The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord Book 2)

by JD Smith

  THE FATE OF AN EMPEROR

  Overlord II

  JD SMITH

  The Fate of an Emperor copyright © 2014 JD Smith

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design and formatting www.jdsmith-design.com

  Published by Quinn Publications

  All enquiries to editor@quinnpublications.co.uk

  First published 2014

  ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9576164-5-5

  ISBN Ebook: 978-0-9576164-6-2

  For Ian on our tenth anniversary (give or take a few months).

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you for reading a Triskele Book

  Also from Triskele Books

  PROLOGUE

  Zabdas – 258 AD

  Sun cut through the small window, illuminating the room, cups and bowls, table, chairs, the blanket under which I lay entangled with Aurelia. I smoothed her pale gold hair as she looked at me, a smile of happiness that only the innocence of youth can buy touching her lips. And yet I knew different. Her slender fingers traced the fresh muscle on my unmarked chest, across my shoulders and down my arms to the only scar upon my body; a crude slave mark puckering the skin. She had known a life that on one hand saw the coldness of a father who would never love her and on the other the kindness of an old Roman senator who gave her the affection and education only a rare bastard-born could know.

  ‘The gods know I am glad you came,’ I said.

  ‘Nowhere is safe,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps not even Palmyra now.’

  It stung to hear those words, for another to think the capital of Syria, the city I loved and the centre of power on the Roman front could be at risk. I always thought it to be the one place immune to our enemy, impenetrable and safe, the heart of these lands.

  ‘Palmyra is safe,’ I murmured, more to myself than to her.

  She moved closer, her head on my chest, arm around me, golden hair under my chin. I breathed in her scent, fresh and clean and of nothing more than the morning.

  ‘Zenobia and Odenathus married under Roman law?’ she said, a question and yet it was not the one spoken aloud. She knew the king and queen of Palmyra had breathed silent vows and signed a marriage contract in line with Roman custom.

  ‘They did,’ I said. ‘And before they were bound by Roman law they were bound by their own Egyptian vows to one another, sharing a bed and the promise of fidelity and children to come. They will be faithful – as will we.’

  I felt her nod against my chest and she said no more. I knew she worried and wondered whether or not we were truly man and wife if no Roman ceremony had been performed.

  ‘Would you prefer it if we signed a Roman marriage contract?’

  She was silent a moment, then said: ‘We do not need to.’

  ‘I am not a Roman, and my customs are not yours, Aurelia. I commit myself to you for now and for all time, to share your bed, to remain faithful only to you. But if it eases your mind to bind our marriage by the laws of your people, then we can do so.’

  She did not reply. She kissed me instead, long and lingering. ‘I do not need parchment to tell me what I know,’ she breathed. ‘If you consider me wife then that is enough.’

  Banging sounded at the door.

  ‘They are coming!’ a voice shouted. ‘They are coming!’

  Fear rippled through me. Aurelia sat up, sheets pulled to her chest, hair hanging loose around her face, eyes wide.

  ‘I must go,’ I said.

  ‘The Persians?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Stay safe.’

  Safe? How could any of us stay safe? I felt a pang of frustration and annoyance at her coming here, to Antioch, washing away the past three nights that we had spent together behind the city walls.

  You should not have come, I thought, but I dared not breathe the words, could not show my fear and my anxiety to her. She had left the safety of Palmyra and come to the frontier for me so that we might have the life she had come to Syria to share. I could not resent her for that, but nor could I shake the dread that built and now threatened to erupt as the Persian enemy approached.

  Harsh rapping sounded at the door.

  ‘Move, move, move!’

  I walked over to the door, opened it and looked out. Soldiers, half-armed, ran along the street. Terrified screams rang from the citizens.

  I closed the door and turned to fetch my armour

  ‘Are they already in the city?’ Aurelia asked.

  ‘I do not know. Bolt the door behind me. Open it for no one. If I do not return, head back to Palmyra and stay there. Do not endanger yourself.’

  Something unnerved me. Before today there had been only a clash of wills, Valerian backing away from Shapur, enduring countless raids and harassment. But now we were under attack, trapped behind the walls of Antioch with nowhere to run.

  Aurelia stood up and helped me fasten the straps of my breastplate. I turned and kissed her, those sweet lips, the faith and feeling of a woman upon them. Then I left, sword in hand.

  Citizens ran in panic, prized possessions clutched in arms, frightened children dragged behind, cries and whimpers lingering in their wake. In the midst of chaos, units of soldiers marched through the streets. Orders sounded on all sides as Roman soldiers moved with purpose.

  I picked up my pace, half-running along the street to the house where I knew Zenobia lived. Zenobia; now wife to the king of Palmyra and my half-sister. I could think only of her safety as I left Aurelia, knowing that Zenobia was not the same, she would not cower in the face of danger, would not hide behind a bolted door and stay there until my return. She would face the enemy head on as a soldier would, and I feared most that she would put herself in danger.

  Against a dirty blue sky a rain of bright orange seared, humming through cold air and hammering down into the city. New screams coursed. I turned down one alleyway, then another, each one blocked by panic stricken people.

  ‘Zabdas!’

  I turned to see Zenobia struggling through the crowds, hands clutched to a swollen belly.

  ‘I was coming for you. What are you doing out of the house?’

  She did not hear me, or did not listen. Panting, she squeezed a path toward me.

  ‘Have you seen Zabbai?’ she asked.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Odenathus?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Zenobia, it is my duty to ensure your safety. You must return to the house.’

  Citizens shunted and pushed. I clutched her arm to steady her.

  ‘The Persians breach our defences on the east side of the ci
ty. Odenathus was called from our bed not long ago. And our supply ships are being cut off.’ She spoke like Zabbai or Odenathus or any other general, her words matter of fact, the din of the crowd penetrated by her authoritative voice.

  My mind cleared of all thought as I realised that the city would begin to starve, blocked from our own lands by invaders.

  I felt anger grip my heart as I thought of the man responsible, the Emperor who had travelled from Rome to bring aid, who had done nothing but hinder our defence, and I saw that anger reflected in Zenobia’s eyes.

  ‘What do you propose?’ I said.

  Her face hardened. ‘I do not know.’ She looked about her. ‘I must find Zabbai and hope that he can persuade Odenathus to reclaim control over the army. Emperor Valerian cannot command. He has no notion of what is required of him. This city will fall if Odenathus does not take charge.’

  ‘It is not safe,’ I replied. ‘I will come with you.’

  We pushed and squeezed a path through the streets, our pace hindered by those attempting to flee. Little did they know that no ships would see them safely downriver. Fires burned fierce, warming the seats of the gods – pleasing them, no doubt. What thoughts had they to torment for amusement at daybreak? How they must laugh as we mortals pushed and wrestled our way through a maze of stone and chaos.

  We reached the east wall and found it twenty men deep, all armed, all ready to kill the Persians should they break through. Our enemy were adept on horseback, but now they were scaling the walls so skilfully I could almost have admired them if I had not felt the surge of panic and the desire to kill. Our own soldiers slashed and cut and poured hot oil from the tops of the walls, but the screams of the Persians were barely heard above the metal drum-beating coming from beyond the city, louder than the din of our soldiers, louder even than the pulsing of my heart in my ears. The sound brought fear, the kind that would see a man turn and run. And yet the men of Rome seemed to know this; they began their own chant to drown the sounds. Still I felt the chill of the Persian rhythm.

  I clutched Zenobia’s hand as we squeezed through the crowds looking for Zabbai, but he was not to be found. And before I realised it we were pushed through to where the soldiers stood before the gate barring the entrance to the city.

  The emperor was nowhere in sight. On the walls I saw the enemy trying to gain control, screaming and wailing and disordered in contrast to the Roman soldiers.

  ‘We should not be here,’ I said to Zenobia, the thought of Odenathus’ rage at his pregnant wife standing in the midst of soldiers defending the city turning my blood cold.

  ‘They will break through,’ she said.

  ‘Which is why we must not be here when they do,’ I retorted.

  I looked over the heads of the soldiers. Behind the gates, Roman soldiers prepared for the breach, the front row backing up two paces and levelling their spears.

  ‘We must go. Zabbai is not here.’ Panic edged my voice. I did not know what to do next. If the Persians broke through, only the twenty deep Romans stood between the enemy and the city. I tried to keep calm, to control my breathing and not let fear rise higher and higher.

  I looked about me, spotted one of the king’s generals, and moved across to him, pushing men from my path, pulling Zenobia with me. He gestured at the soldiers around him, waving his arms, attempting to bring order to the increasing chaos. I tried to remember his name. He was squat, unfriendly. It came to me.

  ‘Pouja?’ I shouted. ‘Pouja?’

  He took one glance at me and turned his back.

  ‘Bastard,’ I spat.

  I glanced back at Zenobia, my grip on her wrist tightening, worried I’d lose her in the swarm of men.

  ‘Fucking idiots!’ Pouja bellowed.

  He pushed through to the front of the group whose spear-tips pointed at the gate. It bulged inwards under the weight of the Persians.

  My breath came fast and irregular. I could think of nothing for the dread that filled me, my legs weak as I tried to move but could not. I heard prayers muttered to numerous gods as the soldiers stood fast, holding their lines, eyes focussed. I glanced to either side, wondering how many men were as fearful as I, whether I would see my own fear reflected in their faces and polished shields.

  Pouja stood to our left, his features grim yet showing an excitement I did not share. On my right a Roman warrior, his face expressionless, watched the gate. Someone pushed between us.

  ‘Let’s kill some of these bastards,’ he screamed.

  I looked into his wild eyes and returned a weak grimace.

  The heavy armour of the Romans glinted in the moonlight. No, it was sunlight, hot and rising and for a fleeting, absurd moment I imagined how much hotter the Romans must be. They stood with one foot in front of the other, steady against the rush that would come, putting weight behind their tall shields that would protect us. I gripped my own shield, and felt suddenly vulnerable, naked.

  ‘No!’ Pouja cried.

  A heartbeat later and the gate disintegrated in a mass of splintered wood and screeches and war-cries and the enemy swarmed toward us, thirsty for blood and for plunder. Kettle drums beat louder than before and I shivered and pushed down the urge to retch, and with fear and dismay I watched as time itself ground slower.

  The call of the enemy came wild; a thunderous noise that filled my ears and reverberated around us. For a moment I was blinded by light reflected on shields. Screams of battle rang from Persian mouths. Their terrible war cries pierced my ears and the very heart of me feared what would come.

  I could see no faces in the enemy ranks before they charged. Their heads were encased in metal helmets, their bodies a series of overlapping plates. On their legs they wore full-length boots, attached to their body armour and leaving no gap for our spears and swords. They were not on foot, but mounted on heavy, armoured horses.

  Our front line dropped to their knees and lifted spears to adjust for the horses. They would aim below the beasts’ breast plate, to injure and kill. But lances, longer and more substantial than our spears were levelled by the Persians, and they came at us and they hit our line with a force that crumpled the front rank into those behind, and beyond them in turn. Zenobia gripped my waist, steadying herself, and I cursed again and again that she had led us here, where the enemy pooled into the city.

  Bloody carnage ensued. Horses trampled our soldiers and screams issued from our men as they fell beneath merciless hooves. I cried. Not in pain, but a great battle cry as I engaged the enemy, pulling from Zenobia’s grip; a wolf on its prey.

  ‘Barricade the gateway!’ I heard someone shout. But it was impossible. What remained of the gates hung limp as the Persian knights pushed through, forcing us back. I realised it must have been Pouja shouting, for the command was in Syrian. Then I heard more shouts. ‘Barricade porta,’ came the command in Latin.

  The wild-eyed Syrian next to me pushed his way through the press of men and drove a short sword into the flank of an enemy horse. The beast reared and wailed, throwing its rider to the ground, where Roman soldiers drove their swords home.

  Sun flashed in my vision. My ears filled with cries and shouts and clanging. I could not distinguish my own voice. It was as if I made no sound. I tried to move my sword, but we were too tightly packed. A faceless enemy came toward me, but I could only scratch his armour. I was terrified, my bladder constricting and sweat pouring. He turned his horse and rounded on me. I could not think, did not know what to do. It would be death by blade or crushed by heavy horse and seen from this world.

  With all of my strength I pulled my sword hand free and arced the bright steel, grabbing the bottom edge of the Persian bastard’s breastplate in my left, throwing all my weight to pull him from his horse. He toppled, the weight of his armour forcing him to the ground with a crash. Rider-less, his horse reared, confused.

  Then I killed for the first time.

  He was sprawled on the floor. I hesitated. The sword in my hand felt suddenly limp.

  Th
e Syrian beside hollered: ‘Lift his helmet and slit his throat.’

  I glanced down, still hesitating, as more Persian warriors flooded through the gate. We were being overwhelmed.

  ‘Kill the bastard,’ the Syrian shouted again.

  My hands shook. My grip slipped with sweat. I breathed deeply, knowing what must be done. I bent down, lifted the chin of the Persian’s helmet. He struggled, but he could not move, even if I had not held my sword to his throat and my knee in his chest. And with one, quick movement, I dragged my blade across his exposed throat and watched his blood spurting onto the ground.

  It took a heartbeat to comprehend what I had done.

  The world became a different place, where warriors kill or let themselves be killed, and children learn to be men or die.

  My whole body wavered with shock. I could barely stand, but then a feeling, strong and frightening, ran through me. I stepped over the man I had just sent to the Otherworld and I killed again and again. Now I was covered in the blood of the enemy. I had eyes and ears only for death. It was my duty to my country, to the people of Syria, and to Zenobia, the girl with whom I had travelled to Rome in order to secure an army large enough to defeat the enemy. And I had no idea where she was.

  Bloody scratches, grazes and streaks of sweat hatched my skin, but I felt no pain. I was so absorbed in combat that I did not realise we had forced the Persians back through the gateway. Bodies were moved out of the way and what remained of the gates were swung closed.

  ‘Out of the way,’ voices bellowed

  Timber was brought forward to reinforce our defence, hastily put across the gate, then more butted up to it.

  I cut down one last man with a satisfying blow. I looked about me. The fallen bled and cried and begged for aid or lay lifeless. Two screeching horses were put out of their misery; I felt the waste. Soldiers looked to each other, relieved, smiling even, at their survival.

  Then the force of the moment before hit me. My limbs trembled uncontrollably. I gasped for breath. Cuts stung and I almost dropped to my knees.

  ‘You feel most alive in the moments before you’re about to die,’ a voice said.