"We'll find power here, Taeer." He gripped the ship's balustrade. "My uncle Cicero commands the entire province of Nur. This isn't some fucking backwater like your Zohar. This is a massive kingdom, fifty times the size of your old rats' nest. Cicero has armies here. A whole fleet. Enough to conquer Aelar." He laughed. "When I'm done with Porcia, I'll build a hybrid god out of her. I'll behead her and sew an animal head onto her body, maybe a pig. That'll suit her."
His voice was shaking, he noticed. He sucked in breath, struggling to calm himself, and clenched and unclenched his fists. He must not show weakness here. The Nurians were savages. If he showed any weakness, if he cried again, they would rip out his heart.
Taeer pointed. "Look, dominus. A little bit of home."
Ahead he saw it. A building rose on the coast, built in Aelarian style. Its portico's columns were carved into Aelar's gods and goddesses, wrapped in marble robes, and eagles were engraved onto the pediment. Farther back rose towers bearing eagle banners. In the water, twenty Aelarian galleys—smaller vessels than Seneca's—were docked along the piers.
The Aquila Aureum was too large to dock at these piers. Seneca ordered the anchor dropped, then climbed into a landing craft. He had taken no guards or legionaries from Aelar, only a handful of sailors. During Porcia's bloody coup, there hadn't been time to find men still loyal to him. He and Taeer entered the boat alone, and Seneca rowed like a common galley slave.
He reached a boardwalk lined with legionaries. On their shields, they displayed eagles slaying ibises, birds of Aelar slaying birds of Nur—sigil of Legio X Ibisa, a great southern legion under Uncle Cicero's command. Seneca himself had donned armor today. When the southern sun hit his vambraces, they shone like molten gold. He placed his helmet on his head before docking his boat.
He climbed onto the pier, nearly slipped, and cursed as he wobbled. After steadying himself, he reached down and helped Taeer join him. She too was dressed in splendor. Crimson silk embroidered with lions flowed around her body, golden serpents coiled around her arms, and an eagle pendant shone against her chest. Cosmetics colored her lips, eyelids, and cheeks.
An emperor and his lumer, Seneca thought, climbing out of a landing craft like common fishermen.
He walked along the pier and onto the boardwalk, Taeer walking a step behind. When they reached the legionaries, Taeer stepped closer and raised her chin.
"Emperor Seneca Octavius, son of Marcus, Lord of Aelar, conqueror of Zohar, stands before you!" The wind jangled Taeer's earrings and belt of coins. "Sons of Aelar, kneel before his holiness, the mighty eagle, blessed by Camulus himself, the god of war."
The legionaries glanced at one another, for a moment uncertain, then toward Seneca. He stared at them, annoyed, and pulled off his helmet to let them get a better look. Didn't this place have any damn statues of him?
Finally the soldiers, still hesitant, knelt. If they did not recognize his face, they at least recognized the shine of gold on his armor.
He pointed at two of them. "You will accompany me. We desire no rest. We will ride south to the city of Shenutep, where my uncle, Cicero Octavius, is stationed. There I'll pay each of you a golden coin. Now come, we fetch horses! We depart at once."
A deep voice spoke from ahead. "Cicero Octavius is dead, dominus. You've come here too late, I fear."
Seneca sucked in air. He turned toward the voice. A man emerged between the manor's engraved columns, walked downstairs, and headed across the boardwalk toward them. He wore a vanilla toga hemmed in purple, and an ultramarine sash embroidered with golden eagles hung across his ample frame. He was balding, with thick lips and heavy lids that framed shrewd eyes. When he reached Seneca, he knelt before him.
"My prince," he said.
"Your emperor," Taeer corrected the man. "Emperor Marcus is dead, and Porcia is an illegitimate usurper. You kneel before the true master of the Aelarian Empire."
Seneca waved her back. "It's all right, Taeer." He turned toward the kneeling man. "Rise, Fabricus."
Seneca knew the man. He had seen him before many times at the Amphitheater of Aelar, cheering on the gladiators he purchased and trained for the fights. Fabricus was more politician than general, born into the wealthy Haratius family of senators.
The senators Porcia slew, Seneca thought. Taeer had kept him updated with the goings in Aelar, communicating with her sisters across the sea. Fabricus Haratius will not be loyal to the woman who murdered his friends.
"My emperor!" said Fabricus. "Forgive me. Come, come! I forget my courtesies. Step into my hall, and you will feast upon the finest fare in Nur, and we will discuss this whole sordid affair."
They entered the manor along the boardwalk. Past the portico awaited a vestibule, its mosaic displaying the animals of Nur: elephants, zebras, giraffes, gazelles, and many others. Across the ceiling appeared a fresco of Aelar's eagles, wings wide. The symbolism was clear. Nur's beasts crawled on the floor while Aelar's soared overhead.
Fabricus led the way, toga rustling. Seneca and Taeer followed him into a rotunda, a great round hall. At first, when seeing the building from outside, Seneca had felt at home. Among the strange architecture of Nur—the buildings tall, harsh, built of sandstone and limestone—here stood an Aelarian building, carved of graceful marble, columned and engraved with images of the gods. Yet here, inside the rotunda, there could be no doubt—Seneca was far from home.
The treasures of this southern land filled the hall. The heads of Nurian beasts hung on the halls, stuffed and staring with glass eyes. Lions, leopards, and cheetahs snarled silently. A bison's head dwarfed them, its horns longer than men were tall. A great table stood ahead, carved of ivory—tusk after tusk worked together. Around the table spread low couches upholstered with zebra hides.
Not only animals were displayed here but the works of humans. Among the stuffed heads hung treasures of Nur: wooden masks, painted gold and red and inlaid with rubies; spears tipped with cruel steel blades, the shafts feathered; and obsidian statues of fertility, the males thrusting forth oversized phalli, the women blessed with massive hips and breasts, ready for childbirth.
And among the plundered treasures and slain animals—a life.
A gilded cage stood on the ivory table like a centerpiece, its bars shaped as serpents with sapphire eyes. Within crouched a woman. She seemed somewhat older than Seneca's twenty years, probably closer to thirty. Her skin was rich mahogany, and a fountain of black curls framed her face. She wore a kalasiri—the narrow, form-fitting dress Nurian women favored. The fabric was fine muslin and embroidered with golden thread, but it was tattered and bloodstained. The woman was beautiful—her eyes were large and liquid brown, her lips full, her body slender—but a bruise spread around her left eye, and lacerations crisscrossed her limbs. She stared from her cage. A rope gagged her mouth, and rage filled her eyes.
"Come, lounge at my table." Fabricus clapped his hands. "Slaves! Fetch us wine! Fetch us a meal!" He turned back toward Seneca. "You will eat and drink with me, I trust? After our meal, I'd be glad to show you to the bathhouse. I've built a bathhouse here to rival those in Aelar, and I've trained the local Nurians to scrub my skin with sponges they pluck from the depths of the sea."
Seneca had spent most of the past few months at sea—traveling to Zohar, back to Aelar, then finally here. The last thing he desired was more water.
"Just a meal for now," he said. Whatever Fabricus served here, it would be most welcome. Seneca had spent the journey here feeding on Aquila Aureum's dwindling supplies. Over the past week, he'd been eating little more than dry crackers, moldy cheese, and briny onions.
They lounged on the zebra-hide couches by the low ivory table—Seneca in his armor, Taeer in her red silks and jewels, and Fabricus in his toga. Slaves stepped forth, collared Nurians in livery, serving a meal. They poured wine. It was crimson and thick and very sweet. On silver platters, they served butter melting over grainy bread, roast ducks on beds of leeks, fresh grapes and melons and carobs, and cakes sweetened
with figs and honey. While some slaves served the table, others entertained the diners. Men played harps and flutes, and women danced, their silks fluttering around their hips.
As they dined, Taeer spoke of the events in Aelar, describing the death of Marcus Octavius and Porcia's coup and violence. Fabricus nodded as he listened, shucking oyster after oyster, his appetite seeming to grow as the tale continued.
Seneca spared the entertainers, the food, and conversation little attention. As he reclined on the couch, propped up on his left elbow, he kept gazing toward the woman in the cage, a living centerpiece on the tabletop. She stared back, growling through her gag.
"Ah, I see your eye has caught my sweet little blackbird," said Fabricus, finally turning away from Taeer and his platter of oysters. He placed a sweaty palm on Seneca's shoulder. "She's a fine specimen indeed. I do wish I could keep her, but she's destined to be shipped north to Aelar tomorrow at dawn."
The captive woman stared at Seneca. Her eyes narrowed, flaming with hatred. Her teeth gnashed at her gag. Her muscles tensed. This one was a wild animal, fierce, untamed. Yet she was not pure ferocity like Atalia, the crazy woman who had nearly killed Seneca in Zohar. No. There was a nobility to this caged Nurian, a grace that the dirt and rage and bars could not hide.
Seneca remembered the songs that praised the savanna queen. The tales of the warrior who led the southern province, daughter of the queen slain in the Amphitheatrum. Seneca had seen this one before—in paintings, in plundered statues, in his own dreams.
"She's Imani Koteeka," Seneca said in wonder. "Queen of Nur." He turned back toward Fabricus. "The Empire normally seats its puppet monarchs on thrones, not on tabletops."
Fabricus barked a laugh. "Most astute, Prince Seneca, most astute! That is—Emperor Seneca." He bowed his balding head, and Seneca knew the man was merely humoring him. "As blood spilled in Aelar, so did it spill here in Nur. The savages rebelled. They murdered hundreds of legionaries, and still the rebels fight. It's our friend here—Queen Imani—who slew your dear uncle. She gored Cicero with an elephant's tusk, they say." Fabricus shook his head sadly. "Such a savage way to kill a man."
"Are there any noble ways?" Seneca asked, remembering how he himself had killed a man—how he had swung the hammer, nailing Jerael Sela into the cross.
"Indeed not, my emperor." Fabricus slurped another oyster and licked his thick lips. "Now, to kill this one . . ." He returned his eyes to Imani. "Killing her should not be a thing of nobility, nor of savagery, but a spectacle. Do you know how we killed her mother?"
Seneca grimaced. He remembered that day a decade ago. He had been only ten, already old enough to attend the games in the arena. For hours, the gladiators had battled wild animals shipped over from Nur for the occasion—lions, rhinos, even a mad elephant in musk. How the crowd had cheered! Porcia had laughed and laughed as the elephant trampled a man, crushing his head. Seneca had cried, had sought shelter behind his father. Yet Marcus had forced his son to watch, had twisted Seneca's head toward the arena.
"Watch them die, son," Marcus Octavius had said. "Harden your heart to killing, because someday it will be your task to kill."
"I don't want to kill anyone," young Seneca had said, tears on his cheeks.
Porcia—already blooming into womanhood—had snickered at this, but Marcus had fixed his son with a stare.
"Does a hunter delight in shooting a deer?" said Marcus. "Does a soldier delight in slaying an enemy? Does a butcher delight in slicing the throat of a hog? No, son. But they do what they must. So must rulers kill. Conquer. Crush. Entertain the masses. Whether you want to kill or not is irrelevant. You will kill because you must."
And that day, Emperor Marcus killed Anaya Koteeka. His soldiers dragged the Queen of Nur into the arena, and it was Marcus himself who stepped down onto the sand, who crucified Anaya, who disemboweled her alive as the crowds cheered, who severed her limbs and head, then sent them to be hung upon the city gates.
" . . .perhaps a simple crucifixion, though that seems so pedestrian," Fabricus was saying, propped up on his elbow, his couch's zebra upholstery stained with oyster juice. "We could try a flaying, though that so disturbs the women in the audience; their hearts are softer than ours. They say that in Sekadia, the savages have hollow bronze bulls, which they place over embers, then cook their victims within. They say that the screams rise through a network of pipes and emerge from the bulls' mouths as melodious songs. Perhaps we could build such a bull for Imani." Fabricus sighed. "I so hoped to send our dear friend to your father. He would have delighted in killing her like he killed her mother. Yet now that our beloved Marcus Octavius drinks wine with the gods in their heavenly realm, to whom should I allow the pleasure of slaying this delicate blackbird?" Fabricus cocked an eyebrow. "Should I send her to Porcia, who sits upon the throne of Aelar, or should I gift her to Seneca, who lounges in my home here in Nur?"
Seneca stared back at the sweaty man.
He wants something, Seneca knew. He has not yet chosen sides. He wants money or a guarantee of power. He wants to know which card to play.
Seneca looked back at Imani. The Queen of Nur snarled in her cage, trying to speak, her voice only a muffled groan beneath her gag. She stared into his eyes. There was hatred in those eyes. There was strength. There was murder.
"She killed Uncle Cicero, you say?" Seneca spoke to Fabricus, but he did not remove his eyes from the caged queen. "Gored him with an elephant tusk?"
Fabricus dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "And she slew many others before we caught her. The blood of a hundred legionaries is on her hands. Even now, as we dine here, her rebels fight in the streets of Shenutep, the great city that lies farther south along the river. Nur is a land of wild beasts, and she is the wildest of them all."
As if to confirm the lord's words, Imani leaped forward in her cage, banging against the gilded bars. The cage nearly overturned. The queen reached between the bars, grabbed a plate, and shattered it against the tabletop. Eyes blazing, she tossed the shards.
Fabricus yelped and dived to the floor, knocking over his plate of oysters, and even Taeer started and leaned back. Seneca remained on his couch, even as shard sliced across his cheek. He brought his fingers to the wound; they came away bloody. He looked up at Imani. She stared into his eyes, chest heaving.
"Foul beast!" Fabricus grabbed a whip. "I apologize, my emperor. She will pay for this. Would you care to beat her yourself, to hurt her before either you or Porcia kill her?"
Seneca brushed his thumb and forefinger together, examining the blood.
"My father once taught me that a ruler should never delight in killing." Seneca wiped his fingers on his napkin and drew his gladius. "He taught me that a ruler kills only when he must."
Fabricus nodded, cheeks flushed. "Aye, my prince. He was a wise man. Imani must indeed be ki—"
Seneca thrust his sword, burying the blade in Fabricus's belly.
The portly lord gasped. Saliva dribbled from his mouth. His thick hands grabbed the blade as if he would pull it free, but he only cut his palms. Seneca tugged the blade back slowly, twisting it, letting the man's innards spill. Fabricus crashed to the floor, his blood flowing across the mosaic. The servants screamed and fled the hall.
Seneca looked up at Taeer. The lumer gazed back, eyes solemn, and gave a small nod.
"He called me prince," Seneca said. "He dared to speak of Porcia. He should have chosen sides at once."
"He was a fool," Taeer said. "It is you, Seneca Octavius, who is true emperor of Aelar."
Seneca stepped over the corpse and climbed onto the ivory table. He knelt on the tabletop before the golden cage. Imani stared at him, crouched behind the bars, muscles tense, fists clenched. The most dangerous creature in Nur.
"I'm going to remove your gag," Seneca said. "Are you going to bite my fingers?"
Imani's eyes narrowed. Her lips peeled back. She raised her hands, and for a moment Seneca feared she'd reach between the bars and claw out his ey
es.
But slowly Imani shook her head.
Seneca took a knife from the table—the same one Fabricus had used to shuck his oysters—and reached between the cage bars. Gently he sawed at Imani's gag, finally cutting it off.
"Do you speak Aelarian?" he asked her.
Blood stained the corners of her mouth where the gag had chafed her. Bits of cloth clung to her teeth where she had tried to bite through the gag.
"Are you going to kill me now too?" Imani said, speaking Aelarian with barely the hint of an accent.
They always teach us in Aelar that the Nurians are savages, barely wiser than animals, Seneca thought. Yet this one is noble and wise.
"No," Seneca said softly. "I'm not going to kill you." He swung his sword, shattering the cage's lock, and pulled the barred door open. "I'm going to marry you."
PORCIA
The Empire was burning, and so was Porcia's wrath.
The words echoed through her head, the tidings from across the Encircled Sea.
Prince Seneca has landed in Nur, my empress! He plans to marry Queen Imani and raise Nur against you.
Porcia had murdered that messenger, but still his words filled her like bad eels.
The Zoharites are revolting, Empress Porcia! They're slaying legionaries in the streets, and the desert runs red with blood.
Another messenger killed, crucified on the hill. Let their bodies rot.
Your lumer is nowhere to be found, my goddess! We searched every alleyway in the city for Worm, yet the girl has vanished.
The words of a Magisterian guard, a sniveling soldier. Another body for the crosses.
Porcia sat on her throne, clutching the armrests. Her drunken paramours lay around her, snoring and naked, passed out on beds of coins and gemstones. A hundred Magisterian guards stood between the columns of the hall, fresh men gleaned from the legions, the deadliest killers in the Empire. Porcia had slain the old palace guards—treacherous men who had served the senators. Here stood new soldiers displaying the Guard's sigil, men who had fought with her in Zohar, men who would die before letting her come to harm.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 18
