All around her, her legionaries rushed forth, and the battle exploded outside the Acropolis walls.
Porcia leaped to her feet, spear lashing, driving the officer back. He grabbed his own javelin and thrust, and Porcia sidestepped, and the blade whistled past her shoulder. Her horse collapsed, blood spurting, kicking and screaming as it died. The officer's spear thrust again, and Porcia sidestepped, grabbed the spear's shaft, and yanked back hard. She pulled the officer toward her, bringing him into the path of her dying stallion's kicking hooves. One hoof slammed into the officer's helmet, denting the iron.
Porcia grinned and drove her spear deep into the man's head, cutting through the skull. She tugged it back with a red shower and licked the blade, tasting the coppery blood, the brains, the glory of her victory.
"Break the gates!" Porcia cried, drawing her gladius. "Legionaries—battering ram!"
The iron-tipped ram rolled forth on wheels taller than her. This legion had fought in Zohar, had smashed the gates of Gefen. Now they faced soft soldiers—mere guards!—who had not fought in a war since Marcus Octavius had defeated the Cassius family seventeen years ago. Most of these men at the walls had never seen battle. Porcia's soldiers fought around her, slaying the senators' pets, painting the walls red. The ram swung back on its chains, then drove forward. The iron head, shaped like a true horned ram, slammed into the doors with a crack.
You should never have let a Cassius live, Father, Porcia thought. You should have ended your war seventeen years ago. I will end it now.
Two more Magisterians raced toward her, mere boys, hoping for a chance to slay an empress. She snorted as she parried one's spear with her gladius, then thrust her own spear, cutting through the other one's neck. Her gladius flew, severing the first boy's arm, then driving down into his shoulder, shattering armor. Her horse still kicked, weaker now, screams down to mewls.
The ram swung again. Again. With each blow against the gates, more wooden chips flew.
Finally, with a deafening sound, the doors shattered. As the wooden slats fell, they revealed the Acropolis beyond—and it swarmed with the senators' soldiers.
"To the Senate!" Porcia cried, leading the charge.
She raced through the shattered gates, sword and spear cutting her way through. Her brother, perhaps, hid at the back of a battle until victory was assured, but not she. Porcia always charged at the head of her troops; that was how a true leader fought. The soldiers of the Magisterian Guard ran toward her, and she cut them down. Her sword knocked back shields, letting her spear her enemies. Blood splashed her armor, coated her bare legs, sluiced inside her sandals. She licked it from her lips, and it gave her the power to keep fighting. One man crashed down before her, and Porcia knelt, driving her sword through his armor, cutting the iron, the skin, the bones. She ripped out his heart and held it above her head.
"Hail the Empire!" she cried, blood dripping down her arm.
"Hail Empress Porcia!" her soldiers roared.
They kept advancing, fighting for every step. The enemy emerged from temples. They fired arrows from the library roof. More charged from the Amphitheatrum. Hundreds soon lay dead across the hills and roads of the Acropolis, then thousands. And still Porcia fought onward.
I am an empress of blood. Of fire. Of death. I am an empress of destruction and of glorious light.
She killed all in her path, anointing her reign with blood. Thus she would earn her throne—not a gift from her father but a victory, not by divine light but by death. She had always been a conqueror.
Finally, with the sunset drenching the Acropolis in gold and crimson, Porcia stepped over the last few corpses onto the steps of the Senate.
He stood at the portico between two columns, clad in a bloodied toga, clean shaven. Her father's fool. The memento mori.
"Mingo." She spat toward him, climbing the stairs.
He stood straight and tall, taller than she had realized he was. "I am Senator Septimus Cassius, Consul of the Senate. The Empire is no more. The line of Octavius no longer rules Aelar. I strip you of all power, Porcia Octavius." He looked down at the legionaries behind her. "Men of the legions! Do not follow this woman who has led us away from wisdom. Protect this blessed Senate, which has governed the Aelarian Republic for centuries. Cast aside the folly of the Empire."
Porcia climbed another stair. "The Senate is disbanded. If you wish to live, senator, kneel now and beg me for mercy, and I will consider exiling you to die on some desert isle. Stay standing and you will die at my blade, here on these stairs."
Two more senators emerged from behind him. Then another ten. Soon hundreds of senators were emerging from within, covering the portico and top stairs, all in their togas, some wounded, all standing tall.
"Then you'll have to kill me too, Porcia Octavius," said Quintus Tatius, an elderly man who ruled great farmlands in the north, feeding thousands.
"And me," said another, a bald man who owned the city's central bank, financing Aelar's wars.
"And me as well," said another, this one short and squat, master of the city's courts.
One by one, they spoke in defiance of her. Financiers. Lawyers. Wealthy slave owners. Together they ruled this empire. They owned the courts, the masons, the farmlands, the gold.
And all were traitors.
Porcia stood before them as one by one, they rejected her. As one by one, they cursed her name.
Septimus gave her a sad smile. "Do you see, Porcia Octavius? You rule nothing. Without us, an emperor is but a helpless child. Your father understood this. It's why he let this Senate stand, why he let us continue our work. He knew that without the Senate, there is no Empire. If you slay us, you will be cutting off your own limbs. You will become no more powerful than a slave in a golden collar. You are cast out, Porcia Octavius! You are powerless."
Porcia looked behind her at her soldiers. Thousands lay dead across the Acropolis. But hundreds still remained, standing behind her on the stairs, shields and swords raised, eyes stern.
She looked back at the senators.
"You're right," Porcia said. "You control the ships, the trade, the grain, the masonry, the law, the courts, the gold, the cogs and wheels that run the Empire. But I'm not helpless." A thin smile stretched her lips. "I control the legions." She raised her voice to a howl. "Legionaries—kill them! Kill them all!"
With battle cries, the legionaries stormed up the stairs. Their swords swung. The blades cut through the senators. Men fell. Blood spurted. Corpses tumbled to the road below.
"Legionaries, stop this!" Septimus cried, standing among the slaughter. "Do not serve the usurper's daughter. You are men of wisdom, of civilization—of the Republic!"
Porcia stepped toward him. "No, senator. The legionaries are like me. They are creatures of fire and blood. They are hunters, and you are prey."
He stared at her, horror filling his eyes. He could have fled. He could have raced into the vestibule, cowered behind a chair, perhaps sought a back exit.
But he stood still, chin raised, back straight.
"I have lived, and I have fought, for the Republic," Septimus said. "For Aelar, I—"
Porcia swung her sword, slashing his throat, nearly severing his head. Blood gushed out, and Senator Septimus Cassius—Mingo the fool—crashed down at her feet, dead.
Porcia knelt. She carved out his heart, and she feasted upon the sticky red muscle, absorbing his strength. All around her, the other senators died. Some fled, only to be shot down with arrows. Others cowered and begged, only for spears to drive through them. Three hundred senators had once ruled here. One by one, they perished.
"Now the Republic is truly dead."
Porcia grinned, turned away from the portico, and stared south. From here, atop the Senate steps, she could see for miles. The amphitheater. The colossal statues of gold. The temples and libraries and palaces. And beyond the Acropolis—the city streets, the myriads of homes, the fire burning where the people had resisted her. And farther still—Aelaria Marit
ima, the port to the Encircled Sea. All the kingdoms around that sea were hers. Hers to rule. Hers to torment.
She raised her hand in salute. "Hail the Empire!"
Her soldiers raised their hands with hers. "Hail Empress Porcia!"
Footfalls sounded behind her—lighter than a soldier's. A soft choking accompanied it. Porcia turned around. Her eyes widened.
Her sister, meek little Valentina, was stepping out from the Senate, blood on her stola, tears in her eyes.
VALENTINA
My father is dead.
She looked down at the body. There he lay. Senator Septimus Cassius. Her father. The man she loved. His neck was cut so deep his head was nearly severed.
You're no longer a fool, Valentina thought, tears in her eyes. You died proud. A senator. A hero. I love you, Father. Always. Always.
"Valentina?"
She raised her eyes and looked at Porcia. All her life, Valentina had thought that Porcia—this cruel, bloodthirsty conqueror—was her sister. All her life, she had feared Porcia, had not understood how two siblings could be vicious, the third and youngest so meek.
Now Valentina did not see a sister. She just saw a murderess.
"Sister." Porcia's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
She doesn't know, Valentina realized. She doesn't know Septimus was my true father. She'll never know. Marcus is dead. All the senators are dead. Now only I know the truth.
Porcia was scrutinizing her. Wheels were turning behind those eyes. The new empress was perhaps vicious and wild, but she was also fiercely intelligent.
Valentina looked back down at her dead father. She wanted to fall to her knees, to embrace him, to weep, to never let go.
And then I would die with him.
She forced a deep, shuddering breath. No. She could not die here today. Too many had died—the thousands lay slain across the city.
Valentina had to live. She still had a war to fight.
She stepped over her father's corpse, and she embraced the woman who had murdered him.
"Sister!" Valentina said, trembling. "I was so scared. They kidnapped me! They took me here. It was Septimus who did it. I tried to stop them, but . . . but . . . oh, thank the gods you're here. I love you, sister. I love you."
Porcia stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and stroked Valentina's hair, bloodying it.
"It's all right, little one." Porcia kissed Valentina's forehead, smearing it with blood. "They're dead now. The men who murdered our father are dead. You're safe with me, I promise. I will keep this empire safe."
As they embraced atop the Senate stairs, Valentina looked down across the burning empire.
I won't forget you, Father, she vowed. I won't forget you, Iris. I won't forget you, all who died here this day. I promise you all: Until my last breath, I will fight. I will finish the war my father began—the war to make Aelar a republic again. She raised her head and gazed into Porcia's eyes. I will fight to bring you down, Porcia.
The new empress took Valentina's hand in hers. "Now come, little sister. Let us ring the bells of glory, and let us summon a crowd into the amphitheater. We will feed a hundred prisoners to the lions to celebrate this victory. The Empire rises from blood and fire, stronger than ever before."
EPHER
He was hanging from chains, toes just grazing the dungeon floor, when the devil came to see him.
Epher didn't know how long he'd been hanging here. There was no day or night in this darkness. There was no wakefulness or slumber, no clarity or madness. There was the pain—the pain of his whipped back, of the joints in his arms, the cramps in his legs, the manacles digging into his wrists. There was the stench of his own waste, his own blood, the rot spreading through the welts that crisscrossed his torso. There was the sound of haggard breathing, the squeaking of rats, the clattering of chains that tugged his arms toward the ceiling, the creaking of his bones as he struggled to keep his weight on his toes, his heels not reaching the floor.
And there were the memories.
The shadows wrapped around him, becoming the shadows of night leading to dawn over the hills. The rats scurried, their chattering becoming the song of insects. The pain across his body became the heat of summer, sweltering, washing him with sweat, and Epher laughed, running over the hills. He found a fallen branch and worked at it with his knife, the small knife his father had given him, the one with the red handle, peeling off bark and sharpening the tip into a spear.
He hunted between the pines and cypress trees, slaying invisible monsters, and Atalia roared and leaped onto him with her own spear, then cried as she fell and skinned her knees. The garden bloomed around them, and Mother brought out a bowl of pomegranates, and they ate, and Atalia was soon laughing. Lavender flowers bloomed in their villa's windowsills—Epher could not remember their names, but each blossom was formed of a hundred smaller flowers, cloying and sweet and attractive to bees, and Maya picked him a bouquet. The sea whispered in the distance, the waves rising, falling like breath. Ragged breath. Hoarse breath that sawed at his throat, and Epher tasted blood.
He blinked. His weight dropped off his toes. The manacles tightened around his wrists as more of his weight tugged his arms. He cried out—a choked sound—and pressed down on his toes again, trying to hold up his weight, to stop the chains from yanking his arms from their sockets. There were no walls to lean on. Nothing to stop the chains from ripping out his arms, leaving him alive, dangling from skin and bones, and—
Blackness spread around him, and when he sucked in breath, he was moving atop her, making love to her, to his Olive. His sweet, wild Olive with the freckled skin, the wild red hair, the huge grin, the green eyes that loved gazing at him. They made love in the heat, drenched in sweat in their little home in the city, and held each other close, whispering, tickling, laughing.
"Olive love Epher," she whispered in his memory, kissing him, nibbling on his lip, biting, gnawing, tearing into his mouth, sucking his blood.
Epher moaned, the blood dripping down his chin—blood from his cracked lips, his dry mouth.
The guards hadn't given him water nor food since chaining him here. Perhaps those guards weren't coming back. Perhaps this was not a dungeon but a tomb. A slow death, decaying alive underground. His arms creaked again. The cell stank of dry blood and rot and shit, and flies bustled on the raw wounds in his back, buzzed around his head, bit him, and—
The day was hot and lush with insects, buzzing, chirping everywhere, and sparrows singing in the trees. He was walking again with Olive through the city of Beth Eloh, this city of ancient stones, each stone a soul, each smoothed by thousands of years of feet and hands and rain and sunlight. And they emerged from the alleyways. Drunken. Stinking of sweat and cheap booze, reaching for Olive, tearing her clothes, dying on his blade. Yet more emerged. The eagles of Aelar. Legionaries in armor, great flying beasts from the west, tearing into the lions, ripping at the rank flesh like the whips had ripped at Epher's back. Tearing. Peeling off the skin.
And now he hung here. Rotting away. A slab of meat on a hook.
"But I saved them," he rasped, the hot, coppery blood filling his mouth. "I saved the six hundred. You were going to crucify them, Remus. I saved them. With my life, I saved them."
He hung his head low. He was ready for death, ready to vanish into nothingness. He knew that across the sea, the pagans who worshiped idols believed that all souls, after death, rose to a great land in the sky. But Epher was a Zoharite. He worshipped an older god—the god Eloh, intangible, woven of nothing, a god who did not reward or punish his children after death. Nothingness awaited Epher. An end to pain. Silence in the dark.
I'll miss you, my family. His eyes dampened. He thought of them: his wise mother, gentle yet strong, the kindest woman he knew; his brother Koren, laughing and joyous, captured in the war; his sister Atalia, fierce and noble and so afraid, taken into slavery; Ofeer, daughter of another father, so hurt, so sad, so fragile and kind beneath the armor of her bitterness; d
earest Maya, gentle and sweet, gone into the east; little Mica, buried under the pomegranate tree, a light that had shone for only a day. And he thought of Olive—his love, a woman he would have married, a woman he loved more than his life, a woman he would never see again.
Tears streamed down Epher's cheeks. Now he wanted to live, if only to see them for another day, to hold them, to tell them he loved them.
He was whispering their names, remembering their faces, when the door clanked and creaked open, and torchlight flooded the dungeon.
Epher groaned and winced. The light burned his eyes. The fire came closer, and sparks flew, landing on his chest, burning his wounds. He swung on the chains, trying to look away. His sockets creaked. He struggled to keep his weight on his toes. Sweat dripped down his body, stinging, and still the fire burned.
"Well, well, still alive, are we?" spoke a man beyond the flame, a hulking shadow in the dungeon. "Good. Would have been a pity to crucify a corpse."
The shadow stepped closer, taking form in the torchlight.
Even wounded, chained, maybe dying, Epher's rage rose.
"Remus Marcellus," he hissed.
Governor of Zohar. Ruler of a conquered land. The dog that had crushed Gefen and now strangled Beth Eloh in his grip.
The Aelarian general was a tall man—taller than anyone Epher had ever seen. He must have stood close to seven feet tall, but gaunt, almost haggard, as if his flesh could not find the proper way to settle over so much bone, too much skewer and not enough meat. He brought his leathery face close to Epher's, peering, scrutinizing, as if he could peel back Epher's skin with those eyes and study the map of veins and nerves beneath. They seemed almost inhuman, those eyes—the eyes of a heartless god.
"They speak of you as a hero in the city," Remus said, voice like a razor over stubbly skin, just threatening to draw blood. "They say you're a great warrior. But I see only a wretch."
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 28
