by AJ Cooper
That night he lay awake in the harem, wrapped around Portia in a postcoital embrace, hands running gently through her tresses of red hair.
Man-for-man, he could overcome almost anyone. His skill at the sword outmatched anyone he knew. He had learned it from his life as an Imperial Guard. But leading an army required strategy.
An Imperial Guard pushed his way through the thin red curtains. “My lord Antonio,” he whispered, “there is treachery in the palace!”
“What do you mean?” Antonio pushed away from Portia and stood to his feet; she mumbled something incoherent but kept sleeping. The guard’s words dispelled any sleepiness Antonio felt.
“I found a vial of poison under one of your girls’ pillow,” the guard whispered.
“Whom?” Antonio boomed. Such behavior would not be tolerated.
“Anthea Abantes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
Punishment
Anthea Abantes
Anthea could see the coming storm; she could read it in Antonio’s eyes. He grabbed her, face red, eyes wide. She melted before him onto the pillows of the false harem. Her missing poison vial should have warned her. Now she would have to face him, and Anthea didn’t know if she could.
“Why?” he snarled.
Anthea’s eyes watered. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve given you a good life.” Antonio shoved her so hard it knocked the wind out of her. He picked her up and slammed her against the concrete wall. “Why?”
“The Order of the Red Hand,” Anthea whimpered.
“What are you talking about?”
The other dozen harem girls in the room looked at them in confusion. “I serve the Red Lord,” Anthea managed to say, “but I only serve him halfheartedly.”
“What in blazes are you talking about?” Antonio gave her another shove.
“The Red Lord hates all the self-righteous… the Order of the Red Hand—its goal has always been to assassinate the emperor, but it’s never worked. I was their best one. They thought I could do it.”
Antonio shoved her hard, digging into her shoulders with his fingernails. “You are insane.”
“The cult is insane,” Anthea wheezed. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Lady Ciutta is insane. Lord Tomo is insane. But I’m not insane… they forced me into it...”
“Shut it, lupa!” Antonio hissed. “My men found out it’s basilisk venom… expensive as hell, and imported from the Venom Flats south of the Red Mountains. Hard to find, hard to get. Not exactly tasteless, but a taste is all you need and you’ll drop dead. Where did you get that venom?”
“I think Lord Tomo bought it,” Anthea wept.
“Whom?”
“A criminal from the west side… he’s a runner of Haroon spice.”
Antonio bared his teeth. “I would kill you right now, but I have better plans. The Venom Flats are near Haroon. I will give you what you tried to give me. I will leave you out there, and a real basilisk will put its venom in you. We’ll see how you like it. I’m bound for Khazidea anyway.” With that, he slapped her hard against the face.
She slumped to the ground, weeping with heartbreak and shaking with fear. She convulsed as she lay on the pillows, as Antonio stalked away. She wept, and she thought of that young man from the party, and she told herself that not all the elite were like Antonio. Again she prayed to Hieronus, God of Honor, that she would meet Claudio again. “Let me meet Claudio again,” she whispered under her breath, and collapsed in exhaustion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
Through the Desert
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
Claudio never knew he could hate a woman and yet be so attracted to her at the same time. In his mind raged a constant, volatile battle between his incredible draw to Astarthe—this libertine southron queen—and an intense, passionate desire to destroy her. Throughout the few days after the conquest, he made it clear that—though he would sleep with her—he demanded total respect from her to him and, above all, to the Empire that now controlled her lands.
And then, in bouts of compassion, he felt for Astarthe: this strangely-featured queen, this humble and submissive woman, this descendant of multiple brother-sister marriages. She was strange, she was foreign; yet at heart she was human, and Claudio knew she was not wholly bad.
The city of Haroon was his, and yet Claudio would not be satisfied until he had Archamenes’ head. To invade the ancient city of Seshán, capital of Fharas and seat of the King of Kings, was the ultimate unthinkable. No man in the north had attempted it since Tarchon the Mad, and even he had failed. But a fire had grown in Claudio’s heart; a burning wrath against the King of Kings, and against his own countrymen who refused to take a stand.
Claudio was sitting on the throne, which he often did while in thought. He called for the satrap Faridún. In time the man entered the room in the long purple robe, and fell prostrate.
“Rise,” Claudio demanded.
He obeyed. “What can I do for you, O godly king?”
“Tell me,” Claudio said, “whom you serve. Do you serve me, or Archamenes?”
“You,” Faridún said, “for you have overcome Archamenes, whose name is God Manifest; and the magi say your name is written in the stars. And if you have overcome a living god, then what does that make you?”
“The wealth of the city belongs to me. Now tell me, Lord Faridún: where are the best of the warriors? I, your king, must expand my numbers.”
“The peasants of Khazidea are not warriors; we make sure it is so,” Faridún answered. “The magi are powerful beyond any else, for they can conjure up flame and scorch the battlefield; but they are few in number, and they are sworn to serve the King of Kings. The cataphracts are even more deathly loyal to the padisha. The greatest warriors are the Asa… the nomads who wander the Red Mountains, following after the Sand Drakes and eating what’s left behind of their prey. The Asa can ride horses while sleeping, and they drink horses’ milk; and they are so skilled with bows that they can shoot a fly from a hundred yards away!”
Claudio frowned. “Doubtful. Send a delegation, offer them coin. Make an offer of a silver a month, and increase if necessary.”
Faridún shook his head. “They would kill the delegation. They would only respect a king.”
“And how would I get there?”
“East through the desert,” Faridún said. “But there are many oases along the way… you cannot miss them.”
Claudio looked intently into Faridún’s eyes, and wondered if deceit hid behind them. “You must come with me, then.”
“And who would govern the province in your absence?” Faridún asked. “Astarthe?”
“No,” Claudio said. “I do not trust her, either.”
“I am not welcome among the Asa,” Faridún said. “The policies of Astarthe have been one of hatred toward them.”
“I don’t need you, anyway.” Claudio frowned. “I will leave the city and the river-valley in the command of one of my tribunes. In my absence you will have no powers over either the people or the city.”
Faridún’s mouth contorted to a snarl.
“Perhaps one day you will earn my trust.”
Claudio appointed Milo, a tribune and a trustworthy friend, to command the area in lieu of him. Then he took a small force of about fifty Imperial Knights, and loaded several donkeys’ worth of water pouches. Then, before the sun reached noon, they headed east toward the desert.
For several hours of riding, the land remained green. Around him lay the wheat crop that Imperial City so depended on. Patches of watermelon, wiry pomegranate trees, and green rows of chickpeas grew in abundance.
But eventually the greenness faded away, and the desert took over: a parched, baking-hot land of cracked red earth. A few hills appeared as a haze in the horizon. Little bits of scrub brush occasionally appeared, but for the most part it was a desolate land.
And so it went for the first day, and the second, and
the third. By the fourth day—when their water pouches ran dry, and the thirst began—Claudio realized there were no oases to be found. He had been a fool to listen to Faridún, and, if his words were proved untruthful, then if it was in his power, he would have the treacherous satrap burned alive.
He remembered the Sand Drakes he saw on the ship to Haroon, and that it had taken days past that to get to the city proper. Therefore, he guessed it would take many more days across the desert. Perhaps he was less than halfway; he had no idea. But the pouches had run out, and he had no recourse but to continue going. A scholar had taught Claudio that a man dies from thirst after three days.
As the sun set on that fourth day in the desert, and the cold settled in, he told the knights they would have to make haste, put all their effort into making it to the Red Mountains.
At the dawn of the fifth day, Claudio and his knights rode at a quicker pace than ever before. Even the horses needed water, and if they died the knights would have to travel on foot. Claudio guessed they rode ninety miles that day, and still there were no Red Mountains in sight. Claudio went to bed thirsty, parched out of his mind; and the horses were worse off.
He realized it was quite possible he would die in the desert. More than his life to be saved, he wanted Archamenes to answer to the Empire.
On the sixth day, the horses would not ride as fast as they had on the fifth. Throughout the day, twelve died along the trail, and the rest slowed to a lethargic stumble. Claudio went crazy with thirst. A headache overtook him and many of the men. Without the horses they were slow. Perhaps Faridún would gain his wish. The sun set; the sixth day ended. The coldness of the desert night settled in. Claudio was sure they would die.
The sun rose on the seventh day. Mad with thirst, Claudio left the tent and scanned the horizon. Even in this state, he knew nothing he saw could be trusted; he learned from his tutor about desert mirages. Wanderers in these barren lands thought they saw an oasis in the distance; they followed after it, but were invariably disappointed, and then they died of thirst.
Died of thirst. The thought filled Claudio with anguish. As he began the slow walk, his mouth dry and his skin drier, he wondered if there was any worse way to die.
Hours passed through the desert. Winds began late in the day, blowing up sand. One by one, the rest of the horses collapsed. The men weren’t much better off.
Claudio had grown lightheaded. The splitting headache had worsened. He wondered if there was any moisture in the scrub-brush spread throughout the desert, but whenever he touched one of the rigid blue plants he could not help but notice they were dry as his hands, if not drier.
By noon their pace had slowed to a stumble. A few knights collapsed. Still Claudio staggered through the sand-blown desert, but the men were losing the will to continue on. Black shapes appeared, but Claudio did not think much of them; they circled around them and a thunderous beating of the dirt echoed through the air. He could not make sense of it, but he didn’t need to.
The sun was high in the sky, baking everything around them. At some point, Claudio realized he had reached a flat white area. A salt pan, he realized on further thought. But, spread throughout the white sheet, were pools of water; yet they looked green and fouled, and perhaps weren’t water at all. The area swarmed with giant lizard-like things. He tripped over one, fell down and did not get up.
A sharp, excruciating pain jolted Claudio out of his delirium. One of the giant lizards had bitten him. It was a huge beast, black-scaled but with yellow patterns along its back; and orange eyes with such an intense glare he would never forget them.
Water splashed Claudio awake. No longer was he in the salt pan filled with terrible lizards. A face hovered above him: a dark complexion and with long, unshorn black hair.
“Where am I? Who are you?” Claudio said. His throat was very dry.
The man yapped something in a foreign language, and then forced some more water down his throat. He left. Claudio realized he was in a tent of some kind.
A few minutes passed. The man from before returned with a woman of similar dark complexion. With a thick accent, she spoke the Eloesian tongue, in the Ten Cities dialect. Claudio could understand most of it: “I am translator,” she said. “I am of two worlds.”
“Who are you people?” Claudio said in the Eloesian tongue. In his still-delirious state he could not be more graceful.
“We are Asa,” she said. “Chieftain Nued believes you are a god. Yellowback Basilisk did not put venom into you. If basilisk respects a man, he is a god. Basilisk respects no one except living gods.”
“Water,” Claudio said.
“Even gods need to drink,” the woman said.
The man left the tent, and returned with another water-pouch. Claudio took it and gulped it down. His mouth still was dry, but he decided to speak. “If I am a god,” he said in the Eloesian tongue, “then will you serve under me?”
“If basilisk respects a man, then we Asa respect him,” the woman answered. “I am wife of Nued, chieftain. I will serve under you.”
“Do you know the way across the desert, to Haroon?”
The woman nodded. “We know you came from place of unmoving tents. I think it is strange that a living god chose such a foolish route. Where were you trying to go?”
“To the Red Mountains,” Claudio said, “to the Asa… to win your respect.”
“We are many leagues from mountains. They are still out of sight.” Her eyes grew thoughtful. “The men that were with you are dead. Tell me, living god, why do you want us Asa?”
“A mortal has slighted me,” Claudio said, deciding to use the supposed godhood to his advantage. “The city of Seshán… it must be destroyed.”
“That city is many miles away,” she said. “I only know it because I am woman of learning.”
“What is your name?” Claudio asked.
“Those who dwell in unmoving tents, they name their women. But my name is only wife-of-Nued; and before my marriage my name was daughter-of-Calim.”
Strange people with strange customs, Claudio thought, but they are respectful. “Where is Nued?”
She motioned to the man next to her. She turned to him and yapped in her foreign tongue. He said something back.
Wife-of-Nued turned back to Claudio and spoke once more in Eloesian: “He will ride with you; and so will all five thousand of our tribe. And he will give you Borak, best of our horses.”
“We must go to Haroon.” Claudio realized they might not know it by that name. “The river. The unmoving tents—”
“We know what place you mean,” Wife-of-Nued said.
Borak was a white stallion. Unlike the bulky chargers that Claudio bred at his family ranch, the horses of the Asa were thin and sleek. The Asa themselves wore thin white shirts and tight breeches, and had short bows. Even the women had bows, with wife-of-Nued no exception.
Outside the tent, the five-thousand Asa on their horses looked more fearsome than Archamenes’ army ever had. They had gathered around a large waterhole and some were filling their pouches. Around them the desert stretched, the dry scrub-brush and sand-blown fields. It was morning and the heat of the day had already arrived.
Claudio didn’t know why the basilisk had not injected the venom. For a second he wondered if it was true—if the Asa were correct in saying he was a living god—but he wouldn’t let it get to his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
A Dead Hawk
Bruesio Lornodoris, August
In the early morning, before the daily meeting, messengers informed Bruesio that Geta—the warmongering councilor from Gad—had died last night while dining with his wife. The coroners said that, judging from Geta’s symptoms, someone had likely poisoned him.
Bruesio didn’t particularly care about the news. Of course, he would make a big fuss and try to seem sad, just for appearances’ sake. But Geta’s hawkish words were not well received by any in the Council, and indeed he had
been a thorn in the side of intellectual discussion. He had sided with Claudio-Valens, that disobedient young man with the huge ego. As he sat there before the mirror in his bedroom, plucking untidy eyebrows, Bruesio realized that no, he didn’t care about Geta’s death at all.
In the Council House, Bruesio began with the obvious first matter of discussion. “Yesterday we had thirty councilors. Now we have twenty-nine. We must announce the news to the public and hold another election…” Doing so would be tiresome.
“Well,” Councilor Kerius began, “if the people elected a troublesome councilor like Geta, who knows if they would not do it again?”
“An election must be held regardless,” Bruesio said, though he did so with regret. “The people often err in judgment, but they elected you, Kerius.”
Kerius looked bitter. “They elected me in a different season of our culture, when they tired of war and bloodshed and wanted to make peace with the nations. Now they have grown restless and prideful, arrogantly believing they are as intelligent as the Augusts. This disease of mind has spread from warlike Gad even to the streets of Imperial City; and they will shame us by choosing another warmonger. They are unable to decide rationally for themselves. We saw this when the crowds rioted against Emperor Giton—may he rest forever in Highest Heaven! The boy was our last best hope.”
“An election will be held, as it is written in the tablets of law,” Bruesio said. “We of the Council must adhere to the law of our fathers, even if it is an ill-conceived tradition.”
“It is not ill conceived,” said Councilor Galvano. “I disliked Council Geta, but he is not the true problem. That arrogant child Claudio must be stopped!”
“Thank you, Galvano, for bringing us to our next issue.” Bruesio frowned. “The Nichaean Legion has agreed to face Claudio. We have sent the fleet to transport them, but we are truly cutting it close. The winter storms are nigh upon us. Let us pray they make it before a northeaster blows them into the wide ocean.”
