Seneca trembled. He could barely see. He could speak no louder than a whisper. "Father, what . . . what are you saying?"
Marcus snorted. "Ofeer never told you. Of course not. She's a clever girl. She knew how you'd react. Ofeer is my bastard daughter, Seneca. She's your half sister. A sister you bedded. You're guilty of crimes far worse than anything described in these pages you brought me."
No.
Seneca trembled.
No. Gods, no.
"You lie," he whispered. "You lie!"
Marcus turned to leave. "Ask your lumer. Ask Taeer to use her Sight. She'll reveal the truth to you. I go to the bathhouse now, to cleanse my body before the games tonight, when I announce my heir. I suggest that you pray, Seneca, to cleanse your soul."
With that, Marcus stepped out of the tomb. Seneca remained, not realizing that he had fallen to his knees. The chamber spun around him. He fell to his side.
No. No. Lies. Lies!
"Ofeer," Seneca whispered, eyes stinging. "I love you. I love you. I . . . You lied." He trembled violently. He roared. "You lied! You lied! You whore! You fucking whore!"
He leaped to his feet. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He couldn't stop shaking. Let the world burn. Let it burn! Nothing mattered now. Nothing. Nothing! Not this empire. Not the throne. Not his future. Rage. Rage! It was all he felt.
"Ofeer!" he roared. He ran through the palace, howling, shoving people aside. "Ofeer!"
He could barely see. The blood pounded through his ears. He grabbed a sword from a guard, and he ran through the palace, crying out her name, swinging his blade, vowing to plunge it into Ofeer's heart . . . and then into his own.
VALENTINA
Today.
It was today!
Valentina shivered as she walked the halls of the palace. Today Marcus Octavius planned to gather the myriads in the Amphitheatrum, to choose an heir, to promise the throne to either Porcia or Seneca.
And before that he would bathe.
It seemed such a mundane task to Valentina—to wash oneself before a grand event. Yet this day, this day to change all future days, it was a simple bath that would change the course of an empire.
Valentina stood on the palace wall, the morning cold around her. She tightened her stola and cloak around her, finding no warmth. When she gazed west, she could see the Acropolis spread before her, this city within a city, the heart of the Aelarian beast. The bathhouse. The Amphitheatrum, the great amphitheater in the heart of the Empire. The towering, golden statue of Marcus Octavius. The columned temples for Junia, goddess of wisdom; Vin, the god of wine; and Aelia, goddess of music. Great structures raised with lume, lumers stolen from Zohar overseeing their construction. Edifices of marble and gold. Mere works of sand. Nothing but sand that would crumble in the wind.
Today it ends. Valentina hugged herself. Today, Father, I will be brave.
Valentina turned around, and she gazed off the wall toward the palace courtyard. She saw them there. Emperor Marcus Octavius, clad in his purple and gold toga, a laurel on his head, a tall and powerful man, handsome in a harsh, stony way. And Mingo the fool—once known as Septimus Cassius—scrawny, bearded, wearing only a loincloth, prancing around and chattering.
My two fathers, Valentina thought, gazing down at them. My true father, and the father who raised me. A father who will live, and a father who will die.
The fool Mingo stared up from the courtyard. For just an instant, he met her gaze, and in his eyes, Mingo vanished. The fool was no more. There was intelligence in those eyes, there was determination, there was love for her. These were the eyes of Septimus Cassius, once a senator, once the head of a great family, once the scourge of House Octavius. The bearded old man gave Valentina a single nod across the distance, then spun away and danced about again, mocking the birds, the trees, the lords and ladies of the court—once more the fool.
It was time.
Valentina walked down the staircase, off the wall, and into the palace's marble halls. Her heart trembled against her ribs like a bird in a cage, and she had to clasp her fingers to stop them from shaking.
I will be strong. I will be brave. For you, Father. For you, Aelar. For you, Ofeer, whose nation groans under the heel of my empire. For you, Iris, who cries out to me from the afterlife. For all those he hurt. For all those who suffer. I will be brave.
Down a hall lined with statues, Valentina met Ambrosia Avilius, a pretty woman with golden locks, born far in the north near the border with Gael. She was a close friend of Porcia's; Valentina had often seen the two walking together, one as cruel as iron, the other as sweet as poison.
"Ambrosia!" Valentina said, forcing a smile to her face, though her insides still churned. "I'm holding a feast at noon in the Temple of Dia." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's ten years since my father vanquished the land of Phedia, and I intend to surprise him there. Please don't tell the emperor! Not until we're all gathered." She bit her lip. "Will you and your family join me?"
Ambrosia smiled, her eyes alight. "You're so sweet, my princess! Planning a surprise party for your father!" She clasped her hands against her chest. "The love of a daughter warms my heart." She leaned closer and whispered with a wink, "Of course we'll be there."
There was very little that warmed Ambrosia's heart, Valentina knew, aside from perhaps a front row seat to see a couple sweaty gladiators cut each other down. But Valentina only nodded, keeping the smile on her face. "Be there at noon, and please don't be late. Invite everyone you know, but do not tell Emperor Marcus!"
Ambrosia laughed, no doubt thinking Valentina as silly and sweet as a toddler, and vowed to keep the secret.
Valentina nodded, and once Ambrosia had walked by, she exhaled shakily, feeling close to passing out. She steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and kept walking across the Acropolis. She approached the library, where two old men—retired generals and friends to Marcus—were reviewing scrolls and maps, reliving the battles of their youth. Valentina repeated her story to them.
"Please meet us in the Temple of Dia at noon—and remember, don't tell the emperor!"
They nodded. "Such a sweet child!" one said. "Such a loving daughter. Of course we'll be there."
Valentina nodded and turned around lest they saw the terror she felt. She left the library, and she continued her work. Through the Acropolis she walked, visiting them all—the young noblewomen who wore pastel stolas, the old soldiers, the highest echelon of Aelar. She even got her siblings to accept her invitation.
All people whom I've seen naked, Valentina thought. Whom I've seen exposed in the baths, both their flesh and souls, flatterers and fools and soldiers and singers and priests and prefects. All those who serve him. All those I will draw away from him today, the day it all changes.
At noon, Valentina walked down the cobbled path toward the Temple of Dia. She wore her lavender stola, pinned with the golden eagle of Aelar, but hidden in the folds of silk, she carried a secret pendant. A golden lion of Zohar. Iris's pendant.
For you, Iris, she thought. More than for anyone, for you.
The temple rose before her, a ring of marble columns topped with a silver dome. She climbed the stairs. She took a deep breath, and she stepped inside.
Sunlight streamed through the oculus, falling upon them all. His generals, his servants, his flatterers, all those he ruled.
Valentina's heart thudded as she stepped onto the dais, and she faced the crowd, prepared for the storm.
SEPTIMUS
"A bath, a bath, watery water for splashy splash!" Septimus danced down the corridor, pirouetting and windmilling his arms. "Time to get clean, yes dominus, wipe off all the filth, all the blood, all the shame."
Marcus grunted and kept walking, ignoring him. The emperor was nervous. Septimus knew when Marcus was nervous. There was a twitch to the tyrant's thin lips, a tightness to his hands, the faintest of frowns on the lined brow. Today was the day his heir would be chosen. Today was the day Marcus had delayed for
years.
And today is the day we wash off all the filth, Emperor Marcus Octavius, Septimus thought. Today all will be blood in the water.
He leaped and snapped his heels together, blabbering, a crazy old loon in a loincloth, long of beard, soft of mind, a mask, a puppet, the creature Marcus thought he had created. Mingo.
You should never have taken me into your home, Marcus. You keep your friends close and your enemies closer. A dangerous strategy.
"Mingo, calm yourself," Marcus said. "I'm not in the mood for your chattering today."
Septimus nodded. "Then I must chatter onward, brave as a general plowing through his enemies. For I'm here to remind you that all mortals die, that all silence is full of endless voices."
For voices still rose in Septimus's own mind. The voice of his wife, calling to him, screaming as Marcus raped and murdered her. The voices of his sons, crying out as the legionaries stabbed them, "Father, Father!" The voice of his daughter, of sweet Valentina, laughing in the gardens, calling out "Father" too—but calling to Marcus, the man who had stolen her.
Do any of those voices still haunt you, Marcus Octavius? Septimus thought, dancing down the corridor with his emperor. I think not. But let my voice, the voice of the fool you created, be the last one you hear, and let it torment you for eternity.
They reached the gates to the Acropolis's bathhouse. There were many communal bathhouses across Aelar—some huge pools for thousands of commoners, others smaller and more prestigious. Marcus was fond of visiting them all, sometimes even making appearances in the great bathhouses in the city's poorer neighborhoods, letting the people see him, letting them know that even Marcus Octavius was a mortal man beneath his fine toga, one of the people.
Today he came to the Acropolis Bathhouse, Marcus's favorite and the city's finest. The gates were carved of marble, engraved with figures of fish and mermaids. Two Magisterians stood at the gates, their helmets hiding their faces, their shields in hand.
Marcus strode through the gates, not even noticing, blind to everything under his great hooked nose.
But Septimus noticed. These were not the same young guards who normally stood here. They were older officers, men who had guarded the Republic long ago.
Septimus nodded at the Magisterians. They stared back, gave him the slightest nod. And then Septimus chattered onward, dancing and singing, and entered the bathhouse after his emperor.
Here was a place of splendor. Some called it the true heart of the Acropolis. In the old days, Septimus would come here with his fellow senators and their slaves, and here—here in this water!—the true discussions were had, decisions were made, and deals were struck. Here, naked in the hot pool, had the senators governed the Aelarian Republic. Columns rose here, engraved with fish, topped with statues of the gods. Frescoes of dolphins covered the walls, and a mosaic of many sea creatures hid at the floor of the pool. The aqueduct carried steaming water in the pool, delivered from a hot spring. Many doorways led to smaller chambers—places where a rich man could pay for a massage, a barber, or a brothel girl or boy.
The Acropolis Bathhouse, even these days with Aelar an empire, was the most social of all places on these hills, more than the stern temples, more than the silent gardens, more than the somber palace. It was here that the emperor could mingle with those he ruled, from the senators who had survived the purge to the generals and to the basest of slaves. Here, naked, they were all one and the same, all just flesh in the water.
And today, this most public of all places . . . was empty.
Marcus took a few more steps into the bathhouse. He paused at the edge of the steaming pool. His frown deepened.
Septimus cackled and raced across the slippery tiles. "They're not here, they're not here!" He laughed. "Surprise, surprise! Valentina has called them into the Temple of Dia! A surprise party, my emperor. Hush. Hush!" He slapped a palm over his mouth and spoke between the fingers. "I should not have spoken. Bad Mingo! Bad fool. Ruins the surprise. Mingo loves surprises, yes he does."
"I told you to cease your chatter today," Marcus snapped. "I'm in no mood for your foolishness. I only brought you here to entertain the people, yet we have this bath to ourselves." He doffed his toga and hung it on a peg. "Perhaps it's for the best. I'm in no mood for flatterers or fools today. We bathe, then we go to the Amphitheatrum, and we name our heir." He stepped closer to the pool, then lowered his head.
"My emperor?" said Septimus. "Does a melancholy weigh upon your mighty shoulders that bear the weight of an empire?"
Naked, Marcus looked at him, and there was pain in those eyes. "Mingo, I read something this morning. Something disturbing. Something that my daughter wrote, detailing acts that she . . ." He shook his head as if to banish the thought. "I was hoping to see her succeed me."
"Perhaps your daughter still can," said Septimus, slyly. "You have a second daughter. Valentina."
Marcus snorted. "You'd like to see that, wouldn't you? Yes, Mingo, you still remember who she is, don't you? Deep in your broken, mad mind, you still remember. But she will remain mine. It will be Seneca who inherits my throne when I'm gone. Seneca who must bring order to this empire. And in time, I will reveal to him the truth." Marcus nodded. "I grow older, and I tire of this game. Once Seneca has received my blessing, I will reveal to him Valentina's true parentage. I will reveal that she is the daughter of Septimus Cassius, not my own daughter. At that time, I will let Seneca turn her into his memento mori, into a sniveling, broken fool, just like you are. Now come, into the bath! We wash ourselves clean."
Septimus's fury rose.
His daughter, Valentina—tortured, broken, turned into a fool.
"No," Septimus whispered.
Valentina. Precious, beautiful Valentina—debased like him. No.
His wife—dead, murdered by General Marcus as he crushed the Senate, a living child carved from her womb. No.
His sons. Stabbed. Butchered like animals, still crying out to him. No.
This civilization that Septimus loved, a republic of wisdom and enlightenment, reduced to an empire of vanity and bloodlust. No.
Marcus stepped closer toward the pool. "No, Mingo? Do you object to washing ourselves?"
"No," Septimus repeated, stepping closer. "No, Marcus. No. No. No!"
At the edge of the pool, one foot above the water, Marcus turned to look at his memento mori, confusion in his eyes.
With a roar of fury, Mingo the fool, Septimus Cassius the disgraced senator, shoved Emperor Marcus with all his strength.
The night before, Septimus had not only coached Valentina to summon the common bathers. He had not only replaced the guards with his own men—men still loyal to the Republic. He had also painstakingly coated the edge of the pool with the thinnest veneer of oil.
Marcus now floundered, feet sliding across the marble toward the water. He fell. He fell just as Septimus had planned, just as he had rehearsed with his helmeted men, and as his body crashed into the water, Emperor Marcus's head slammed onto the edge of the pool with a crack.
Blood splattered across the marble, and Emperor Marcus—butcher, rapist, kidnapper, tyrant—sank under the water.
Septimus walked to the edge of the pool and stared down at the sinking body. Blood spread through the water.
"For my wife," he said softly. "For my sons." His fists trembled. "For my daughter." His breath rose to a pant. "For what you did to Aelar and to the world."
Septimus's thin chest rose and fell. His head spun. Finally—finally—after seventeen years of pain, seventeen years of this charade, it was over. The puppet's strings were cut. The emperor was d—
In the pool, Marcus gave a jolt and beat his arms.
Blood gushing from his head, the emperor swam to the surface, raised his face from the water, and sucked in air.
Septimus stared for just a heartbeat, then leaped into the water.
"For my wife!" he cried, grabbing Marcus, shoving his head back underwater.
Marcus floundered, struggled
, kicked, clawed at Septimus. Still the blood gushed from his head. Septimus's arms—weakened by years of slavery—trembled with rage as he held Marcus's head under the surface.
"For my sons!" he shouted.
Marcus screamed under the water, voice muffled. His fists drove into Septimus's withered frame, cracking a rib, shattering his stomach, but still Septimus held the emperor's head under the surface.
"For my daughter!"
He dug his fingers into that head, pressing them into the wound, driving through the cracked skull into the soft innards, pressing down, holding him under. Marcus still struggled. He seemed to struggle for an eternity, for far longer than any mortal man should expect to live without air, screaming, kicking, punching . . .
But his blows weakened.
His arms finally hung at his sides.
Septimus released his grip.
The corpse of Marcus Octavius floated to the surface, eyes staring lifelessly, head cracked open. The emperor of Aelar, the man who had destroyed Septimus's life, who had destroyed the lives of millions, was dead.
Septimus rinsed the blood from his hands. He climbed out of the pool and stood for a moment, staring down at the corpse, then looked away.
I will never look upon him again. It's over.
He stepped into one of the side chambers, the place where barbers, masseuses, and prostitutes serviced the bathers. A basin, mirror, and razors waited here. Septimus spent a while working, shaving off his beard, cutting his hair down to a neat trim. Something resembling his own face gazed back at him—the man he had once been. A face older, deeply lined now, gaunt, haunted—but unmistakable. The face of Senator Septimus Cassius.
He left the chamber, stepping back toward the pool. He took Marcus's toga from its peg and donned it, clasping it around his shoulder with an eagle pendant. Shoulders squared, chin raised, Septimus exited the bathhouse.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 26
