The great library of Alexandria burned as the sun rose, thousands of scrolls making a furnace so hot that the soldiers of Rome could not come close to it. Marble columns raised by Alexander split and shattered in the furnace of a million thoughts and words. The men of the Fourth legion formed bucket chains to the docks, struggling against the sun and exhaustion until they were numb and their blistered skin was red and black with cinders. The closest buildings had been stripped and their walls and roofs saturated, but the library could not be saved.

Julius stood with Brutus, watching as the vast skeleton of roof timbers sagged and then collapsed over the work of generations. Both men were exhausted, their faces smeared with soot. They could hear the shouted orders as fire teams ran to stamp out new flames again and again, accompanied by chanting lines of bucket carriers.

"This is an evil thing to see," Julius murmured.

He seemed stunned by the destruction and Brutus glanced at him, wondering if blame would fall on his shoulders. The ships carrying catapults from Canopus had been denied entry to the port, but it was galling to know the battle had been won before they could have added their strength to the siege. The blockade had not been needed.

"Some of the scrolls were brought here by Alexander himself," Julius said, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, hundreds of others. Scholars came thousands of miles to read the works. It was said to be the greatest collection in the world."

And we burned it, Brutus thought wryly to himself, not quite daring to say the words aloud. "Their work must survive in other places," he managed.

Julius shook his head. "Nothing like this. Nothing complete."

Brutus looked at him, unable to understand his mood. For his own part, he was quietly in awe of the sheer scale of the destruction. He was fascinated by it and had spent part of the morning simply watching as the fire raged. He cared nothing for the stunned faces of the crowds.

"There's nothing more you can do here," he said.

With a grimace, Julius nodded and walked away through the silent throng that had come to see the devastation. They were eerily silent and it was strange for the men responsible to pass through them, unrecognized.

The tomb of Alexander was a temple of white stone pillars in the center of the city, dedicated to the founding god. The sight of stern Roman legionaries kept the curious public away as Julius stood on the threshold. He found his heart racing as he looked up at the coffin of glass and gold. It was raised above head height, with white steps on all sides for worshippers to ascend. Even from the edges, Julius could see the figure resting within it. Julius swallowed spit, uncomfortably. As a boy he had drawn the tomb from a Greek tutor's description. He had kissed Servilia at the foot of Alexander's statue in Spain. He had read accounts of every battle and idolized the man.

He climbed the steps to the stone plinth, breathing shallowly of the incense that hung in the air. It seemed appropriate there, in surroundings of cool death without decay. Julius placed his hands on the glass, marveling at the artisan's skill that had produced the panes and the bronze web to hold them. When he was ready, he looked down and held his breath.

Alexander's skin and armor had been layered in gold leaf. As Julius watched, clouds moved above and sunlight poured in from an opening. Only Julius's shadow remained dark and he wondered in awe at the glory of it.

"My image is on you, Alexander," he whispered, committing every aspect of the moment to memory. The eyes were sunken and the nose little more than a hole, but Julius could see the bones and gold flesh like stone, and guess at how the Greek must have looked in life. It was not an old face.

At first he had thought it wrong to have Alexander treated as one of the gods of Egypt. There, however, in that temple, it seemed an appropriate honor. Julius glanced around him, but the entrances were blocked by the solid backs of his soldiers. He was alone.

"I wonder what you would say to me," he murmured in Greek. "I wonder whether you would approve of a brash Roman standing in your city."

He thought of Alexander's children and the fact that none of them had survived to adulthood. The Greek king's firstborn son had been strangled at fourteen. Julius shook his head, looking into the distances of mortality. It was impossible not to contemplate his own death in such a place. Would another man stand over him three hundred years after he was dead? Better to be ashes. Without sons, everything he had achieved would slip away. His daughter could not command the respect of the Senate and, like Alexander's, her son might never be allowed to survive. Julius frowned in irritation. He had named Octavian as his heir, but he could not be certain the younger man had the skill to navigate the treacheries of Rome. In truth, he could not believe anyone else had the gift to build on his achievement. He had come so far, but unless he lived to begin a male line, it would not be enough.

In the distance, he could hear the din of the city. In the silence of the temple, his age bore down heavily on him.

Ptolemy's body lay in state in a room lined with gold. Images of Horus and Osiris were everywhere as he began the death path. His cold flesh had been washed and purified and then his left side had been split open and his organs removed. There was no judgment waiting for royalty. When the rituals ended, Ptolemy would take his place with the gods, as an equal.

When Julius was brought to see the boy king, he found the air heavy and hot. Curls of sweet smoke lifted lazily from the red hearts of enormous braziers. Ptolemy's body had been packed with salt natron to dry the flesh, and the bitter tang mingled with the fumes made Julius dizzy. Alexander's tomb had been cold in comparison, but better suited to the realities of death.

Cleopatra knelt before the body of her brother and prayed. Julius stood watching, knowing he could not bring himself to honor an enemy who had caused the death of some of his most loyal men. The boy's eyes were sewn shut and his skin gleamed with sticky oils. Julius wanted to gag at the sight of the four jars around him, knowing what they contained. He could not understand the process, or the reverence that Cleopatra displayed. She too had been threatened by her brother's army, but she honored him in death with rituals that would last almost two months before he was finally interred in his tomb.

In a rhythmic chant, Cleopatra prayed aloud in the language of her people, and Julius saw her eyes were clear and calm. He had not seen her weep since the day Ptolemy died and he knew he still could not understand her. Her army had returned from Syria to take their places around the royal palace, and there had already been incidents between the Romans and the desert-hardened warriors. Julius had been forced to have three of his men whipped for starting a drunken fracas in the city, leaving two men dead in their wake. Two more awaited punishment for using loaded dice with Cleopatra's soldiers, relieving them of their weapons as well as all the silver in their pouches.

The waiting chafed on him, as the death rites wound through to their conclusion. Julius had thought the boy would be quickly in the ground, knowing what the summer's heat could do, even to royal flesh. Instead, the days crept by with narcotic slowness and he was growing as restless as his men.

Octavian had made his feelings clear. He wanted to return to Rome and to the rewards they had all earned. Julius too could feel the city beckoning him over sea and land. He wanted to ride under the gates and into the forum once more. He had achieved every dream he had ever had as a boy. His enemies were dust and ashes, but still he waited.