They would get the Aegis. They would get the Palladium. With the four Shards together they could surely open the gate once more. Selene had wanted vengeance. In her selfish desire for it, she had unleashed unimaginable horror upon the world. They would make a hell on Earth. Her attempt to escape, like the desires that had brought her here, had all been for nothing. And the demons knew it, too. They made lyrical and beautiful sounds to one another as they approached. They were, she knew, laughing.
She stopped pulling. Thrasyllus stopped, too. Juba was leaned up against her, and Thrasyllus was close beside her on her left. He was crying and talking of his love for Lapis, then begging for his own forgiveness. He had lied, he said. They huddled in their despair, the three of them, awaiting the end. Selene leaned over her husband and saw that he was awake enough to look up into her eyes as she looked down into his. And when she reached down to kiss him one last time upon the forehead, to apologize, he had strength enough to whisper three words to her. “Go, my love,” he rasped.
“Fly,” Thrasyllus suddenly said.
Selene looked up. The astrologer was gazing at the stars, tears in his eyes. “What?”
“Mercury. Libra.” His head jerked as his eyes moved across the heavens. He seemed ready to laugh at the foolishness of what he read there. “Signs say to take flight.”
Selene’s eyes widened. She rifled through the folds of her dress, searching desperately. The demons were just steps away, tall and mighty, terrible and menacing in their perfection. But in the last moments her hand found it, wrapped around it. She pulled it free, and then she moved one arm around Thrasyllus while with the other she placed the Palladium upon the Aegis.
Juba’s hand had somehow fallen atop hers, and together they dropped down into the fast-filling dark, only to rise up again in flight.
Riding a shaft of wind, arcing against the moon and the stars, they flew for the shore, for the sea, for the ship that would speed them away. Behind and below them, the frustrated cries of the demons sang a wordless song of horror. And around them, upon them, the city was awakened to screams that soon filled the night.
EPILOGUE
THE LIGHT OF THE SUN
MEROË, 22 BCE
Vorenus stood on the northern balcony of the royal palace of Meroë, seat of the kingdom of Kush. He was, for the moment, alone with his thoughts. Most of the city was gathering below, all of them cheering the new temple that was about to be dedicated in honor of the Kushite victory over Rome—a victory that he knew was not true.
He had seen such a celebration before, years ago in Alexandria, when Antony and Cleopatra had returned from the battle of Actium. That, too, had been a lie. Rulers, he’d found, had a way of doing that.
Not that he could blame the Kandake. With Rome’s conquest of Egypt complete, the Kushite queen knew that the next kingdom up the Nile—Kush, with its rich iron mines—would surely be the next target for their insatiable domination. So the Kandake had done what she’d had to do: she’d made a deal with the Nabataeans of Petra, who were already worried about what would happen if the Romans managed to open a direct route to the spices of Arabia. It was a masterful plan, one that Vorenus admired for its seeming simplicity. The Nabataeans would agree to guide the Roman legions from Egypt through Arabia, but they would take the most time-consuming and dangerous path possible. The Romans could be expected to react with trade sanctions against the Nabataeans, but the Kandake agreed to help minimize their impact by opening up Kushite markets—including increased access to her precious metals—on favorable terms to the people of Petra. And in the meantime, while the Roman legions were wandering the desert of Arabia, the Kushites would have descended the Nile in a massive raid on a relatively unprotected Egypt, establishing their strength while burning towns like the one at Elephantine and destroying fortifications like the garrison at Syene. The power of Rome would be checked on two fronts.
It was a brilliant plan.
The only thing she had underestimated was Roman resolve.
Augustus had relieved the prefect of Egypt when he’d at last returned from Arabia with the limping remnants of the legions he’d marched into the desert. He’d appointed Petronius in his place, who had immediately set himself upon the task of restocking the garrisons, rebuilding the fortifications, and making plans for a counterstrike on Kush.
Pullo and Vorenus, who’d spent the years since Elephantine as guests in the Kandake’s court, had told her it was coming, even as she’d set her workmen to constructing this temple dedicated to the very victory that had brought them into her presence—and cost Hannah and Caesarion their lives.
Below him, the people cheered as trumpets blared in song. But the thoughts of death had turned the eyes of Vorenus to the east, to the dozens upon dozens of sandstone tombs and pyramids lining the horizon. The necropolis of Meroë was sacred ground, and he’d found himself walking there more than once, in the silence, communing with the memory of Caesarion. He’d been a good man, the best of men, and it was wrong that he should die so young. He’d only just started his life.
It should have been me, he thought to himself. What he could have done differently, he didn’t know, but that didn’t change the guilt. He’d lived, though he was undeserving of more time on this earth. And Caesarion, a young man who deserved everything in the world, had died.
It simply wasn’t right.
“Am I disturbing you?” said a voice from the palace behind him.
Vorenus turned and saw Syllaeus, the Nabataean who had played such a key role in the negotiations between Petra and Meroë. The dark-haired man had a mixed complexion, not unlike that of the Greeks in Egypt, and the way he held himself was mixed, too: his rough hands and his taut muscles spoke of a man accustomed to labor, yet the way he wrapped his robes about him and held his head high, he could just as easily have been a man of the court. Vorenus had found him friendly and interested in what was happening around him in a way that seemed casual but was in truth constantly scheming for an advantage. For all these reasons and more, Vorenus figured Syllaeus was a consummate politician: as likely to push a drowning man under as he was to save him. It was little wonder that he’d been the man who’d guided the Roman legions into the desert, able to walk the men to their deaths in the sands, smiling all the while, and somehow returned a free man, living to tell about it. He was impressive, to be sure, but Vorenus trusted the Nabataean no farther than he could throw him. And his back wasn’t what it once was.
“Not a disturbance at all,” Vorenus lied through his smile.
“I am glad for it,” the Nabataean said. He walked up to join Vorenus at the balcony, looking out at the crowds. “A nice temple,” he said.
Vorenus nodded. “People like a celebration.”
Syllaeus yawned. It was midday, but Vorenus didn’t doubt the Nabataean had enjoyed a late night. He’d only been in Meroë two weeks, but his drinking and whoring was the talk of the city. Something else he had in common with many politicians. “The Romans will attack Napata in the coming days.”
Napata was home to the more ancient royal palace of the Nubians, partway between Meroë and Elephantine. It was the last stronghold between the advancing Roman legions and this capital. And Syllaeus was noting the impending attack as casually as he would comment on the weather. Everyone knew the Romans were coming, but their speed was unexpected, even for Vorenus, who nevertheless tried not to act surprised. “I see. And the Kandake is aware?”
The Nabataean nodded. “I tell her what she needs to know.”
Vorenus smiled at that. “Which means you think I need to know.”