She trembled. So many emotions filled her. Fear for her old family. Fear of being so close to her true father. Fear that she was dreaming, or that this city of wonders held an ugliness she couldn't see from here, the way Seneca's beautiful form hid an ugly heart. She was excited, elated, happier than she'd ever been—but so afraid.
What life will I find here? Ofeer wondered. Would Emperor Marcus—her true father—welcome her into his arms? Or would she have to find her own path, a path of hardship and loneliness? Would she see Atalia here, or had the Gaelians sunk her ship? Was Koren still rowing below this deck, or had he succumbed to disease and exhaustion like so many galley slaves?
Ofeer did not know. She had not dreamed of coming here like this. A thousand times, she had imagined sailing to Aelar, seeking her father—perhaps a famous general, or maybe a wealthy merchant or lord. She had never imagined it like this.
The ship Ofeer and Seneca stood on—the Aquila Aureum—led twenty other galleys, all laden with the treasures of conquest: gold, jewels, artwork, and slaves from Zohar. They sailed past the breakwaters and into the cove. Countless ships sailed between them, bearing treasures from other distant lands. The curses and songs of sailors filled the air, gulls cawed, and fish flitted through the water. The statues of the gods rose alongside, and Seneca spoke to Ofeer, telling her the name of each god and goddess. But Ofeer barely listened, and her legs trembled.
So many questions. So much fear. Ofeer clutched the balustrade, never wanting to let go, not sure if she'd dare climb off this ship and set foot on this new land, the land she had dreamed of all her life.
The Aquila Aureum docked at a boardwalk lined with marble columns. A statue of a warrior stood atop each pillar, hand raised in salute. Thousands of Aelarians stood along the boardwalk, in the courtyards and streets beyond, and on the balconies of homes, taverns, and workshops. The men wore togas, the women wore flowing stolas, while children and slaves wore tunics. The plebeians could afford only simple fabric, unadorned white linen, but the wealthier citizens sported dyed, embroidered fabrics and wore golden jewels. Both commoners and the wealthy cheered as the ships docked, welcoming home their heroes.
Ofeer herself wore a fine stola now, a gift from Seneca. The flowing linens were dyed mustard and azure, colors Seneca had claimed contrasted well with her olive skin, dark eyes, and black hair. Her platinum eagle pendant hung around her neck—the same pendant she had worn in Gefen to remind her of her true homeland. Yet now, as Ofeer stood here on the prow, seeing the people of Aelar, she felt out of place, self-conscious, even in her new stola. What was her true homeland? Did her eagle pendant still symbolize Aelar, or was it now a symbol of Gefen, where she had first worn it?
I don't look like an Aelarian, she thought. I'm too dark. My features are too sharp. I look like a Zoharite, dressed in clothes not my own.
Seneca took her hand. He looked resplendent in the sunlight, the gold gleaming on his breastplate, his cloak woven of rich crimson embroidered with eagle motifs, and his sword hung at his side. A laurel of golden leaves rested upon his brown hair, and a ruby pin hung around his neck.
"See how they cheer for us. Wave to them, Ofeer! Let them see your eastern beauty."
He waved to the crowd, and the cheers rose louder. Hesitantly, hand trembling, Ofeer gave a wave, then quickly lowered her hand.
"Now we will let the city bask in our glory," Seneca said. "We return home victorious with the spoils of war. Our triumphal march begins." He kissed Ofeer's cheek to rising cheers. "Welcome home, Ofeer of Aelar."
The sailors lowered a gangplank, and legionaries disembarked first onto the boardwalk, forming two protective lines, holding back the crowd. Seneca and Ofeer followed. A chariot rolled forth, gilded and jeweled, pulled by four snowy horses with braided manes. Seneca climbed into the chariot, lowered his hand, and helped Ofeer rise and stand beside him.
"Prepared to display your whore?" The voice rose from across the boardwalk. "Lovely spoils of war you have there, brother! You should strip her bare and fuck her for the crowd."
Some in the crowd tittered and jeered. Ofeer's belly curdled. She looked across the boardwalk to see Porcia climb off a second ship. The princess winked at her.
My older sister, Ofeer thought, shuddering.
Porcia's armor was so dark it was almost black. A laurel rested on her head, and she held a shield and spear. She climbed into her own chariot, this one painted black and trimmed with gold. The severed heads of her enemies—soldiers of Zohar—dragged behind the chariot on ropes. Farther back, Porcia's soldiers were manhandling chained slaves off the ship, whipping their backs, and arranging them into lines. Ofeer sought Koren and Atalia among the prisoners but couldn't see them.
Growing up, Ofeer had always thought Atalia intimidating—an older, warlike sister with rage in her eyes. But this older sister, this princess of an empire, made Atalia seem no more threatening than a pup. Looking at the leering Porcia, the severed heads, and the whipped slaves, Ofeer suddenly missed Zohar, wanted to return to the ship, wanted to sail back to her home on Pine Hill.
"Ignore her." Seneca's eyes hardened. "Once Father names me his heir, Porcia won't be worthy of kissing your feet. You're mine now, Ofeer. Mine to protect." He squeezed her hand. "We'll tell Father what you said. How I conquered Gefen with blood and iron, while Porcia just forged a deal with a puppet king. He'll name me heir to this empire, and soon it will be Porcia in chains."
He cracked his whip, and his horses took to a trot. The triumphal march began.
The conquerors traveled through the city in two processions: Seneca leading his legionaries and spoils, and Porcia leading hers.
Ofeer stood in the chariot as Seneca waved to the crowds. They moved down a wide boulevard—so wide that both processions easily moved side by side with room to spare. Behind the two chariots marched the legionaries, their armor burnished, bearing the standards of Aelar—golden eagles on staffs. Wagons rolled behind the soldiers, holding the spoils of war: jewels, coins, and artwork plundered from Gefen, from the northern hills, from the vanquished hosts of Yohanan.
Living spoils were displayed too: captives of war. Hundreds of Zoharites walked between the legionaries, wearing loincloths, bleeding, beaten, chains hobbling their ankles. Thousands of people lined the roadsides, cheering as the victors marched by and booing the captives.
"Zoharite rats!" shouted a woman in the crowd, tossing mud onto the slaves.
"Desert whores!" a bald man cried and hurled a stone at the slaves, hitting a Zoharite woman.
Others in the crowd joined them, tossing rocks, rotten fruit, and excrement at the chained slaves. One Zoharite fell, and legionaries whipped him, tearing open his back, then yanked him up and shoved him onward.
Ofeer winced and turned toward Seneca, wanting him to stop this. But the prince didn't even seem to notice the violence. He was still waving, smiling at the crowd as behind the chariot the slaves bled. In the second chariot, Porcia was waving too as the severed heads dragged behind her. The princess noticed Ofeer looking and winked.
Help them, Eloh, Ofeer silently prayed. Let this city be smaller than it seems. Let this march of bloodshed end quickly.
She looked ahead again, gazing at the city before her, the heart of an empire. Ofeer was used to large cities; she had spent many harvest festivals in Beth Eloh, a city of a hundred thousand souls. But she had never seen a place of such splendor. Here was everything she had always dreamed of. Soaring temples on grassy hills, their columns white as snow, golden statues on their roofs. Palaces that rose from lush gardens of flowers and cypresses. Countless elegant homes—each a mansion by Zoharite standards—topped with red tiles, not just clay domes like back home. Even the poor lived in apartment blocks that rose seven stories tall; Ofeer had never seen buildings this tall aside from Zohar's palace and Temple in Beth Eloh. Aqueducts snaked through the city, three tiers high, delivering water to homes, bathhouses, and gardens. Pillars soared from courtyards, holding aloft statues of winged g
ods. On a hill ahead, Ofeer saw the Amphitheatrum—a great amphitheater, large enough to enclose a town. Golden statues, taller than the walls of Gefen, gazed down from another hill—one of Marcus Octavius, one of Seneca, one of Porcia.
A city of might and wonder. A city of a million people. The city she had always dreamed of. Here—here right now!—Ofeer was living her dream. She was riding in a golden chariot, a handsome prince holding her hand, as a crowd adored her.
And Ofeer could not take it.
She cared not for this wonder, this gold, these marvels of architecture. She kept looking behind her at the slaves. And finally, as the triumphal march was passing through a courtyard full of statues, Ofeer saw him.
Koren.
Her half brother, son of Jerael and Shiloh, walked among the other slaves. She hadn't been able to see him before, only now as the procession curved to circle a fountain in the courtyard. She barely recognized him. Ofeer had always known Koren to grin, laugh, and hop around like an excited pup. Today he dragged his chained feet. His beard had thickened, and his hair hung across his sweaty brow. Blood and sand still covered him—it must have covered him all the way from Zohar.
She could not see Atalia.
A legionary whipped his back, and Koren fell. His blood spilled. He struggled to his feet and kept walking, coughing, shoulders stooped.
"I have to go to him," Ofeer whispered.
Beside her on the chariot, Seneca was still waving to the crowd. The people surrounded the courtyard and stood on their balconies, cheering for the heroes' return. The prince couldn't hear her over the roar.
Koren fell again, and Ofeer's eyes dampened. Koren—the young man she had once scorned, thinking him nothing but a crude Zoharite, thinking herself a fine Aelarian superior to him. Koren—the boy who had once bandaged her skinned knee, making silly faces until she laughed and forgot the pain. Koren—the brother she had grown up with, wrestled with in the sand, swam with in the sea, laughed with so many times.
Blinking the tears from her eyes, Ofeer leaped off the chariot.
"Ofeer?" Seneca said.
She fell, banging her knees hard on the flagstones, then pushed herself up and ran.
"Ofeer!" Seneca cried, and somewhere in the background, Porcia laughed.
Ofeer ignored them. She ran back through the procession, elbowing her way between legionaries. She had torn her fine stola garment at the knees; she didn't care. She kept running, tears on her cheeks, until she reached him.
"Koren!"
A legionary stood above him, lash raised. Ofeer cried out and raised her hand. The whip slammed into her arm, cutting the skin, but she barely felt the pain. She knelt above her brother. Koren was on his knees, breathing raggedly, coughing, his back torn.
Gently, Ofeer helped him rise and wiped the sweat on his brow with her sleeve. "I'm here, Koren. I'm here with you."
"Where is Atalia?" His voice was raspy. Blood speckled his lips.
"I don't know." Ofeer shuddered. "Maybe she drowned, or maybe she escaped, or—"
"Move, slaves!" The legionary's whip cracked again. Ofeer cried out as the lash hit her back, tearing her stola and skin. The pain was worse than she had imagined. It claimed her, shot through her entire body, rattled her teeth. She had never imagined such pain could exist.
"Come, Koren," she whispered, guiding him onward, her arms wrapped around him. "It's almost over."
They shuffled down the courtyard, past a statue of a god that rose from a fountain, and onto another boulevard. Hundreds of Zoharite captives moved around them, chains rattling. Ofeer knew many by name, more by face; they were the people of Gefen, the people she had grown up with. Hundreds of legionaries moved ahead and behind them, some afoot, others on horseback or riding chariots.
Seneca and Porcia still rode ahead. As Ofeer walked with the captives, letting Koren lean against her, Seneca turned around only once. He stared at her. There was rage in his eyes, but a cold, icy, hard rage. His mouth was a thin line, and he was no longer waving to the crowd. His fists were tight around the reins. Then he turned forward again and kept riding, and he did not turn back again.
The triumphal march continued for hours. The city celebrated—a new land conquered, a new province for the Empire, its spoils displayed for the crowd. Musicians, dancers, and jugglers performed along the roads. A masked man walked on stilts, puppeteers performed for children, and boys dueled with sticks. Vendors sold cheap wine, fruit, and cakes from carts.
The prince, princess, and legionaries were met with cheers, worshiped as gods. "Hail Aelar!" rose the cries from the commoners. "Hail Seneca, hail Porcia!"
The adulation turned to scorn as the slaves walked by. The faces swam around Ofeer. Cruel, red, demonic masks. A pock-faced man tossed a stone. It hit Ofeer's shoulder, drawing blood. A young girl ran alongside, younger than Maya, shouting and cursing Ofeer, pelting her with filth. Boys laughed atop a roof. One dropped his pants and pissed her way, and Ofeer barely dodged the shower. A man spat from a balcony, and this projectile hit her, splashing her hair. Thousands of people. A million of them. All cursing, catcalling, pelting her with refuse.
"Come to me, Zoharite whore!" shouted a man from a chandlery doorway, grabbing his crotch.
"Show us your tits!" cried a youth, and his friends roared with laughter.
From a balcony, a woman upended her chamber pot. The nightsoil fell onto the slaves, a foul rain.
Ofeer kept walking, dripping filth. She kept her lips tight, her fists clenched, her chin raised. Her people. Her own people. The Aelarians—the people she had dreamed of so often. The people she had always known were civilized, genteel, beautiful, educated—the people she had thought so superior to Zoharites. The people she had always dreamed of joining. Now they mocked her, hurt her, shouted at her.
"Nice place, this Aelar," Koren rasped as they moved through the poorer quarters where masons, washerwomen, and slaves watched from their balconies and roadsides. "Lovely tour we're getting too. Just needs scorpions all over the streets to be perfect."
Ofeer would have given the world to walk on scorpions right now, if it meant washing off the filth, washing off the guilt, if it meant being back home. Her eyes watered.
"I wish we were home," she whispered, lips trembling. "In Zohar. In our villa on the hill. With Mother. With everyone else."
Koren rolled his eyes. "Oh, you say that every time we go on holiday. But as soon as we come back home, you want another trip."
"Not another trip like this." Ofeer groaned. "I'm covered with shit, Koren."
"Good. Usually you're full of it. Now it's full of you."
The sun was low in the sky when the triumphal march reached the city center. Walls surrounded several hills here, and upon the hilltops rose the Aelarian Acropolis—the pulsing heart of the Empire. Here was a city within a city, the center of Aelar's power. From her place among the slaves, Ofeer couldn't see much. A few gilded domes, shining in the sunset. The upper tiers of an amphitheater. The columns of temples.
He's there, beyond these walls, on those hills, Ofeer thought. Emperor Marcus Octavius. My father.
She narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips. She couldn't wait to see him. Once they brought her before the emperor, she would rush forth, coated with filth as she was, and cry out, I'm your daughter! I'm a princess!
Ofeer nodded. It was time to confront him, to finally let the truth come forth.
An archway towered ahead, breaking the wall, leading into the Acropolis. Many engravings appeared on it. Ofeer couldn't see them too clearly from here, but they seemed to depict various triumphs of the Empire, showing legionaries conquering lands around the Encircled Sea. The gateway doors were forged of bronze, and engravings appeared on them too, depicting legionaries in armor slaying half-naked, ugly barbarians. Three golden eagles, larger than horses, perched atop the archway, guarding the realm beyond.
As Seneca and Porcia approached the Acropolis gates, guards pulled the doors open, revealing a road lined with c
ypresses which led toward palaces and temples. But before Ofeer could get a better look, a legionary shoved her with his shield.
"Move, slaves!" the man shouted. "What do you think, that the emperor will welcome you filthy lot into his hall? Move, you sniveling maggots! Go!"
The whips swung. One lash hit Koren's shoulder. Another slammed into Ofeer's back, tearing her stola. With whips, shields, and spears, the legionaries herded the Zoharite captives away from the archway and down a side road, moving away from the Acropolis. Ofeer walked, hunched over and bleeding, leaning against Koren. Hundreds of other captives walked around them—the men and women Ofeer had grown up with in Zohar, people she had once scorned.
I've never been one of them, she thought. Not until today. I had to come to Aelar to become fully Zoharite.
The sun vanished behind the houses, and Aelarian boys climbed ladders, lighting oil lanterns that hung from poles along the road. The captives kept walking until they reached a towering stone building topped with a dome. An archway led into its shadowy interior.
"Go on, scum!" shouted a legionary. "Move."
Legionaries began goading the captives through the doorway into the domed hall. As Ofeer and Koren shuffled forward, approaching the building, she made out words engraved above the archway.
Oh God. No. Oh, Eloh, please no.
Koren saw the words too and grunted. He made a half-hearted attempt to escape, only for legionaries to shove him back in line and slam their spears against his back.
Leaning against each other, whipped and bleeding and covered in filth, Ofeer and Koren joined the other captives, walking through the doorway into the hall, passing under those engraved words.
Slave Market.
SENECA
After two months in the wretched east, Seneca rode his chariot toward his home, the imperial palace of Aelar.
He was the son of an emperor, and all the lands around the Encircled Sea were his by birthright—from the eastern deserts of Zohar to the southern savanna of Nur and to the snowy lands of northern Gael. Yet here, the Acropolis, this city within a city—this was his home.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 14