I love you, Valentina, he thought. I love you in shadow and in flame. You are my candle in the dark.
Finally he slept too, his arms wrapped around her, until the dawn rose.
SENECA
He stood on the villa's balcony, watching three hundred ships gather in the port, a vast armada, a fleet of might, a mere flicker of hope to hold back the storm.
Tereen, Seneca thought. Here I first came into Nur. Here the fate of this province, and my empire, will be decided.
He had not lingered long in Shenutep, Nur's capital in the south—just long enough to marry his wife, to muster the legion garrisoned there, and to summon the hordes of Nurian rebels. Then back here, north along the Majina River, to this Aelarian villa in Tereen, the place where he had killed a man and freed a queen. Back to the Encircled Sea. Back to the port. Back to war. There before him, across the delta and in the sea, the ships sailed for him. There they would burn. There they would sink. There he would face Porcia again.
She's coming here, Seneca thought, remembering his lumer's warning. Her fleet sails to Nur. In Nur the fate of the Empire will be determined.
"Will it be enough?" Imani whispered. "Enough to stop her?"
Seneca turned to look at his wife. The dawn caressed her, the fairest of women, her hair a midnight mane, her body clad in purest white muslin trimmed with gold. Flowers bloomed around her in stone urns, and birds of many colors perched on the stone balustrade before her, yet they could not compete with Imani's beauty.
I came here to fight for Aelar, Seneca thought. For a throne to sit on. Yet I found a treasure in the south. I found Imani.
"I don't know," he confessed. "We command many ships, but Porcia's fleet is mightier. On the shores and riverbanks of Nur, thousands of warriors muster, Nurians and Aelarians alike. Yet Porcia commands more."
"This is our home," Imani said. "Men will fight more bravely for their home than for a distant province."
You don't love me, Seneca thought. You married me for the legions I command here, for my ships, for a chance that I can repel Porcia.
He cursed himself. The thoughts of an overemotional boy, not a leader. Besides, how was he any different? Had he married Imani for love? Of course not. She desired his army; he desired hers. Thousands of Nurian warriors, wild men and women eager for war, served Queen Imani. Many ships sailed under her command, merchant and fishing vessels converted into military machines.
So why did he keep gazing at her lips, longing to kiss them? Why the constant urge to stroke her hair, to hold her? Why did it hurt so much when Imani didn't gaze at him with any affection?
"That's true," Seneca lied, thinking of how Zohar had fallen, how a hundred other nations, defending their homes with equal fervor, had fallen to Aelar.
But those nations hadn't had him fighting with them, he told himself. They had been abandoned, standing before Aelar alone. This was different. This wasn't just a war between an empire and a kingdom. This was a war between him and his sister.
"Then we will win." Eyes alight, Imani held his hands. "When she sails against us, we'll cast her back into the sea."
Her hands were so warm, her fingers long and slender.
Stop it, Seneca told himself. Don't you remember what happened in Zohar? You met Ofeer, and at the sight of a pretty girl, you forgot your task, instead playing stupid, lovesick games. If I'm to be emperor, Imani must mean nothing to me—nothing but a pawn, a trophy, a banner around which to rally the troops. I must burn the prince. I must become the emperor.
He forced himself to ignore the warmth of her hands, the beauty of her eyes. Instead he envisioned Porcia's face—her sharp features, maniacal smile, cruel eyes—and he imagined her burning, screaming in his fire, begging him for mercy he would not grant.
"Let us walk among the troops," he said. "Let them see us—a prince of Aelar and a queen of Nur—joined in marriage, joined in battle. Let our story inspire them."
A false story, he thought. A show, that is all. Remember that, Seneca Octavius. This is just a farce. Never forget your task here.
They left the balcony, exited the late Lord Fabricus's mansion, and entered a chariot of gold and silver. Four white horses pulled Seneca and Imani through Tereen, the great port city of Nur. Around them rode their guard—ten horsed legionaries at one side, an elephant at the other side, bearing Nurian archers in its howdah. Their banners rose together—the Aelarian eagle, golden on a crimson field, and the Nurian ibis, a silvery bird on blue.
Two birds for two nations, Seneca thought. One bird of prey, one of beauty. Fitting.
The Majina River, the great artery of Nur, broke here into a delta of many rivulets, all flowing into the Encircled Sea. Palm trees and mangroves rustled along the water, and cranes and ibises fluttered across the sky, unaware of the looming war. Obelisks tipped with gold and silver, sandstone sphinxes that soared as tall as palaces, and columned temples rose from the canopy. The air was thick with the scent of water and leaf, oil and sweat, iron and spice.
And everywhere they rallied—the forces of Nur.
Along the boardwalk, the Nurian soldiers stood facing the sea. Men and women kept vigil, wearing white cotton, armored only with greaves, vambraces, and helmets shaped like ibis heads. They held javelins and round shields, and semicircular khopesh swords hung from their waists. Thousands mustered here—once rebels in the underground, now an army.
Imani stepped out from the chariot, and she walked along the line of troops, speaking to the warriors, laughing with them, embracing them, praying with them.
She's not like an empress, Seneca thought, still standing in the chariot. She's one of her people, not holy, not a deity. He remembered how his father, back in Aelar, had gone everywhere with a memento mori, a reminder of mortality. Yet that had been only a mockery, and that slave had betrayed the emperor. Imani needed no such gruesome reminders of her humanity. She showed that humanity not with chains, not with a haggard doppelganger, but with her smile, her kindness.
They kept riding, crossed a bridge, and approached Castrum Mare, a bastion of Aelar's might that overlooked the sea. Walls surrounded the compound, topped with legionaries. They rode through the gates, entering a courtyard that sprawled before a fortress. To the north rose the tallest walls, and through their arrowslits Seneca could see the Encircled Sea.
More troops gathered here, line by line—legionaries with tall scutum shields, armored in lorica segmentata. They raised two holy Aquila standards. Two legions mustered here, ten thousand men in all: Legio XI Nuria, brought north along the river from Shenutep, the legion Cicero had once commanded, their sigil an eagle clutching elephant tusks; and Legio X Ibisa, long stationed here in Tereen's port, once under Fabricus's command, their symbol an eagle slaying an ibis.
Seneca halted the chariot, took Imani's hand, and alighted with her.
He faced the troops, and he didn't know what to say. He wanted to be like Imani—to laugh with them, to slap their shoulders, to tell jokes, to be one of the people. But in truth, these soldiers scared him. Most were taller than him, wider, stronger, older. He was only twenty, not particularly strong, not particularly tall, his cheeks soft. A boy, that was all.
In Zohar, I made them bow before me, worship me as an idol, Seneca remembered. But that would no longer work here in Nur. Before, Seneca had the might of the Empire behind him—his father, his armada, the full wrath of the imperial legions. He was weaker now, commanding only ten thousand men, only three hundred ships—most of them not even warships, just merchant barges and fishermen's dinghies seized by his army. He was no idol to worship, but nor was he one of these men. If not a hero or a comrade, who was he to them?
How do I inspire them? he thought. How do I rally them around me?
No, he was no man of the people. Nor was he a prince to be feared, not anymore.
But he wasn't Porcia either. And that, perhaps, was good enough.
"My name is Seneca Octavius," he said to these men. "Son of Emperor Marcus, who was m
urdered in the bathhouse. My father turned Aelar, once a weak republic, into a great empire. He conquered this land. He brought Aelarian civilization to every realm around the Encircled Sea. Yet now that civilization crumbles." Seneca looked at the men, one by one. "Now Marcus lies dead, and his daughter, the cruel Porcia, sits on the throne. A woman who murdered the senators of our holy city. A woman who surrounds herself with gold, jewels, wine, and slaves as the Empire crumbles around her. A woman who cares not for the light of Aelar but for her own vainglory and pleasures. And now Porcia seeks to send her forces here to Nur, to bring us under her dominion, so that we may worship her as Aelar crumbles into sand. But I say Aelar will stand strong!"
The soldiers stared at him, silent. Seneca knew what they were thinking. What difference did it make to them who occupied the throne, him or Porcia? To them, the emperor was inconsequential. They cared for their purses, their families, a dream of retirement in the countryside, not the games of the mighty.
Seneca drew and raised his sword, trying a new approach. "I say that the wealth of the Empire belongs to its people—not its emperor. Porcia has stolen the wealth of Nur, has squandered that wealth on statues and monuments, on feasts and orgies. That wealth belongs to you! Once Porcia is crushed, I vow to you, soldiers of Aelar. I will smash her statues of gold, her jewels with many gemstones, and each man among you will receive his share. You and your families will grow wealthy, as will the people of Nur. Aelar for all! Porcia must fall! Porcia must fall!"
A few soldiers hesitantly raised their blades.
"Porcia must fall!" one man repeated the cry.
"Porcia must fall!" a few added, halfheartedly, glancing around. The chant soon died.
Seneca turned away. He climbed back into his chariot. He left the fortress, Imani at his side. His belly soured, and his throat burned with bile.
They rode back to the mansion by the water, the place where Seneca had first met Imani, had slain her master and freed her from the cage. The pyramids of Shenutep rose far in the south, too far to see, back in the heartland of Nur. As the war loomed, Seneca and Imani had moved here—to the northern port—to watch the sea. To wait. To face Porcia when her forces landed here. And here she would land, in this port—the gateway to Nur. Here had Taeer, his loyal lumer, foreseen his great battle, though even she could not foresee its outcome. Here in Tereen would Seneca's fate, and the fate of all the Empire, be settled.
The sun began to set. Seneca and Imani entered the bedchamber, a large room high in the villa, overlooking the Encircled Sea. Hundreds of ships moored outside, the sunset painting their sails red, and it seemed to Seneca like those sails were burning, like his fleet was already caught in the flames of war. Old screams echoed in his mind—men dying in Gefen, legionaries burning, a hammer swinging, a man on the cross. Seneca closed his eyes and lowered his head.
"I don't know how to inspire them." His voice was soft. "I don't know how to make them cheer, to rally them, to kindle the fires of ambition within them." He turned toward Imani. "Perhaps I lost that fire myself."
Imani placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then perhaps you've grown wiser."
"Wiser?" Seneca sighed. "What does wisdom give me? I was foolish when I sailed into Zohar. A foolish boy with fire in his belly, eager to prove his worth, to kill, to conquer. And I did those things, Imani. I killed. I conquered. I slew men, fucked women, plundered gold, claimed land for the Empire. I showed my worth. Perhaps only fools can lead men in war. Perhaps war is the playground of boys, not men."
"Or perhaps the playground of women." A crooked smile played on her lips. "Perhaps you should leave the fighting to me."
"Last time you fought alone, you ended up in a cage," he snapped, then immediately regretted those words. He saw the pain in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Imani. I'm sorry. I . . . I'm scared." He swallowed. "I don't like to admit this, but I'm scared. That the men won't follow me to battle, not like yours follow you. That Porcia's forces will swarm across this port. That she'll capture me, torture me, crucify me. That all the Empire will come under her dominion. This isn't how it was supposed to happen." He clenched his fists. "This was never meant to be."
Imani's eyebrows rose. "Never meant to be? So say all in life, other than those who make no plans, who simply sail where the wind takes them. All those who navigate the sea face changing winds. The wise adjust their sails."
Seneca stared back out the window. Three hundred ships. Twenty thousand warriors. An impressive army, larger than what many nations commanded, but nothing compared to what Porcia wielded.
Zohar burned, and so will we, Seneca thought. He forced in a breath. Yet I will not run. I will fight you, Porcia. I will fight even if you slay every one of my men, and then I will fight you alone. So long as I live, you will not sit easy on your throne. I vow this to you, Porcia. So long as breath fills my lungs, I will fight you.
Imani removed her jewels and kalasiri, remaining in a thin cotton shift. She climbed into the bed—a wide canopy bed, its posts engraved with birds, zebras, giraffes, and elephants. When she laid her head on the pillow, her hair spread around her in a midnight sea. Seneca removed his armor, blew out the candles, and lay down on the floor.
After a moment, Imani spoke in the darkness. "Seneca?"
"Imani," he said, lying on the cold stone.
"It's a large bed. You can share it." She peeked over the mattress. "I don't mean you're allowed to touch me. But you can lie beside me."
Relieved, Seneca climbed into bed with her. They lay side by side. The bed was just small enough that he could feel her warmth, and when his fingers accidentally brushed her hand, she did not pull back.
She turned her head toward him. "Goodnight, my husband."
A year ago, Seneca would have grabbed her, would have torn at her clothes, would have fucked her like he had fucked Ofeer in the cave, would have conquered her—a foreign beauty to satisfy his needs, a treasure like so many plundered jewels. But he was no longer that boy, refused to be that boy. He leaned closer, hesitated a moment, then kissed her forehead. She did not resist.
"Goodnight, Imani."
No sooner did he close his eyes than the bells clanged, the drums beat, and the shouts rose outside.
Seneca's eyes snapped open, and he leaped up in bed; he hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep. Imani rose at his side, eyes wide.
They left the bed, hurried onto the balcony, and gazed out at the port.
"Gods," Seneca whispered, his knees trembling, his breath rattling.
Troops were running along the boardwalk below. Horses galloped and soldiers raced through the city. Atop Castrum Mare, legionaries banged war drums, and the ships in the port clanged bells and bustled with sailors and archers.
"It's too soon," Seneca said. "How did she get here so fast? We're not ready."
Imani hissed at his side, baring her teeth. "We're ready. With fire, with iron, with courage—we fight."
From the horizon, they sailed toward the port. Hundreds of galleys, sails wide, masts alight with lanterns. Even in the darkness, Seneca could see their banners—the golden eagles of Aelar. Their distant drums beat, and their legionaries chanted. The armada stormed through the night, bringing with them a promise of fire, of bloodshed, and a battle for the throne of an empire.
KOREN
After long days of travel through the wilderness of Elania, Koren beheld a distant city by a river.
From here, Koren couldn't see much. He made out brick walls lined with battlements, and beyond them domes, towers, fortresses, and the top tier of a theater. He hadn't expected to find a city this large—it seemed as large as Gefen—in such a remote province. Judging by the architecture, this city was Aelarian.
"A little oasis of home, isn't it?" Koren said. "A touch of Aelarian civilization, here at the end of the world. Theater, bathhouses, chariot races, and good old conquest and killing."
Valentina sighed and slipped her hand into his. She spoke softly. "Aelarian civilization isn't all bad."
He raised an eyebrow as they walked along the cobbled road. Her hand felt so damn warm that his entire body tingled. It was hard to focus on anything else. "Isn't your motto something like: We came, we saw, we killed?"
She cringed. "The motto of the legions. Of the Octavius family. But not of all Aelarians. Even during its days of a Republic, as my father served in the Senate, Aelar expanded, colonized, spread to all corners of the world."
Koren frowned. "So how was the Republic any better than the Empire? Even back then, your people conquered, butchered, enslaved."
She had the grace to lower her head. "Perhaps. Perhaps I am naive and romanticize the Republic. I was only a babe when it fell." She looked at him. "But Aelar isn't just those things. It's also roads that crisscross the world." She stamped her foot against the cobbled road. "It's sanitation. It's law and order. It's literacy. It's civilization. If Aelar were not here on this island, the natives would still be living in huts and caves. But now many of their villages are building bathhouses, brick homes, schools. They drink fresh water from aqueducts. They sit on toilets rather than squat in bushes. Their children learn to read and write; nobody here was literate before us. Aelar doesn't just seek to conquer. It seeks to civilize."
Koren bristled, and now some anger found him. "And who's to say the world wants to be civilized? Who's to say we want your gods, your language, your theater?" He shook his head sadly. "Maybe Zohar doesn't have bathhouses and amphitheaters and soldiers patrolling the streets, and maybe our roads aren't paved, and maybe our god seems foolish to you. But we've been rather happy doing things our way for the past three thousand years. And I reckon the hundred kingdoms Aelar conquered were fairly happy too. If people were that eager to welcome Aelar, half the lands around the Encircled Sea wouldn't be rebelling right now . . . or reduced to rubble."
Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4) Page 13
