"I came into Aelar with my brother," Ofeer finally said. "With Koren Sela. I lost him in the slave market. I don't know who bought him. Please, my princess." She squeezed Valentina's hand. "If you feel any affection toward me, help me find him. Help me find Koren. Bring him here, to this palace, to serve you instead of laboring in a mine or field."
Valentina leaned forward and kissed Ofeer's forehead.
"Of course, my sweet Ofeer." Valentina stroked Ofeer's long dark hair. "I lost my lumer. I lost Iris of Zohar, a woman I loved more than anyone. I'll save any Zoharite that I can. At dawn, I'll send forth my servants to find Koren, to buy him from his new master, and to bring him here. You and your brother will be safe with me."
Ofeer embraced her. "Thank you, my princess." Her eyes dampened. "Thank you."
Finally the princess slept, hands tucked under her cheek. Most of the candles had burned out, and only three still cast a flickering glow.
God damn it! Ofeer had to pee. Her bladder felt ready to burst. She got out of bed, seeking a place to relieve herself. She found a chamber pot, but it was cracked, and so she left the room and wandered the halls. Finally she found a lavatory, a place for the servants and slaves, but every one of the toilets was occupied. Ofeer waited, tapping her feet, holding onto her crotch, but the servants kept chatting as they expelled their waste, refusing to rise, and Ofeer felt like the piss would spurt out of her ears. She hurried down the hallway, seeking a place, any place, to empty her bladder. She considered a flower pot, but just then several senators walked by. She raced outside, trying to find a bush to pee behind, but everywhere she went there were lords, ladies, soldiers, and—
Ofeer opened her eyes.
Just a dream. She hadn't remembered falling asleep, but it was already dawn, and she still lay in Valentina's bed. Birds sang outside, and soft light fell between the curtains.
Ofeer blinked and rubbed her eyes. She wondered where Seneca was, if he had returned from speaking to Worm, if he was looking for her. Before she could contemplate the matter further, she realized the reason for her dream. Her bladder was indeed full to near bursting, almost painful.
Leaving Valentina to sleep, Ofeer climbed out of bed and walked down the hall. She entered the lavatory, the same one from her dream. Several toilets lined the walls, no curtains or stalls between them—the Aelarians were not ones for privacy—but thankfully the place was empty. Ofeer sat down and let the water that rushed below carry her problems away.
Relieved, she stepped back into the hallway. She tried to find her way back to Seneca's chambers—he would be furious if she didn't return to him soon—but quickly found herself lost. She wandered the hallways, feeling much as she had in her dream, struggling to find relief but winding deeper and deeper in a labyrinth she couldn't escape.
Many other people were filling the palace now—other slaves in iron collars, servants in livery, clerks in togas, and soldiers in armor. Ofeer took directions from an old scribe, and soon she found herself walking along a portico of columns, a frescoed wall to one side, the gardens to the other.
It was then that she saw him for the first time.
Ofeer froze, stared between the columns, and lost her breath.
There he was. The man she had seen carved into marble, embossed onto coins, painted on palace walls. Emperor Marcus Octavius. Her father.
The emperor wore a plain white toga today, the day he was to declare his heir in the Amphitheatrum. He stood by a fig tree, admiring the fruit. Oddly, seeing the tree filled Ofeer with a bittersweet sadness, for many fig trees grew in Zohar, and it seemed so strange to her that here, in this different land, this different father should contemplate a tree so familiar to her.
Ofeer was not afraid. Across the Empire, they told tales of Marcus Octavius's cruelty. They said that when he had returned from Leer, he had crucified thousands of prisoners along the road from Polonia to Aelar. They said that Marcus had slain the very builders who had constructed this palace, so that its secrets would never be known. They said that he fed his enemies to the lions, that he himself had murdered thousands.
So they said, Ofeer thought. The stories also said that Valentina was a ghost, a spirit who haunted these halls, moaning and cursing all in her path, and yet Valentina was kind. The stories also said that Seneca was a handsome prince and hero, yet Ofeer had seen a frightened, cruel boy.
So let them talk. She stared between the columns at the emperor. He's my father. I need not fear him.
She stepped between the columns and entered the gardens.
The emperor did not turn toward her. Several Magisterians stood between the columns, but here were men who had sailed with Ofeer on the ship; they knew her well, and they did not move as she approached her father. When she reached the emperor, she knelt on the grass, dirtying her tunic.
The emperor held a hanging fig, but he did not pluck it from the tree. He spoke, still facing the fruit, as if speaking to it instead of to Ofeer.
"Do you know, girl, I was poisoned once. Not long ago. I've barely eaten from the kitchens since. I come here, to my gardens, and eat the figs and apples and almonds I grow here." Finally he turned toward her. "There are poisoners everywhere. Assassins behind every column and every tree. I don't know your face. Perhaps you're an assassin too."
She shook her head, still kneeling. "Just a slave, my emperor. A new slave in this palace. I serve Prince Seneca." Slowly she rose and faced him. He was a tall man. Ofeer was not short, yet she barely reached his shoulders. "And . . . more than just a slave, my emperor."
"I can see that." Marcus nodded. "You are Zoharite, yet you speak flawless Aelarian with just the hint of an accent. You're a slave, yet you have noble bearings and the healthy glow of one raised in wealth. You remind me of someone . . . of someone I knew long ago."
A tremble seized Ofeer's heart. "A Zoharite, my emperor?"
He finally plucked the fig from the tree and caressed it with his thumb. "A Zoharite, yes. Funny people, you are. Proud. Stubborn. Ancient—among the most ancient around the Encircled Sea. A rich culture. It's my hope that Aelar should last for three thousand years as Zohar has."
"Zohar fell, dominus."
He raised an eyebrow. "Fell? Perhaps, yes. It's been fading for many years now. We ravaged your fleet nearly two decades ago. A civil war tore the kingdom apart. My children cracked what remained of its strength. Plucked from the tree, the fruit is to be consumed, or it rots." He bit deep into the fig. Juices ran down his chin. "And so we consume. We devour."
Ofeer took a deep breath.
I was born for now. Like a dagger. Like a dagger into the heart. Quick and brave.
"My emperor, people have always told me I look like my mother. That's who I remind you of. I am Ofeer Sela, the daughter of Shiloh Elior-Sela." She stared into his eyes, forcing down her fear. "I'm your daughter."
She was trembling now. She couldn't help it. She forced in deep breaths, refusing to look away from his eyes. Finally. Finally. After so many years of pain, of drinking in taverns, of falling asleep drunk in strange men's beds, of hating her family, of hating her homeland, of losing her family, of traveling here across the sea, of dreaming, hoping, fearing, so much fear—finally she was here. Finally she met him. Finally Ofeer had reached the great crossroads of her life. She stared, shaking, awaiting his reply.
Emperor Marcus frowned.
Slowly, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, yes, I see it. I remember your mother well. She was a beautiful young woman then, and you are a beautiful young woman now." He stroked her cheek. "You look like her, though I see some of myself in you as well." He bit down on his fig. "Now run along, child. Return to your duties in the palace."
She blinked. She could not move. "But . . . Father. I . . . I . . ."
He gestured. "Run along now. Back to Seneca."
"But I'm your daughter!" she blurted out, barely able to breathe. "You're my father!"
"That's how it usually works," said Marcus.
"
I . . ." Ofeer touched her collar. "How can I serve Seneca as a slave? I'm his sister! How can I be a slave here? I'm the daughter of an emperor." Her voice was cracking. Her soul was fraying.
Marcus sighed and watched a pair of starlings dance around a branch. "Child, the city of Aelar is full of bastards. Seneca himself probably fathered a dozen in the city's brothels and warrens. I myself must have fathered a hundred on my campaigns." He reached into his pocket and pulled out two silver coins. He placed them in her palms, one coin in each hand. "Here, take these. Buy yourself something nice, if Seneca lets you visit the city markets. But do not come to me again, child, expecting me to be a father to you. Do you understand?" He stroked her hair. "You're nothing but a Zoharite bastard slave, the daughter of a squealing whore. Never forget that, my darling, and never attempt to rise above your station again."
Ofeer stood still, staring at him, feeling the blood drain from her face. Her world seemed to collapse around her. It was all she could do to stay standing.
Shock.
She felt nothing but shock.
"Don't tell Seneca," she whispered, voice barely audible.
The emperor frowned. "Slaves do not make demands of emperors, girl. I put silver in your palms. Do not make me put nails through them next."
"Please," she whispered. She couldn't speak louder. "Don't tell him. He can't know. Can't know that he—"
She bit down on her words, and she saw that he understood.
And she saw that he would tell his son.
Seneca will know, Ofeer realized. He'll know that I—the woman he loves, the woman he bedded—am his sister. And he'll kill me. He'll kill me like he killed Jerael. My true father. My true father . . .
She was shaking so wildly now she almost fell. She spun around. She fled the gardens.
Her eyes stung as Ofeer raced through the palace, and now she truly felt like she were back in her dream. Only this life was worse than a nightmare. She could barely see. She ran, nearly slammed into a soldier, ran another way, lost now, delving deeper into the palace, knowing she had to flee, had to escape this place, knowing she was a fool. A fool. A fool.
Why did I do this? Why did I come here? I want to go home. I just want to go home. I want to be with you, Mother.
She knew that he would kill her. She knew that Seneca would rage, stab her, torture her, nail her to a cross, sickened with her, sickened with what he had done to her, sickened that she had not revealed the truth to him. Yet now he would know this truth. Now her life was forfeit, and she would die here, alone, far from her family, in a foreign land.
Finally she found her way to an exit, but men of the Magisterian Guard stood there, and they saw the collar around her neck, and they moved to block the door. Ofeer ran another way. She raced down a hallway, found another exit. But here too stood guards, and they blocked her passage, reaching out to her.
"Slave!" they called. "Slave, where are you going?"
She ran the other way, found another blocked door, more Magisterians. She wore a slave's collar now. She was no longer Seneca's concubine but his slave, and this palace was her prison. Trapped. Trapped like an animal. Doomed to death.
She wanted to find Valentina again, to seek comfort and safety from the princess, but she could not find her way. Finally Ofeer discovered a cellar, a little place full of amphorae, and she sat between the towering jugs, pulled her knees to her chest, and hugged her legs. She shivered, and she prayed.
SENECA
Today my life's path is laid down. Seneca walked through the palace, clutching the scroll of human skin. Today I become heir to an empire.
He had not slept all night, disturbed by the contents in the scroll, reading it again and again—the monstrous sins of his sister, depicting every vile sexual act he could imagine. And, along with disgust, hope—for glory, for the shameful defeat of Porcia, for a life upon a throne.
He walked down the corridor, every breath feeling significant, holy, a moment from the most important day of his life.
I will rule this palace, Seneca thought. I will rise to rule this empire. You and I, Ofeer. The world will be ours.
Seneca had not seen Ofeer since last night. He had not returned to his chambers after visiting Worm in her tower, his mind too stormy to sleep. He had spent the night in the Temple of Junia, goddess of wisdom, pacing the nave, thinking, planning, dreaming.
The next time I see you, Ofeer, I will be the heir to Aelar, Seneca thought.
In his dreams, he could already see it. He would emancipate Ofeer from slavery—perhaps in a year, perhaps sooner—and name her a citizen of Aelar. She would be so thankful that she would fall to her knees, kiss his feet, shed tears, and bless his name. They would make love all that day and night, and then they would marry. The whole city would come to see them ride through the streets in a jeweled chariot, a husband of Aelarian nobility and his wife, an exotic seductress of the east, a desert rose all in silk and gold.
And once Father died—it wouldn't be too long, the man was old already—they would be emperor and empress. He would show Ofeer then. He would show her how mighty he was. He would crush the rebellion in Nur, bringing Ofeer all the treasures from that land: zebra pelts and ivory and the horns of rhinoceroses. He would defeat the Gaelians too, leading the hosts himself to finally slay those bearded barbarians of the north. Perhaps, if Ofeer truly begged him, he would spare the Zoharites, let them keep living under his rule. Ofeer would be thankful for that, so thankful that she would kneel again—like she had knelt in Zohar—kiss his feet, worship him for his mercy.
"I love you, Ofeer Sela, keeper of her mother's vineyard," he whispered as he walked through the palace. "I've loved you since the moment we met on the hills of Zohar. You're my slave now, but I will make you my empress."
Seneca took a shuddering breath.
But not yet. It was premature to dream. First he had to speak to his father. First he had to secure his prize.
He knew where he would find his father this morning—the same place Emperor Marcus went every morning after feeding on fruit from the gardens. Seneca slowed his pace, inhaled deeply, and entered his mother's tomb.
The vast hall always felt like a cavern, white and austere, all in marble, colorless. Mother's statue rose there, carved of pale stone, one breast exposed, the chiseled stola flowing like real linen. Before her, so small by comparison, stood Seneca's father.
Seneca approached him. For a moment, they stared together at the great marble statue. Seneca glanced toward his father. Marcus stared ahead, and that face seemed chiseled of stone too, all sharpness and cruelty, all harsh lines, the mouth pitiless, the eyes cruel. Seneca returned his gaze to the statue; it seemed soft in comparison.
"She was a beautiful woman," Seneca said softly. "I wish I could have gotten to know her better. I—"
"Seneca, I told you not to approach me before the ceremony tonight," Marcus said. "You and your sister both know this. I am to make my decision in private, and I will not have my children campaigning to me like senators groveling for a vote."
Seneca held out the scroll. "Before you make your decision, read this. No campaigning. No groveling. Just something I think you'll find very, very interesting."
Marcus stared at the parchment. "What is this?"
"Porcia's journal." Seneca's pulse quickened, and a savage smile tugged at his lips. "Read it."
Marcus grunted and turned away. "Seneca, I told you, I'm not interested in any more—"
"She fucked gladiators," Seneca said, interrupting his father. "Two of them. Here in this very chamber, right under mother's eyes."
His heart wanted to leap out from his throat. Sweat trickled down his back. It was all Seneca could do to keep breathing.
Slowly, his father turned toward him. "Seneca, these accusations—"
"—are true." Seneca all but shoved the scroll at him. "Look at it! Read it. I took it from her chamber. It's her own handwriting. Her own signature at the bottom of each entry. And oh, she did more than bed
a couple gladiators in this tomb. Much more. Something about plotting to kill you, and turning your bones into sex toys? That's in there too. And a lot more."
Marcus finally took the scroll. Frowning, the emperor began to read.
Seneca watched, laughing inside, fire burning through him. Victory. He would have victory! He wanted to dance, to cry out in joy, but forced himself to wait, silent, studying his father's reaction. As he read, Marcus's frown deepened, and his fingers tightened around the parchment, nearly tearing it.
"Even in your bed, Father," Seneca said. "With three senators, one by one—in your own bed, while you were away on a campaign."
Marcus lowered the pages. His face was harder than ever, a face of stone.
He's furious, Seneca knew. Glee filled him.
"Porcia is a depraved beast," Seneca said. "She beds foreigners. Slaves. She has orgies on her campaigns, in temples, here in this palace. She is perverted, Father. She—"
"—did not bed her own sibling," Marcus said.
Seneca blinked. He tilted his head. "What? Of course not!" Seneca stiffened. "Why would you ever suggest that Porcia and I would—"
"Not Porcia and you," Marcus said. "You and your other sister."
"Valentina?" Seneca took a step back, frowning, his joy curdling in his belly. This was wrong. Something was wrong. "Father, what are you talking about?"
Marcus tossed down the scroll. It unrolled across the floor. Fury raged across the emperor's face. His fists tightened.
"You come to me, son, accusing Porcia of depravity. Do you think I don't know of your slave? Of Ofeer of Zohar? Do you think I don't know that you bedded her? All the palace speaks of it."
Seneca blinked. His belly roiled. He took another step back. "Father, I . . . I love Ofeer. I love her truly, as a man loves a woman. Surely there's nothing sinful in that. I know she's a foreigner. But you yourself have bedded Zoharite women, it's said, and—"
"Yes, Seneca," Marcus said slowly. "I too have bedded a Zoharite. A long time ago. Nineteen years ago, to be exact. A woman named Shiloh Sela. You met her, I believe. She looks a lot like her daughter. Like my daughter."
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 25