able to splinter the latch and charge into the room amid the flood of light from the fires in the hallway.

It would have been over quickly, the assassin run through the back, quivering out his final moments on Vorenus' weapon, except for the scattered manuscripts on the stone floor of the room. As it was, Vorenus took two strides into the librarian's chambers—left, right—and then felt his third step push out from beneath him just as he was planting it for the final strike. His right knee buckled as his left foot shot forward and his left hand shot down to the ground as he fell into a slide through the papers.

Laenas, a younger man, had catlike reflexes. Startled at first, he recovered quickly after Vorenus slipped and lost the advantage of surprise. Light on his feet, the assassin altered the aim of his arm in mid-swing. Originally intending his strike for the Greek Didymus—who was sprawled out now against the stone wall just below the window—he spun on his feet, bringing the blade around and down in a wide swath.

Vorenus saw the strike, but a moment too late. As it was, he had to drop his own sword in order not to stab himself as he curled down into his slide, ducking and rolling onto his side as he passed by the assassin. He felt the wind of the blade stroke pass inches from his head. He saw, as he rolled, the wide, dazed eyes of the traitor he'd once called his friend a moment before he, too, crumpled into the wall beneath the window, his boots planted hard on the stone and his knees bent to take out the speed of his impact.

The effort of the assassin's strike had spun him around momentarily, and he had to be careful to avoid slipping on the papers. By the time Laenas had turned back around, Vorenus had already kicked out of his crouch, recoiling his body back across the floor and into the assassin's legs. The two men fell, grunting, into a flurry of manuscripts, and the sound of the assassin's dagger clattering away across the stone rang loud in the little room.

Through the rain of papers in the dim light, Vorenus saw his own sword on the ground between them and he kicked his way forward, lunging for it. Laenas, fallen to his stomach, saw it, too, and he flung his foot out in that direction, sending it skittering noisily back toward the open doorway. Vorenus growled—out of frustration, out of pain—and grabbed the Roman's foot instead. One hand on the toe, one on the heel, he twisted as hard as he could manage, as if he might wrench the appendage off. It didn't come loose, but he was pleased to hear a pop. Laenas screamed, pulled himself toward Vorenus, and swung his free foot downward with savage ferocity, the heel crunching wetly into the older man's nose and cheek.

Vorenus cried out in a gasp that brought up the taste of iron, but he didn't let go. Instead, he twisted even harder, rolling his own body like a barrel so that the next strike, if it came, would hit the back of his head.

It did, but Vorenus was ready. His vision swam for a moment, but he held fast, and his own feet, somehow, found firm grip on a bare spot on the floor. Pulling down on the assassin's foot even as he pushed up with his own, he flung himself on top of the younger man and slammed his fist down into the side of his head. Laenas responded with a blind, upward jab of his elbow that struck Vorenus in the stomach. Vorenus coughed the air out of his lungs but still managed to raise up his other fist and bring it down into the man's scar-twisted mouth. Teeth splintered inward.

The assassin's jaw clenched, biting hard into one of Vorenus' fingers. Somehow he'd managed to pull a short knife with his other hand, and he swung it up as best he could. Vorenus twisted away and managed to avoid the worst of it, but even so he felt the searing wet of a slash across his ribs. Another strike wouldn't miss, he was sure. Another strike would take his gut.

With one hand Vorenus grabbed the sweat-slicked back of the assassin's skull while his other took hold of his jaw. Keeping his weight as far forward on his body as he could, he yanked up on the man's head. Then, with the full force of his remaining strength, he slammed it down into the floor.

Snapping bones cracked loudly over the grunts of the two struggling men. The assassin's legs bucked hard, and his body convulsed once, twice, before it fell still. Then only the muscles of his scarred cheek seemed to twitch, shimmering in the moonlight.

Vorenus rolled off of him, gasping as he flopped down to the floor. He pushed himself back a few feet, somehow caught motion out of the corner of his eye.

It was Selene, framed by the backlight in the doorway. She was holding his fallen gladius in her hand, and he could not see her face.

“Sword,” he coughed out, raising his hand toward her. Bits of sticky papyrus clung to his arm, dangling strangely.

Selene took a step backward, hesitated, then came forward in a rush to hand him the blade.

Even close, Vorenus couldn't see her face, but he was certain she'd been crying. He tried to smile reassuringly, hoping that his mouth wasn't full of blood. “It's okay, Selene. It's okay now.” And then, because he didn't want her to watch and couldn't think of what else to tell her, he said: “Go get Pullo.”

Selene's mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but it closed again and she backed partway out of the room before turning and hurrying away out of sight.

Vorenus felt pain from seemingly every part of his body threatening to overrun his senses.

Not yet, he told himself. Just a little longer.

He staggered to his knees, forced to close his eyes hard against the screaming of his nerves as he did so. For several heartbeats he teetered there before he steadied himself enough to stand and open his eyes again.

Laenas was still alive, but his limbs were stilled. His head, though, was trembling slightly. Vorenus saw that the man's eyes, though wide in shock, managed to focus on him. Something like agreement passed between them.

“May the gods welcome you,” Vorenus said. Then, as quickly and efficiently as he could, he placed the point of his gladius above the man's heart and pressed downward until the tip bit the solid floor.

The glint in the man's eyes softened, and his trembling stopped. Vorenus pulled the blade free.

Didymus had returned to his senses during the fight, managing to back himself toward the corner away from the melee. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up in front of him, holding his head. His eyes were rooted on the dead assassin, and the look on his face was one of sheer horror.

Vorenus stepped over the body, limped over to stand in front of him. He raised his sword like an outstretched finger pointing at the librarian's soul. The gore on it was shining as it drew toward the point and dripped down onto the strewn papers. “Now,” he said. “Give me one good reason not to send you with him.”

For several seconds Didymus made no reply. Then his eyes blinked, raised up from the corpse. “I've none.”

“I heard,” Vorenus said. He felt his stomach rising in an urge to vomit and knew it wasn't for the sight of the blood or the pain in his aged body. “How could you?”

Didymus shook his head dully. “Just finish it,” he said. “Be quick.”