Koren hadn't thought of that. He looked around him at the tavern. People stared, pressed against the walls, fear in their eyes. The cook stood at the kitchen doorway, cleaver in hand. Two dead legionaries lay on the floor. Everyone stared at Koren. To them, he was a monster. An outlaw who had just butchered two young men out doing their job on the road.
Is this who I am? Koren thought, his tears stinging.
"I didn't want this," he said, voice soft at first, then spoke louder, loud enough for everyone to hear. "This isn't who I wanted to be. They took me here in chains. They made me kill. I . . . I'm just a stupid boy who makes stupid jokes and stutters around pretty girls. And I just want to go home." A tear fell. "I just want to go back to who I was. But I can't." He shook his head, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't." He stared down at the wounded legionary, and suddenly Koren realized how young the man was, probably no older than twenty. Koren looked back up at the crowd. "Find him a tourniquet. Bind his arm. He might not have to lose it. He might live."
"And if you live," Valentina said softly to the legionary, "remember that the dream of the Republic lives too. That someday you will serve the Republic again, not the Empire."
They left the tavern. Wounds bandaged, Koren and Valentina walked between the trees, traveling off-road, crossing an entire league before they dared to stop. The oaks and maples spread around them, only the moonlight providing the faintest illumination. Animals rustled in the brush, and once Koren would have been frightened to walk here in the dark, but shadows, animals, or stories of ghosts could no longer frighten him.
In a little clearing, they lay down on cold hard ground. There was more room here than the couch in the tavern, but Valentina still lay close to him, and she wrapped her arms around him, and she kissed his forehead.
"Thank you, Koren," she whispered. "You saved our lives, and you're a good man."
He closed his eyes, seeking comfort in her embrace, but as the night stretched on, he couldn't stop seeing it—the dead legionaries, the blood on his hands, and the crowd staring at him with fear only matched by the horror in his heart.
CAELIUS
"The empress must die."
The words echoed across the catacombs, slithering like living beings along the wet walls, columns, and vaults.
Standing in the shadows, holding a lantern, Tirus scowled. "Lower your voice. The walls have ears. Even here."
Caelius allowed himself a wide grin, lips pressed together, cheeks rising so high they crinkled his eyes. It was a smile he had practiced many times in front of the mirror. A smile he knew unnerved people. A smile that transformed his pale, youthful face into a mask of grotesque comedy.
"You forget, Tirus. I command the Magisterian Guard. All hidden ears in this city are mine."
The man standing before him snorted. The two could not have made a more unlikely pair. Tirus was stocky, all fat over muscle and big bones, and his head was large, round, and completely bald, the nose bulbous, the brow wrinkled. If a boulder could rise and walk, it would look something like Consul Tirus Valerius. Yes, the brute was a consul now, promoted from praetor. Porcia had slain too many talented men in the highest echelon. She was now replacing them with burly beasts.
While I am small, thin, boyish, Caelius thought. He knew that many mistook him for a mere youth, not a thirty-two-year-old man. Walking through the city, clad in a simple toga, Caelius appeared like a mere boy on his way to school, scrawny and pale, his brown hair falling limply across his brow. A pretty face. That was a word they often used. Pretty. It was a word he had used. Marcus Octavius. It was a word Caelius had come to hate. No, not merely to hate. Hate was too soft a word. Caelius was not a man who hated. He was a man who despised.
"Why did you summon me here?" Tirus barked. He looked around him in disgust. Moisture dripped down the walls, and cobwebs clung to limestone columns. The tombs spread along the walls, burrows holding the ashes of countless of the city's plebeians. "We could have met in my villa outside the city. My slaves would pour wine, and my daughter would sing for us."
Caelius had seen the man's daughter many times, knew all her secrets, had peered through her bedroom window more than once as she slept. Claudia Valerius was a pretty young thing, far too intelligent for her own good.
She'll make a good match for me someday, Caelius thought, his grin widening, hurting his cheeks. Just wait, Marcus Octavius. Just wait, Porcia. That boy you scorned will yet marry a princess and spit on your graves.
"Tirus, do you know how I command this city?" he said.
The beefy consul scowled. "Don't be coy. You command the Magisterian Guard, not Aelar."
Caelius drew a dagger from his belt. A pretty blade, slender, unadorned, yet deadly. It was much like him. He balanced it on his palm. "I know everything that goes on in this city. Every rat that scurries. Every whore who moans. Every man who fucks a slave in his wife's bed. Every father who sells his earnings for a taste of hintan, the spice of the east. Every mother who grieves for a lost child. Every soldier dreaming of fortune. Every young centurion who dreams of conquest and glory. I know them all, because I am no one. I wear no fineries. I wear no face but that of a humble boy; only last year a wine merchant mistook me for a child. I do not visit villas. I do not drink fine wines. I do not mingle with great lords such as yourself." He bowed his head. "I am a creature of shadow. Those in shadow rule the world while the asses of lesser men warm thrones of gold."
"Keep your shadows," said Tirus. "And give my ass a throne. But first vacate it of our empress's posterior. Enough of your posturings and platitudes. Kill the bitch and be done with it."
Oh, but I will, soon enough, Caelius vowed silently, caressing his dagger. I will plunge this blade into your heart, Porcia Octavius.
He winced in sudden pain. The memory rose through him. A place of shadows and death, much like this place, but far away. Leagues away and many years past. A place of twisting trees, of marching legions, of corpses everywhere. A place where a scrawny soldier, only eighteen years old, had beheld the wrath of Gael, had tried to fight, had wet himself, had wept. A place where his commander—a brute named Marcus Octavius—had mocked him. Had seized him. Had tossed him to his men.
The boy had screamed as the soldiers ripped off his armor. As they stripped him bare and shoved him down. As they beat him, brutalized him, spat on him. And above it all—even louder than his screams—her laughter.
Yes, you laughed then, Porcia, Caelius thought. You laughed as your father tossed me to his wild dogs. I was nothing but a joke to you. An omega wolf for the pack to torment.
Standing here in the catacombs, fourteen years later, Caelius still found tears in his eyes. He turned away, sneered, and clenched his fists. He let his rage burn those tears away.
The Octavius family had forgotten that young, brutalized boy. Most people forgot Caelius. His face was ordinary. His presence bland. His invisibility had always been his gift. The gift that had let him rise, let him become the youngest commander of the Magisterian Guard in history, only thirty-two, younger by looks, and with the power to name emperors.
And the power to kill you, Porcia. He ran his finger along his dagger's blade. My only regret is that your filthy slave killed you, Marcus, before I could.
Caelius looked back at Tirus, forcing the smile back to his lips. "You greatly desire the throne, do you? You crave the power. The wine. The harem. The eternal glory."
Tirus snorted. "You're not talking to an Octavius, boy. What I care about is the Empire. And Porcia's running it to the ground. She's emptied the treasuries on pleasure barges and endless festivals. She makes a mockery of our palace with her orgies and sacrilege. The woman's a goddamn imbecile. Her father, at least, knew how to run things. I will too."
Yes, Caelius thought. Her father was quite efficient. Her father knew all about conquering lands, all about butchering thousands, all about tossing a boy—a thin, terrified boy—to his dogs.
Yet as the rage flowed through him, Caelius kept smil
ing. Emotions were weakness. Caelius would keep them behind his mask.
"Tirus," he said, "the throne will have to wait for your ample backside to warm it. Return to Zohar. The desert still needs you."
The burly man's eyes widened. His face flushed in the lamplight. "I've spent enough time in that fucking backwater."
"And that fucking backwater has descended into chaos without you," said Caelius. "Epheriah Sela, that boy who styles himself King of the Zoharites, is causing us some real trouble. His forces have slaughtered two entire legions, a task few in the Empire can accomplish. He's walled up now in Beth Eloh, a city that's built like a fortress. I want you to take three legions, Tirus, and to take care of this."
Tirus spat. "Yes, I know the Sela boy well. He used to fuck my own daughter in my own home. I wouldn't mind feeding him to the lions in the Amphitheatrum. I'm going to need five legions. I want the job done right. Porcia half-assed the job, and now Zohar is in chaos. I'll set things right."
Caelius nodded. The legions were all brutes anyway, half of them auxiliaries comprised of conquered barbarians. Good fodder for the provinces. The true, elite warriors served Caelius, here in this city, soldiers of the Magisterian Guard.
"I'll be watching you, Tirus," he said. "My eyes gaze far, and my arm is long. Do not think to displease me. Or it will be your rancid flesh the lions feed upon."
He turned and left.
That night, Caelius chose to walk home rather than ride his horse or take a chariot. He enjoyed walking the streets of Aelar at night. They too were like the catacombs beneath the city, twisting mazes of shadows, of souls. All those who wandered Aelar at night—the drunkards, the pickpockets, the whores—all were the living dead, as rotten as the corpses underground.
He did not worry about anyone recognizing him. He was Prefect Caelius Petronius, new commander of the Magisterian Guard, among the most powerful men in the world . . . and yet a shadow. A ghost. A mere young man in a toga, with a forgettable face, not particularly tall or strong, not particularly intimidating, a man who could be mistaken for a mere boy wandering the streets for his first taste of sin, perhaps a puff of hintan or the touch of a lupa.
The mighty generals die, Caelius thought. Marcus Octavius, proud and cruel, is dead. General Remus Marcellus, tall and deadly and terrifying to behold, is dead. Soon Porcia and Seneca, squawking birds of prey, will be dead. But I will remain. A ghost in the machine. Puppeteer to a thousand squalling, posturing puppets.
He walked the dark streets, his place of contemplation, relaxation. Buildings rose at his side, seven or eight stories tall, only a few scattered candles burning in their windows. Far in the distance, the Acropolis rose on the dark hills, a cluster of lights. There, for so many years, Marcus Octavius had ruled. There Porcia now reigned. Her laughter mocked him. Still, after all this time, her laughter echoed.
"Spare a denarius?" A beggar hobbled his way, leg twisted. "Spare a denarius for a veteran of Zohar?"
Caelius stared at the poor brute. "Ah, a fellow veteran! I myself was once a man of the legions."
The beggar smelled of hintan, the Sekadian spice they loved on these streets—a cheap brew, judging by the man's purple teeth, not the refined powder Caelius enjoyed.
"Did you fight in Zohar too, dominus? I fought in the war twenty years ago, not the one now. Ah, back then, that was the real war." The beggar coughed, chest rattling, and scratched his stubble. "Still got damn sand in my lungs." He reached out a trembling hand. "Spare a denarius?"
"Zohar?" Caelius shook his head. "No. No, not Zohar. I'm a veteran of Phedia."
"Phedia, dominus?" The beggar's brow furrowed. "That was . . . over a decade ago. Beg my pardon, but you look like a mere boy no older than my son. At least, the age he was when I last saw him."
Caelius smiled thinly. "I'm thirty-two. A common mistake." He sighed. "Yes, I fought in Phedia fourteen years ago. A lowly soldier from a lowly family. I served under Marcus Octavius himself."
The beggar gasped. "An honor, dominus! He was a great man."
"Oh yes, a great man." Caelius nodded. "He was great at beating those soldiers he thought too weak, too small. He was great at making you even smaller. He was great at tossing you to his brutes, at—" He clenched his fists. "But the man's dead now. It's in the past."
The beggar nodded sympathetically, hand still reaching out. "A denarius, dominus?"
"Ah! Yes, of course." Caelius nodded. "A man's mind does tend to wander." He reached into his toga and pulled out his iron rod. "Here's a little gift for you."
He swung the club. The iron slammed into the beggar's skull with a crack. The man screamed and fell.
"See, words are so hard to understand sometimes." Caelius swung the rod down, slamming the iron against the beggar's chest, cracking ribs. "The playwrights are always told to show, not tell." Another swing of the rod shattered the man's teeth; he gurgled on blood. "He beat me a little like this. See? And like this. A blow to the head. A blow to the chest. A blow between the legs." Caelius swung his rod again and again. "Marcus Octavius thought to make me strong. Perhaps he did. Or perhaps he simply sought to entertain his deranged little daughter. Tell me, are you entertained?"
The beggar twitched on the roadside, spitting blood, spitting teeth, his bones shattered, his life slipping away. He raised one shaky hand, perhaps an attempt to stave off another blow, perhaps still begging for coins, even with his dying breath. Caelius swung his rod, cracking the skull open, finally ending the wretch's pathetic stay on this earth. One less shadow for his midnight strolls. One more ghost for the catacombs.
"I almost forgot." Caelius tossed a denarius onto the corpse. "Don't spend it all on the spice."
Caelius kept walking, whistling now. These strolls could always soothe him. As he passed under the aqueducts where the cheap whores lived, he considered hiring one for the night, considered strangling her as he sometimes did to the girls, but not tonight. All things in moderation. Excess was for the weak. For people like that beggar, spending their meager coins on the spice. For people like Porcia, wasting the wealth of an empire. Those with no self-control always ended up dead at Caelius's feet.
He paused only to buy a little spice—just a pinch, just a few inhalations to keep the memories at bay—and kept walking, leaving the slums behind. Soon he was walking in the wealthy streets near the Acropolis, a place of wide roads lined with oil streetlamps, of fine villas, of private gardens, of guards who stood at every street corner. Guards who served him. Guards who didn't even recognize his face.
Finally he reached his home, a lovely little villa, one among thousands on these streets. Nothing out of the usual. Nothing too gaudy. A beautiful little home like those of many merchants, retired centurions, slave owners, families with some gold in their coffers. He paused outside the garden gates, stood under the light of the oil lantern, and examined himself. Slowly. Meticulously. Searching for any stain of blood on his toga, any scrape on his body, any dusting of the spice. Clean as always.
Caelius cleared his throat, brushed back his hair, and entered his home.
"Daddy!" His daughter ran toward him, only three years old, and he scooped her into his arms.
"Sweetness!" He kissed her. "It's so late. Why are you still up?"
"I missed you, Daddy. I wouldn't go to sleep without you."
His wife stepped downstairs and approached him, dressed in her sleeping tunic, her brown hair tousled. She gave him a sleepy grin. "How did your council go?"
Caelius yawned. "Dull as always. Not nearly as interesting as you are." He stepped toward her, gave her backside a pat, and kissed her cheek when she gasped and laughed.
His daughter leaped onto him. "Carry me, Daddy!"
He carried her through the house for a while, pretending to be a dragon as the girl squealed in delight, then told her a story and put her to bed. Once she was sound asleep, Caelius took his wife into their bedroom, and they drank a cup of wine, and he made love to her. Gentle love. Love with kisses, caresses, soft m
oans. Not one of the violent, loud, intoxicating encounters he enjoyed under the aqueducts. Perhaps tomorrow night he would enjoy one of those. For this night, let him be perfect. Let him be happy. Let him live the life the Octavius family had tried so hard to deny him.
As he made love to his wife, he still felt it. Still saw it. Marcus Octavius tossing him to his soldiers, and the men shattering him. But that was all right. That was in the past. And Caelius would have his revenge, and he would not rest until every Octavius was dead.
He fell asleep holding his wife, his nose pressed against her soft hair, his hand cupping her breast, his weary loins pressed against her backside. He was happy.
CLAUDIA
After half a year in Aelar, Claudia Valerius—among the most powerful women in the Empire—sailed back into Zohar, into the only home she had known until the legions had toppled it to the ground.
"You always thought me a foreigner, Epher," she said softly, standing at the prow of the ship, the sea air kissing her cheeks. "But this was home for me too."
The city of Gefen—the city where she had been born, raised, fallen in love—spread before her along the coast. Once it had been a bustling port, a city of marvels. In its ruin it looked like mere castles children built in the sand, melted by the waves.
Her father snorted at her side. "After six months in Aelar, it's hard to find Gefen impressive, isn't it?" The burly consul squinted, examining the ruins ahead. "By the gods, what a pile of shit. I'm sorry, Claudia." He turned to look at her. "I'm sorry I had to raise you here in the east, not back in Aelar where a refined beauty such as yourself belongs. But I promise you this—we will rebuild this city. We will name it Valeria Maritima, capital of this new province of Aelaria Orientalis. This city will become the jewel of the Empire. A jewel as fine as you are."
Claudia stared at her father, seeking some conceit. But his broad face—the jaw wide if jowly, the nose bulbous, the bald head massive and lumpy—seemed honest enough. She turned back toward Gefen. As their galley rowed closer, rocking gently on the warm waters of the Encircled Sea, more details emerged. The walls which had once lined the coast still stood, but many pockmarks appeared across them, and their battlements had fallen. The Sea Gate, the towering archway which led from the port to the city streets, still stood—it was the gate Seneca had marched through in victory—but the towers around it had crumbled, and skeletons still hung at its sides. The piers still stretched into the water, but while once the boardwalk had bustled with merchants, fishermen, and peddlers hawking everything from apricots to cheap jewels, now the docks seemed lifeless. The Empire's warships harbored here, and legionaries stood like statues, guarding the city. No Zoharites could be seen.
Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4) Page 3
