He rode up the cobbled road, passing by the Circus—the expanse of packed earth where chariots raced for sport. To his left loomed the Amphitheatrum where gladiators fought, where lions fed on criminals, where wooden ships sailed in mock naval battles for a crowd of myriads. Golden goddesses gazed from the domed roofs of columned temples. Larger statues—of himself and his family—soared on a hilltop, so large their toes were like chariots.
And ahead of him—there, rising in the darkness, lit with many lanterns—the palace.
From here I will rule the Empire, Seneca thought. From here I will crush any who oppose me. From here I will watch as Ofeer weeps and begs me to save her. From here I will cast out Porcia in shame, laughing as she flees my wrath.
He looked to his side. Porcia still rode her chariot there. She held a lantern, and its light painted her armor a demonic red. The severed heads, the ones she had brought from Zohar and tied to the back of her chariot, had not fared well along the triumphal march. Preserved meticulously on the journey to Aelar, they had since crumbled along the city cobblestones, dwindling to broken skulls patched with skin and hair. Porcia saw Seneca staring. She grinned, made a loop with one finger, and thrust her other finger through it.
You're fucked, she worded and winked.
Seneca looked away. The fear leaped inside him. Two months ago, Father had given them each three legions, had sent them to bring Zohar to its knees. Whoever won Zohar, Marcus had said, would inherit the Empire.
If Porcia won the emperor's blessings, Seneca knew what his fate would be. He looked again at what remained of the heads trailing behind Porcia's chariot.
If she's ever empress, I'll be one of those heads.
They rode on toward the palace. His heart thrashed, his fingers trembled, and Seneca suddenly wished he had chased Ofeer, had brought her here with him, not let her get carted off to the slave market. Ofeer would know what to do, what to say. He gulped and sweat beaded on his brow.
What was it that Ofeer had told him back in Zohar? They had stood together in the villa's library. He had cried, and she had coached him, had told him what to tell Marcus Octavius. Something about . . . Porcia training a puppet? And . . . himself killing people? Or was it about how Gefen was a greater prize than a desert throne? Seneca couldn't remember. Damn it! The words all tangled in his mind. When Ofeer had spoken those words, her eyes boring into his, she had seemed so confident, so eloquent.
What the fuck am I supposed to tell you, Father?
His breath was shaking. They were reaching the palace. Damn it! Seneca wanted to flee, to hide, to find Ofeer and ask her again what to say. But he had no time. Damn it, no time! Porcia's chariot reached the palace first, and Seneca reached the courtyard only a moment later and halted his horses.
The palace portico rose before them, braziers lighting its columns. When viewed in the daylight, this was a place of white marble, golden statues, and classical peace and beauty. Now, in the night, it appeared to Seneca like the twisted gatehouse to the abyss. The statues, far above, blended into shadow, staring down at him like demons. Iron eagles perched atop the roof, glowering. In daylight, they shone for leagues, but in the night they looked to Seneca like vultures, waiting to pick at his carcass.
Be strong, he told himself. You vanquished the Zoharites. You crucified Lord Jerael Sela, and you captured his port—the last port around the Encircled Sea. You can do this.
"Are you ready to kneel before me, Seneca, when Father names me his heiress?" Porcia began climbing the stairs toward the portico.
"I'm ready to kneel when he names me heir. I mean—you will kneel. Before me."
He cursed himself and his thick tongue. Porcia laughed and kept climbing.
They stepped between the columns onto a platform. A hundred soldiers of the Magisterian Guard stood here, holding spears and lanterns. They knelt before their prince and princess, and two guards opened the palace doors. Porcia entered first, and Seneca followed at her heels.
A hall of splendor awaited them. Marble columns rose, capped with golden capitals shaped as eagles. Between each column rose a statue of a god or goddess, nude and unpainted. Frescoes of mythological scenes covered the rounded ceiling, while a mosaic sprawled across the floor, forming a great map—the Aelarian Empire in all its glory, encircling the sea, stretching deep south into Nur and far north, all the way into Elania in the northern ocean. The largest, mightiest empire the world had and would ever know.
A throne rose ahead atop a dais, but the emperor was not there. Marcus Octavius rarely sat on his throne. He had built this hall to cow the senators, those dogs who still thought themselves masters of the Empire. The only time Marcus sat on his throne was when a senator visited this hall, forcing the old goat to gaze up upon imperial glory. Any other time, Marcus scorned pomp and grandeur. He had been born to a soldier, raised a soldier, served as a soldier for years before crushing the Senate and turning Aelar from Republic into Empire.
Seneca knew where to find him tonight.
He walked across the hall and through a back door. Porcia walked with him. A dark corridor led to the back half of the palace, opening up into a grand hall, the same size as the throne room.
This hall was a tomb.
Few people ever entered this second half of Aelar's palace. While the front hall glittered with gold, mosaics, frescoes, and jewels, this place was austere, formed all of white marble, no precious metals or gemstones shattering the white monochrome. Only a single statue rose here, tall as a cypress, depicting Seneca's mother.
Luciana Octavius had been a beautiful woman, her nose straight, her hair curled. The marble statue depicted her as Dia, the goddess of spring. A wreath of ivy crowned her brow, and a stola draped across her, exposing the left breast, the marble so smooth it looked like real fabric. Under one arm, she held a stone jug, as if the statue were pouring forth blessings of wine.
The Cassius family murdered her, Seneca thought, staring at the statue. He had been only a baby during the great civil war, when Father had bent the Senate to his will—but not before the legions of Septimus Cassius had slain thousands, Luciana Octavius among them. Seneca had been too young to remember much of his mother; Valentina had been only a newborn, too young to remember anything. All they had of Luciana Octavius now was this statue, her mausoleum. Her body now rested within the hill, right under the statue's feet. A holy place. A place of memory, of loss.
It was here that Seneca found his father.
"She was strong," Marcus said, staring at the statue. "It's what few people realize. They come here—those who still remember—and they call her beautiful, and they call her wise, and they call her pious. They forget her strength." The emperor turned to look at his children. "It was her strength that lured me to her. Her strength that I hoped to teach you, her children."
Porcia took a step closer, knelt, and bowed her head. "My emperor."
Ass-kissing bitch.
Seneca followed suit, kneeling on the cold marble floor. "My emperor."
Marcus gestured for them to rise. The emperor wore a simple white toga this night, eschewing the rich, deep purple fabrics he wore in public, and his head was bare of crown or laurel. Yet he was still every inch a conqueror. It was in his face—a hard face, chiseled, cruel, the mouth thin, the nose aquiline, the forehead high and the jaw wide. If Seneca's mother was carved of flowing marble, Marcus was all iron.
Marcus spoke to his children, voice deep, echoing in the chamber. "My lumer has been speaking to Worm and Taeer from across the sea."
Seneca gulped. He had suspected that Taeer, during all those hours that she stood alone on the ship's stern, had been using her Luminosity to converse with her sisters. Gossiping bitches! A moment of panic flooded him. What had Taeer said? What had Worm, Porcia's sniveling little lumer, said to her sisters here in the capital?
Seneca had never seen his father's lumer. Nobody had. Not Porcia. Not the lords and ladies. Not the senators. Not Valentina. Often Seneca had wondered whether his f
ather had a lumer at all. No matter how often Seneca asked, Emperor Marcus refused to divulge the location of his lumer, yet surely he was hiding the witch somewhere. Marcus always knew far more than a lumerless man ever could.
"Father!" Seneca said, steeling himself. He had fought bravely in Gefen, had conquered, had killed, and now he faced a battle of a different sort. "Father, the port of Gefen is yours. The last port around the Encircled Sea that, until my conquest, eluded our empire. The Encircled Sea is now ours, an uninterrupted ring of coast."
Good, he thought, breathing shakily. Good. Those words had come out right, just like Ofeer had taught him.
Porcia seemed unimpressed. She yawned theatrically. "I always thought it was lume that Aelar cared for more than a pisspot scrap of beach. Lume—found only in Zohar. Lume—springing forth from Beth Eloh. The capital of Zohar is yours, Father. I conquered it for you—a city of a hundred thousand souls, the ancient capital of the Zoharites, the city that gives lumers their power."
Terror dug through Seneca, icy and all-consuming.
"She's lying!" he blurted out. "She didn't conquer anything! She just . . . just left King Shefael on his throne. The same throne he sat on before Porcia ever arrived. I conquered, Father!" He sprayed saliva as he talked. "I killed, Father! I killed men. I killed Jerael Sela himself, a legendary warrior. I crushed the walls of Gefen. Porcia just made some deal, like a whore negotiating the price of a poke."
He panted, sweat on his brow, as his father stared at him. Emperor Marcus's frown deepened.
"Tell me, son," the emperor said. "You would speak of whores here in the tomb of your mother?"
Fuck. Seneca sweated. Goddamn fucking whores.
He bowed his head. "Forgive me, Father. I speak from passion, for I am passionate about my victories, of—"
"Of your victories?" Marcus said. "Are not all our conquests in the name of Aelar, not for personal vainglory?"
Seneca trembled. More sweat dripped down his forehead. All the other words he had planned fled his mind. Why wasn't Ofeer here? Why could he say nothing right? He glanced toward Porcia.
Oh gods, she's going to kill me. She's going to become empress and fucking kill me.
Porcia stretched. "When I arrived in Gefen, Father, I found Seneca drunk on a hilltop, a Zoharite woman in his bed. I think he conquered more bottles and local beauties than land." She laughed. "While he was busy drinking and bedding, I smashed the forces of Prince Yohanan Elior outside the walls of Beth Eloh. He commanded ten thousand men. I kept a hundred to sell as slaves. The rest still rot outside Beth Eloh, I reckon. I lost fewer than a thousand of my own men, most of them from the auxiliary forces. I sent the Nurian and Leerian conscripts to the front line. Good fodder. As for Shefael Elior—he's on our leash. I disarmed his men for now, but I left them alive. They knelt. In a year or two, they'll make a good addition to our auxiliaries. We can use them well in Gael."
Seneca stared at her, eyes wide, then back at his father. "But—but—Shefael ruled there before her! Porcia didn't change anything!"
Porcia raised an eyebrow. "Didn't I? I ended the turmoil in Zohar. Within a day, I settled the civil war that had been raging there for three years. I had Shefael kneel before me, swear his allegiance to Aelar, and pay us coffers of gold. That gold is being delivered into the palace treasuries as we speak, Father. Come inspect it tonight! It will fund a great triumphal arch in the Empire's honor. The lume will now flow uninterrupted from Zohar, while the desert folk remain docile. You see . . ." She turned toward Seneca. "When you crucify their lord and fuck his daughter, the locals tend to rebel. When you keep their king on his throne, but attach strings to his crown, the people remain subservient while we reap our rewards." She patted his head. "You have much to learn of how to run an empire, little brother."
I've lost.
Seneca stared at his sister, frozen, unable to speak.
It's over.
Porcia smiled at him sweetly, her eyes flashing with mirth. She gave him the slightest of winks.
Seneca turned back toward his father. He had done all that he could. He had nothing more to say. He simply stared, silent.
Emperor Marcus shook his head in disgust. "Leave this tomb. Go wash yourselves, both of you. You still stink of the desert. Then sleep. In four days, it will be ten years since we vanquished the land of Phedia. We'll hold great games in the Amphitheatrum, and we'll dress a hundred prisoners in Phedian armor and feed them to the lions. At those games, I will announce my heir. Until then, I will meditate, I will pray, I will speak to my lumer, and I will decide. Now go."
"Hail Aelar!" Porcia said, spun, and left the tomb.
"Hail Aelar," Seneca said, voice so hoarse it was barely audible. He spun around, nearly tripped, and stumbled out of the hall.
Once outside in the night, trembles seized him. He fell to his knees on the flagstones, gasping for breath. Blackness spread around him. He could barely see. His head spun, and sweat drenched him, even in the cool night.
I stumbled. I spoke nonsense. She won. She won. He'll name her heiress. She'll kill me. My head will drag behind her chariot.
Seneca's eyes watered. He managed to rise, to stumble through the night. Statues rose around in the darkness, and each one became a Zoharite warrior, screaming, swinging a sickle blade. Seneca could still hear the clatter of swords, the roar of catapults, the screams, so many screams, of dying, of killing. Men died all around him in the night, limbs torn free, organs spilling, spines shattering against walls. Again he saw himself driving down the hammer, the nails piercing Jerael, and how the crows had feasted.
I killed him. I murdered him. I murdered a man. I swung the hammer and I felt it, felt the nails go through flesh. For nothing. For nothing . . .
He fell again, shoved himself up, stumbled onward. He needed to drink. He needed his wine. He needed Ofeer. Oh gods, he needed Ofeer with him, needed to hold her, needed her arms around him, needed his head on her breast, her fingers in his hair, soothing him, needed to hear her tell him it would be all right. But she was gone, trapped in the slave market with her brother, his doing, all his doing again.
The temples seemed to tilt around him. Seneca ran. He ran through the Acropolis, sandals clattering, until he reached the archway and burst out into the city. And still he ran, racing down the streets, still wearing his imperial armor. People were staring. They would recognize him, try to assassinate him—like the Zoharites had tried, like Atalia had tried when pointing her blade at him at the dinner table. When you were a prince, everyone wanted to kill you—your enemies, your people, your own sister.
As he ran, Seneca tugged the straps of his breastplate and tossed it off. It was a priceless work of art, custom made. Let the mobs have it! As he ran, he tossed off his greaves, then his vambraces, remaining in his tunic. He didn't need armor anymore. Nothing more could protect him now, not if his father named Porcia his heiress. As soon as her ass hit the throne, his life was forfeit.
Finally Seneca reached his destination.
The Lunapar stood on a street corner, two stories tall, the largest building on the block. Warm light shone in the windows, and laughter, moans, and screams of pleasure rose from within. Seneca almost ripped the front door off its hinges and stumbled inside.
He stood for a moment, breathing, trying to calm himself, taking in this comforting, familiar place, his home away from home, the place where he had spent so many nights forgetting his pain.
It was an expensive brothel, among the best in the city. Not a seedy, foul place like the brothels the commoners visited. Here was a place for fine clientele—wealthy merchants, nobles, senators, even priests. Incense burned in silver braziers, and a hundred glass lanterns hung from the ceiling, shaped as phalli. Murals covered the walls, depicting every way to fuck a woman, dozens of paintings of dozens of positions, all painted in bright pastels.
Live women were here too, lounging on divans, leaning against counters, and drinking wine. They were not naked; only slaves or Kalintians were
ever naked outside of bathhouses. Here were free women, citizens of Aelar. They wore togas, normally the garments of men, denoting their profession. Seneca remembered how, a few years ago, Porcia had once dressed Valentina in a toga, then roared with laughter until Father had ended the game. Seneca had not understood the jest until, as a youth, he had discovered the comfort of prostitutes.
"Prince Seneca!" said Mariana, a beauty with flowing brown hair and green eyes. She approached him and kissed his cheek. "Welcome home, hero of Aelar, conqueror of Zohar."
The other women rushed toward him, showering him with their affections. He shoved them aside.
"Wine," he said. "Wine! Where's the goddamn wine?"
A girl rushed forth, a virgin still in training, and served him a drink. Seneca guzzled down the cup. "More."
She poured him a second cup. He drained it. "Again."
With three cups of wine in his belly, his anxiety began to fade, his shaking to subside. Something bad had happened. He knew that. He was in danger. But the fear was hidden now, numb, buried under the wine.
"You." He pointed at Calina, a beautiful Nurian, her skin so dark it was almost black. "And you." He pointed at Mariana, an old favorite.
He had to lean on them as they walked upstairs. They went down a corridor, passing by many rooms. The sounds of sex rose all around. Some doors were opened, revealing the patrons and their mistresses within. Mariana and Calina took Seneca to the back room, the one that overlooked the garden, his favorite room.
"We kept this room empty during your absence," Mariana said; Seneca knew she was lying. "We saved it for your return."
Calina kissed his ear. "You are our hero of the desert."
Tears in his eyes, he began to pull off his clothes, but his fingers trembled, and he couldn't undo the lacings. Mariana and Calina helped him, laid him on the bed, and lay at his sides. One of the women—Seneca's head spun too much to tell which—reached down her hand to stroke his manhood.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 15
