Ofeer's cheeks burned. She wanted to snap her tongue at him, to strike him, but only found herself shaking her head. Her teeth ground.
The clerk stared into her eyes, brow furrowed, as if seeking conceit. Finally he nodded and scratched more words onto the tablet. He slung a rope through the wooden slat, then handed it to a guard, who in turn hung it around Ofeer's neck. She felt like a piece of meat stamped with a price tag, but at least the wood hid her breasts.
"Step into that bucket of chalk." The guard pointed. "Both feet."
Ofeer saw that several chalky footprints led toward the back door. "Why?
The guard groaned. "All new arrivals from abroad are marked with white feet. Buyers need to tell imported from domestic. Go on."
She dutifully dipped both feet into the bucket, letting the chalk rise halfway up her shins. Imported goods.
"Now go on, out you go." The man pointed at the back door. "Next slave—up!"
Ofeer glanced back toward Koren, who wore a wooden sign around his own neck. She met his eyes, and she didn't know if she would ever see him again. Before she could say goodbye, a guard grabbed her arm, manhandled her forward, and shoved her through the doorway.
Naked but for the wooden sign hanging around her neck, Ofeer emerged into a sunlit courtyard. Wooden stairs rose before her, leading to a stage. On the platform stood a naked Nurian man, tall and well-muscled, staring around like a trapped bear. Chalk whitened his feet, deeply contrasting with his dark skin. Two guards stood by a brick wall—the exterior of the hall Ofeer had exited—helmets hiding their heads, spears and shields in their hands. An ample-bellied, balding man paced the stage, clad in a mustard toga with a red sash. He held a wooden sign like the one that hung around Ofeer's neck, reading from it.
"Kosooma of Nur!" the man in the mustard toga announced. "Age: Twenty-four. Height: six feet three inches. Speaks only Nurian, but quick of wit and can learn Aelarian within a season. The son of a warrior. Physically strong. Healthy. Has all his teeth. Excellent for physical labor."
Before the stage spread the crowd. Hundreds of Aelarians were here, draped in white togas. These people weren't as wealthy as senators or princes—most did not wear dyed fabric, nor did they sport gold or gemstones. It seemed that in Aelar, slaves were not only a luxury for the wealthy, but that even common citizens could buy them, as easily as a Zoharite back home could buy a goat or sheep.
Men in the crowd began to bid, raising their hands and calling out their offers.
"Five hundred denarii!" cried a bald man.
Another raised his hand. "Five hundred and fifty denarii for the slave!"
The auctioneer in the mustard toga kept calling out the prices, encouraging the bids. Finally he pounded a gavel, selling the Nurian for eight hundred denarii to a man in the crowd. The guards escorted the naked captive—now officially a slave—off the stage.
A guard placed a meaty hand on Ofeer's shoulder. He spoke in a rumbling voice. "Climb the stage, hand your sign to the auctioneer, then face the crowd."
Ofeer looked around her, seeking paths to escape, but thick walls surrounded the courtyard, and guards stood at every door. If she ran, they would grab her, drag her back, beat her, maybe kill her.
"Climb," the guard said, twisting her arm.
Ofeer's eyes stung, but she refused to let them see her cry. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and climbed the stage, leaving chalky footprints. The auctioneer stood there, gesturing for her sign. Ofeer stared at him, refusing to look at the crowd. With numb fingers, she unslung the sign from her neck and handed it over.
"Face the crowd, girl," the auctioneer said. "Go on, look at them, not at me."
Her wooden sign gone, Ofeer covered her breasts with her arm again, then turned toward the crowd. She stared at her feet. The crowd tittered as the auctioneer sighed and pulled her arms down to her sides.
"Just stare ahead and be calm," the auctioneer said, his voice softer now. "It'll go faster if you just go along with it."
Her eyes were damp. She could barely see. She stared ahead at the crowd, blinking too much, as the auctioneer read from the sign.
"Ofeer Sela!" he announced. "A princess of the desert! The daughter of a Zoharite chieftain, raised in palaces of gold, now yours for purchase! Eighteen years old. Healthy, strong, perfect teeth and flawless skin. Can speak, read, and write fluent Aelarian and Zoharite. Can sing, dance, and play both timbrel and lyre, musical instruments of the east that will astonish and delight your guests. A perfect musician or tutor. Renowned for her dusky beauty, famous among poets from her homeland." The auctioneer delivered his pitch with gusto, but Ofeer thought she detected boredom beneath the feigned excitement. "A delightful desert rose to entertain at parties, tutor children, and excite all who see her."
Ofeer wasn't a princess, and she wasn't sure her beauty was renowned anywhere outside the taverns of Gefen's port, but she dared not contradict.
"Five hundred denarii!" a man cried in the crowd, middle aged and sweating in the sunlight.
"Five hundred and ten!" Another hand rose from the crowd.
The auctioneer stepped closer to Ofeer and spoke softly. "Turn around, child, slowly, then back forward again. Let them see you. You'll fetch a fair price."
The bidding continued, soon surpassing a thousand denarii, then two thousand. Ofeer just wanted them to stop. She wanted to escape, or she wanted to die. She wanted them to stop staring at her. She could feel their eyes crawling across her, and one bidder—a tall man of about sixty years, who had bid twenty-two hundred denarii—actually stepped on stage to examine her teeth, thrusting rough fingers into her mouth.
"Twenty-five hundred denarii!" rose a cry from the crowd. The old man grunted, pulled his fingers free, and stepped off the stage.
Finally the price reached twenty-eight hundred. The bidder was a beefy, pink-cheeked man with nervous lips and soft hands. The auctioneer was about to pound his gavel, finalizing the deal, when a voice rose from the back of the crowd.
"Twenty thousand denarii!"
The crowd murmured in awe and turned toward the new bidder. Ofeer breathed out a sigh of relief—the nervous, soft-handed man scared her—only for new fear to fill her. Who was this rich man who had bid so much? That was almost the cost of a fine horse. Judging by the whispers in the crowd, nobody ever bid so much on a slave.
The auctioneer pounded his hammer. "Sold for twenty thousand denarii!"
Her buyer came walking through the crowd, wrapped in a white toga, staring at her calmly. People knelt, a great wave that swept across the courtyard. He reached up his hand, and he helped Ofeer climb off the stage.
"My desert rose," Seneca said, bowing his head. "Ofeer, keeper of her mother's vineyard."
She couldn't stop the tears from flowing. He wrapped her in a cloak, and he took her through the crowd, the people kneeling around them.
EPHER
He was walking through the streets of Beth Eloh, teaching Olive the names of the birds, when the drunken legionaries stumbled down the road, looking for blood.
"Dove!" Olive was saying that morning, pointing and laughing and hopping about. "Dove, dove, dove, dove, dove!"
She raced toward the bird, reaching out, perhaps hoping to pat it. The bird, which had been busy pecking seeds between cobblestones, burst into flight. Olive watched it fly away, then spun back toward Epher, her eyes bright.
"Dove go away."
"The dove went away," he said.
She nodded. "The dove went way." She flapped her arms. "Went?"
"Flew." Epher flapped his own arms like wings. "You can also say: The dove flew away."
Olive tilted her head and frowned. "What is went? How is flew not went?"
Epher tried to explain it to her, but he found himself mostly admiring her—the way her red hair, brushed and cut the length of her chin, was so smooth, and how her green eyes shone, and how so many freckles covered her face, little marks of beauty he wanted to kiss endlessly, a kiss for each one, over
and over.
He had purchased her a simlah in the city, the common dress of Zoharites, woven of rich cotton. The fabric was white and trimmed with blue thread, a pricey dye obtained from mollusks along the coast of Kalintia in the north. He had tried to get her to wear sandals too, but these Olive had vehemently refused, discarding the pair he had purchased her. She walked through the city barefoot, her soles so thickly callused she didn't even seem to feel the heat of sunlight on cobblestones.
Or maybe she does feel the heat, Epher thought as she hopped around, racing between palm trees and down alleyways. The woman never stands still for a moment.
They were walking along a small courtyard, a palm tree in its center, when the legionaries emerged from the opposite street.
They were drunk. Epher saw it at once, smelled it. The three of them swaggered across the courtyard, faces flushed beneath their helms. Around them rose brick homes and shops topped with domes, a ring of stone.
Olive froze when she saw them, crouched, and hissed. Her hand reached out to grab a stone. Epher froze too, standing above her, fingers tingling. He and Olive had passed by many legionaries these past few days, but most might as well have been statues, so stiff they were. These men wanted trouble. Epher saw it in their eyes.
"Well, look at what we have here." One of the legionaries snorted and pointed at Olive. "A Zoharite rat with red hair."
"Ain't never seen one of the desert rats with red hair before," said his comrade.
"I like redheads," said the third man. "Back when I fought in Elania, plenty of 'em up there."
The three legionaries approached Olive, leering, staring up and down her body.
Olive stood her ground, crouched and hissing, the stone in her hand. Suddenly she seemed again like the wild woman Epher had first encountered on the beach.
"Go away!" She bared her teeth. "Go away, cunts. Fly away!"
Two legionaries laughed, but the third—a brute with crooked teeth and a scar across one eyebrow—snarled.
"Fucking whore." He reached toward her. "What did you call us?"
"Fucking whore!" Olive shrieked, raising her stone, her eyes wild. "Go away, fucking whore!"
The legionary—drunk, looking for a fight—reached for his sword. Epher sucked in air. Heart pounding, he stepped between Olive and the Aelarians.
"Forgive her, my lords!" He forced himself to hide the anger from his voice. "She's my sister. A simpleton. A mule once kicked her in the head, and she's been odd ever since. I beg your pardon." He took three silver coins from his pocket and held them out. "For your trouble, a silver each."
The snaggletoothed legionary shoved his hand aside. The silver coins clattered. "Shut your fucking mouth, rat. We're not whores you can buy with silver." He turned toward Olive and licked his lips. "Go pick up the silver coins, bitch. Go pick them up like a good rat. Take them as payment." He reached toward her. "Bet you never had Aelarian cock before."
Olive made to throw her rock, but Epher grabbed her wrist, and the rock slammed onto the cobblestones. "Come, Olive. We're going home."
He began to walk away with her, his heart hammering against his ribs, every instinct in him crying to reach under his tunic, to grab the dagger he hid there, to fight, to kill. But he had promised his mother. Her words echoed in his mind.
Epher, I know you seek more war. I know you seek to resist the eagles. But the time for peace is here.
"Where are you going, rats?" The legionary approached to block their way. "I paid three silvers for that whore. I want what I'm due."
The other legionaries approached too, surrounding Epher and Olive. One drank from a flask. "I want me a taste of her too. I like redheads."
They reached toward Olive. One man grabbed her tunic and tore it. When Epher tried to reach her, another legionary grabbed his arms, pulling him back.
Olive screamed, hurling every insult she knew. A legionary grabbed her arms, and she screamed and kicked, hitting one in the face. Blood gushed from his nose.
"Goddamn whore broke my nose!" The legionary roared and backhanded Olive, splitting her lip. "Fucking desert rats!"
The man drew his sword.
Epher reached under his tunic and whipped out his dagger.
Olive grabbed another stone and threw it.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The stone slammed into a legionary's face, and blood splattered. The sword swung toward Olive, and Epher lashed his dagger. The blade drove into a legionary's thigh, cutting deep, and the man fell. The others lunged at him, swords thrusting. Epher leaped back, dagger held before him.
Armor clattered as four more legionaries ran into the courtyard, swords drawn, blocking all exits.
Epher and Olive stood back to back, and he knew that this was it. Here was his death.
Then I die fighting.
He lunged forward with his dagger, scraping the blade across a legionary's arm. He barely dodged a sword, and Olive screamed, weaponless, and the blades thrust again, and a gladius scraped down Epher's leg. His blood splattered the courtyard. The other blades thrust, and Epher prepared for it all to end, and he only prayed that they killed Olive before they could rape her, that they killed him before they could nail him to a cross.
A buzz rose like the song of insects.
Whistles cut the air.
Stones flew from the rooftops, slamming into legionaries.
Epher gasped, looked up, and saw two young men on a rooftop, spinning slings. A doorway opened, and two other men emerged from a house, one holding a bread knife, the other wielding a meat cleaver.
"God damn rats coming out of their hole—" a legionary began. A sling stone slammed into his mouth, shattering his teeth.
Epher ran toward him and thrust his dagger, sinking the blade deep into the man's throat. The legionary's sword fell, and Olive grabbed and swung it, taking out another legionary's legs. The two city men—Knife and Cleaver—fought too, swinging their weapons against the legionaries. One took a sword to the gut, screamed, and fell. The other swung his cleaver, severing a legionary's arm. More sling stones flew, and more people emerged from their homes, armed with pans, kitchen knives, and even a rolling pin.
Another Zoharite fell, Epher drove his dagger into another legionary, and the battle was over.
Six legionaries and nine Zoharites lay dead on the street. Blood ran in the grooves between the cobblestones. A stray dog slunk up and began to lap at the grisly gift.
Epher turned toward Olive. A cut bled on her leg. "I'll get you to a healer. I—"
"Go away," she said, eyes huge, full of fear. "Epher and Olive go away. Now."
He heard it then. More armor clattering. More legionaries. He grabbed Olive's hand, and they ran. They fled the courtyard. The other Zoharites, their weapons and arms bloody, ran with them.
They raced through the warren of Beth Eloh, a hive of twisting alleyways, the brick walls close around them. The awnings of shops met above. A camel, startled, fled before them. Stone balconies hid the sun, and Epher kicked over a peddler's tin tray as he ran, scattering a thousand semiprecious stones across the narrow road. A donkey brayed, and behind him, he heard the legionaries shouting.
They split up. Two men ran down Grain Road toward the silos. Another two headed to the cemetery. Epher held Olive's arm and took her toward the marketplace. Many legionaries stood here at street corners, monitoring the vendors and shoppers, and Epher forced himself to slow down, to walk calmly, to pretend to be browsing the shops. His heart still thudded, though, and sweat beaded on his brow.
Olive glanced up at him, fear in her eyes. She said nothing. She didn't need to. Her eyes spoke more than her mouth ever could. She was afraid—not only for herself, not only for him, but for this city. For their nation.
That evening, Epher stood at the palace courtyard with his mother, with Olive, with King Shefael, with a hundred Aelarians. Together they stood at a balustrade, staring downhill at the city. Mother's eyes were damp, and Olive cursed and growled under her breath. Ephe
r stared with dry eyes.
Prefect Remus Marcellus stepped closer to the edge of the courtyard. He placed his hands on the marble balustrade, gazing down at the city. The general who had led the assault on Gefen, who now ruled over Zohar in his emperor's name, still wore the armor of a soldier, the breastplate embossed with golden eagles, the pauldrons wide, the helmet crested. He was a towering man, close to seven feet tall.
"Do you see, Zoharites?" His eyes narrowed, and the slightest of twitches tugged at his lip. "Do you see what happens to those who resist the light and civilization of Aelar?"
Epher saw. Below in the narrow city streets, legionaries stood in the neighborhood where six of their comrades had died. They were swinging battering rams, shattering the houses that surrounded the courtyard, then spreading out, toppling more homes, leaving ruins. People were fleeing before them, but the legionaries grabbed whoever they could, beating them, chaining them.
"Six legionaries were slain," Remus said. His fists clenched. "And so six hundred Zoharite rats will die." He turned away from the city, facing Epher and his family. "If you cannot control your people, if you cannot bring order to this place, this palace too shall fall, and with it every last rat in this wretched hive. We try to civilize you. We tried to civilize Leer too. Now the great kingdom of Leer is a field of stones and skulls. If you cannot join the Empire, you will be buried beneath it."
Rage, burning, all consuming, flared through Epher. He wanted to pummel the general, to shove him off the railing, to watch his body shatter below.
But Shiloh reacted differently. She stepped toward the prefect, wrapped in a white shawl, her braid hanging out from her hood. She knelt before him, head lowered.
"Please, dominus," she whispered. "Spare us. This city has bled enough. Spare the six hundred."
Below in the streets, the legionaries were rounding people up from around the ruins. Men. Women. Children. Babies. Cries of fear and rage rose through the city.
"Rats to crucify!" a legionary cried below. "Count six hundred heads!"
"Please, dominus," Shiloh said, head bowed. She knelt and kissed Remus's feet. "Spare them."
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 19
