Seneca turned toward her. "But you told him. You told him who you are! That your father is Aelarian. That you're my friend." His voice rose to a shout. "Is that him?"
Ofeer's heart still beat quickly, but now it beat with fear. She knelt before Seneca and bowed her head. "Please, my prince. I . . . I don't know. I . . ."
Seneca knelt too. He placed a finger under Ofeer's chin and raised her head. His voice softened. "Just tell me the truth, sweetness. Don't be afraid. You never have to be afraid again. No harm will come to him. I simply want to know the truth."
Ofeer exhaled shakily. She glanced back up at the legionary and nodded. "It was him who struck me, my prince. But it no longer hurts."
Seneca nodded. He rose to his feet and turned toward a line of other soldiers.
"Seize him," the prince commanded. "Seize Justus the legionary, strip him of his armor, and tie him to the mast."
Legionaries stepped forth and grabbed Justus. The redheaded man cried out, begging the prince, apologizing over and over, but Seneca would hear none of it. Piece by piece, the legionaries tore off their disgraced comrade's armor, leaving Justus in but a tunic. With chains—the same chains that had bound Ofeer—they secured Justus to the ship's mast.
"My prince," Ofeer said, "please don't hurt him. I forgive him."
Seneca stared at the bound prisoner and licked his lips. He looked back at Ofeer. "Your heart is gentle, Ofeer the half Zoharite, keeper of her mother's vineyard. But no gentle heart survives in the legions. He must learn discipline. As he caused you pain, he will feel pain." Seneca nodded toward a tall, burly legionary with golden eagles on his pauldrons. "Decimus! Twenty lashes. Make them count."
"Yes, dominus," said the legionary. With a meaty hand, he raised a cat-o'-nine-tails, its leather straps tipped with iron bolts.
The lashing began.
Justus screamed.
The skin tore and the blood sprayed.
Seneca watched, eyes glittering, a smile twitching on his face.
Ofeer stood with him, forcing herself to watch, willing herself not to tremble. She tried to pretend that she had seen this all before. That she knew all about discipline in the legions, all about the hardship of the fleet, all about justice. She raised her chin, staring, letting them all see that she stared, especially Seneca. Letting them all know that she was one of them. That she knew of lashings, of blood, that these things just had to be done. There were no gentle hearts in the legions. She was Aelarian. She knew this. Of course she did.
The lash flew again and again. It was only twenty lashes—it had to be—but they seemed to last for hours. Each lash was actually nine blows, the nine tails of the cat tearing into Justus, tearing into Ofeer's eyes. She knew that she would dream of them next time she slept. She knew that she would never forget the stench of the beating, of Justus soiling himself, this miasma of blood and shit and the salt from the sea and her own cold sweat.
Finally, after the passage of ages, after the rise and fall of nations, the beating ended. The legionaries unchained their comrade, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him away, leaving a trail of blood across the deck.
Seneca turned toward Ofeer. He stroked her hair. "Are you frightened, little eaglet?"
She shook her head. "I'm not."
He smiled. "Such a sweet little liar. Two lies in one night. But you will learn, Ofeer the half Zoharite. You will learn to be honest with me. You will learn how things are done. You will learn why Aelar is an empire and Zohar is a backwater. Soon you will be strong." He turned toward the east, and he grinned. "Ah! Look there. The first hints of dawn."
She turned to look. Red blotches stained the sky over the city. Ofeer remembered watching the sunrise from Pine Hill, gazing out her window with the jasmines on the sill, back when she had been naive, when she had been weak, when she had not felt so afraid.
A golden glow caught her eye, and Ofeer turned toward it. A dark-haired woman stood across the deck, clad in crimson, staring at her. Luminescence shone around her hands, then trailed up her body and faded, leaving only three lights: a glow in her eagle pendant and two serpentine eyes.
SENECA
He stood on the ship's prow at dawn, resplendent in iron and gold, and stared at the city of Gefen, prepared to pluck the plum.
"Look at them," Seneca said. "Look at those rats lining the ramparts. They prepare for war. So war is what they'll get."
He wore his finest armor this morning, the breastplate molded to mimic his muscles, filigreed in gold. Pauldrons flared out from his shoulders, engraved with eagles. A red crest rose from his helmet, ruffling in the salty wind. His pteruges hung down across his thighs—strips of leather studded with metal bolts. He held a spear, and his gladius sword hung from his belt, both blades thirsty for blood.
Many other soldiers stood on the deck with him, line by line, armored and armed for war. Across the harbor, other quinquereme galleys held thousands of troops, and many smaller ships arranged themselves between them, carrying ballistae and catapults.
On the walls of the city, they stood—the Zoharites. They wore only crude scales, and they wielded curved swords of iron, weapons barely more elegant than sickles. There was no discipline to them, no splendor. An army of barbarians. Seneca tried to single out Jerael and his spawn, but he was still too far from the walls.
Too far, perhaps, to make out individual faces, but not too far to call out to them.
"Jerael Sela!" Seneca cried, coning his hand around his mouth. "Open the gates! Welcome the forces of Aelar, and we will bathe this city with light and glory!"
And then Seneca saw him—a distant figure over the gatehouse, taller than the others, calling out to him. The voice was barely audible from this distance, but Seneca heard every word.
"Sail back with tribute, Seneca Octavius!" Golden treasures rained from the battlements. From here, Seneca could not tell if they were coins or chalices or jewels. "Accept our gifts of Zohar, take them to your father, and return home with your pride! These gates are closed to you."
Seneca snorted. He turned to look at General Remus, the towering man who stood at his side. "He thinks he can buy me off with gold as if I'm a seaside whore. I desire more than his trinkets. My prize will be this port."
Remus stared down at him, those dark eyes emotionless. The man was so tall he always stared down at you. Seneca shuddered to remember the stories of Remus crucifying hundreds of children in Leer, yet perhaps this was just the sort of man Seneca needed with him here.
"If Beth Eloh is the prize you crave, my prince, we are wasting our men here. We can land upshore, several leagues from this city, and march across the hills toward Beth Eloh. We'll need the full force of our army to seize the capital."
"Are you mad?" Seneca scoffed. "What use is Beth Eloh, a pile of rocks on a desert mountain, without the port to connect us to the sea? I've come here to conquer all of Zohar. The coast. The capital. All its treasures. And this city will be my first prize."
Remus's eyes narrowed only the slightest. "Your sister, blessed Porcia Octavius, will be marching south toward Beth Eloh. An attack on Gefen can last for days, maybe weeks or months, and—"
"Who's the prince here?" Seneca said. "Do not second-guess me, Remus Marcellus. I know very well what my sister is doing. Let her crash against the walls of Beth Eloh. Let her fight the dueling princes there. Let them kill one another until only the last rabid dogs are left." Seneca grinned. "Meanwhile, I will seize this port—a great gift to the Empire—then march east to find Porcia's forces weakened, Beth Eloh ready to pluck like a plum. We'll return to the emperor victorious, conquerors of both sea and desert." He reached up and placed a hand on Remus's pauldron. "They'll sing songs of us, Remus. They'll build monuments in our honor, towering engravings showing us capturing the land of lume."
The ship swayed in a gust of wind. Seneca stared at the city walls and licked his lips.
You will fall, Gefen.
The other reason for attacking this city—perhaps the mai
n reason now—Seneca kept to himself.
You're up there, Atalia. On the wall. You and Jerael and the rest of your miserable family. I vowed to kill you. I will keep this vow today.
He turned his back to the city. He looked at his army—three entire legions upon a fleet of might. Legio II Stella Mare, the Sea Stars, their sigil a star and wave—five thousand soldiers fresh from vanquishing the rebels in Leer. Legio IX Triumphalis, the Triumphant, ruthless killers who had slain countless Nurians in the south. Legio IV Fortis, the Brave, masters of siege and machinery of war, their rams and catapults able to topple any wall. The sun rose higher, shining against their armor and spearheads. Seneca's arms trembled, his breath rattled in his chest, and his skull felt too tight. He forced a smile, finding himself grinning rabidly.
He looked over toward Ofeer. She stood by the ship's balustrade, the wind billowing her woolen tunic and long black hair. She met his gaze, her eyes afraid. Seneca would prove his worth to her today—to her, to his father, to his men, to all the Empire. He gave Ofeer a small nod. Next time he made love to her, it would be as a conqueror.
"Eagles of Aelar!" he shouted. "Knock down their walls! Take their city! Slay the men and take the women and crucify the children!" The blood roared in Seneca's ears, and he raised his spear overhead, voice rising to a shriek. "Zohar will be ours!"
Across the fleet, the legionaries raised their spears and cried out for Aelar. Catapults creaked. Men turned winches, cranking back ballistae. Archers loaded flaming arrows.
"My prince, I—" Ofeer began, stepping toward him, but he ignored her, too consumed with bloodlust, with the light of the sun upon his glory.
"Fire!" Seneca howled, grinning savagely, spear held high. "Send these bastards to the abyss!"
With deafening shrieks and blinding fire, the wrath of eagles flew toward the city.
VALENTINA
It was on Festum Messis, the greatest of the spring festivals, that her father was poisoned.
Valentina Octavius had been awaiting this day all winter, marking the days on a wax tablet, for it had ever been her favorite day of the year. Life in Aelar was full of festivals, a great celebration every week. Most Valentina did not care for. She cringed at the thought of the Fordicidia, the festival of fertility, when pregnant cows were sacrificed in public squares, both mother and unborn calves then consumed. Even more, she hated the Robigalia, when dogs from across the city were burned in fire, sacrifices to protect grain fields from disease. Most of all, perhaps, she detested the Ludi Victoriae, the Victorious Games, commemorating triumphs in ancient wars. The screams of gladiators, slain in the arena to celebrate old battles, still haunted her dreams.
But today—Festum Messis—was a time for spring, for flowers, for music, for a little joy in a world soaked in blood.
Valentina had barely slept the night before. She tried to tell herself it was from excitement. Not at all those dreams she had been having night after night—dreams of cuckoos and baby robins, of skeletal old men skulking into gardens, speaking of birds and fathers. At dawn, Valentina finally sprang out of bed, grateful for the darkness to be gone, for the winter to be over, that she was the daughter of an emperor.
Her baby robin saw her awake, rose in the nest she had built him, and opened his beak. Valentina fed him from a vial, a meal of pine nuts she had taken from the palace kitchens. Valentina herself was motherless—her mother had died in childbirth—and she vowed to be as a mother to this young bird. Chicken Leg, she had named him, for when she had found him, he'd been as featherless and pale as a raw piece of poultry.
She rang a bell, and her servants entered her chamber of marble and flowers, and now it was Valentina who received care. Her girls—slaves taken from Nur, dark and demure beauties—washed and perfumed her milky skin. They brushed her snowy hair. They dressed her in an azure stola, the fabric embroidered with silver eagles. When finally the serving girls held a mirror before her, Valentina saw a ghostly young albino, and the blue linen only seemed to bring out the paleness of her skin, hair, and eyes, leaving her looking like a living marble statue, like one of the thousands that filled the city of Aelar.
That day, wine, gold, and great merriment filled the city alongside its marble gods. Flowers grew everywhere from stone pots, their sweet scent wafting across the streets. Soldiers stood in burnished armor, while the people wore their finest togas—white wool for the poor, fabrics dyed ultramarine and purple for the wealthy. Valentina's father wore his imperial garment, deep purple trimmed with gold, and a gilded laurel rested on his head. Most days Emperor Marcus was always frowning, always stern, like his face in the towering statue that rose above the Acropolis, but today he was relaxed, a thin smile on his lips. Valentina rode with him in his chariot, thankful that for once his memento mori—the hideous old man who had frightened her in the gardens—did not ride with them.
They rode through the city as people tossed flowers before them, as musicians and jugglers and puppeteers performed on every roadside. They watched other chariots—these ones small and swift—race as a crowd roared. Hand in hand, emperor and princess entered the Amphitheatrum, sat on cushions under a silken canopy, and watched the best dancers in the Empire perform dances of spring and hope. No blood spilled today—not in the races, not in the arena—for here was a day of renewal.
Let this day banish the fear from my breast, Valentina thought. Let it bring a spring into my own life.
Below in the arena, musicians were playing the Dawn of Spring while dancers held up fronds and laurels. Again Valentina thought back to that day in the garden, how the old man had crept toward her, had frightened her with his stories and riddles. Stories of switched birds and switched children. Stories of fathers who weren't fathers.
Valentina looked toward Emperor Marcus Octavius. He sat beside her in the amphitheater, watching the dance, his hard face—proud of nose, high of brow, thin of lips—at a rare moment of ease. No, she did not look like him. And it wasn't just that his skin was tanned and hers was ghostly white, that his hair was grizzled while hers was like poured milk. She did not have his strong frame, the hard lines, the prominent chin, the regality. Nor did she look like Porcia and Seneca, her brave older siblings who were fighting the Zoharites. Since that day in the gardens, Valentina herself had felt like her baby robin, cast out from her true nest, raised in a palace.
Where does the young cuckoo fly? she wondered. If I were switched too, where does the true Valentina—the true third child of Octavius—now dwell?
"You do not watch the show?" Marcus asked her, a thin smile on his face.
Of course he's my father, Valentina thought, gazing at the emperor. I see the love in his eyes. The man who raised me alone after my mother died. A kind, proud father who protects me from the evils of the world.
That night, they held a banquet in the Temple of Dia, the goddess of spring. The lords and ladies of Aelar reclined on cushions, reaching toward low tables for the feast. All the fruits of Aelar filled silver vessels, while wine from across the Empire flowed from earthen jugs. Flautists and lyrists performed as the cooks labored in the kitchens, preparing the main courses. Slave girls danced, bare breasted, jangling timbrels. Valentina's belly soured to see that Mingo, the memento mori, had come to this feast, that he lounged on a cushion at her father's side. His bare back, the skin wrinkled and the spine prominent, was not the worst of him; Valentina could forgive the flaws of body, for she herself was flawed. It was his eyes, the way they sometimes glanced toward her, and his words that still echoed in her mind that disturbed her.
Trumpets blared and slaves entered the chamber, bringing the main courses: roasted peacocks with their tail feathers reattached; raw oysters on beds of ice from the mountains; boiled shellfish and lobsters dripping with butter; and whole sows on beds of carrots, apples in their mouths. The lords and ladies applauded with each dish brought forth, but none yet ate.
When the last platter was placed on the low tables, Emperor Marcus raised his goblet of wine.
<
br /> "Now feast, Mingo!" he said. "Enjoy the meal of an emperor!"
The bearded old man rose to his feet, chains jangling, and gave a little bow. At feasts, the emperor let his memento mori drink wine, and Mingo raised his own goblet, nearly empty. "Gladly, dominus, the great and exulted Marcus Octavius who bears my likeness!"
The fool grabbed two sprigs of rosemary from the table and placed them behind his ears, a mockery of the laurels Marcus wore, then swung a knife like a sword. The crowd of diners roared with laughter, and some pelted the old man with grapes, but Valentina did not miss the knowing, sober glance Mingo gave her.
The old slave danced between the tables, tasting from every dish—a slurp of soup, a nibble of peacock, a crunch of roasted nuts. Bowl by bowl, platter by platter, Mingo tasted the meals. With his loincloth, white hair, and wretched appearance, he served to remind Marcus of his mortality. Should a poisoner ever make his way into the kitchens, Mingo would remind the emperor of that mortality with a mortal bite.
"Delicious, nutritious!" Mingo smacked his lips. "The spiced oranges are particularly fine this time of year." He nibbled on a stewed pear. "Divine! A festival for the palate. It's funny, is it not?"
"What is?" asked Marcus, laughing with the others. The emperor was infamous for his near-permanent scowl. It was only his memento mori, this mockery of his own imperial self, that could make him laugh.
Mingo patted his belly. "That the feast of emperors and the slop of slaves both end up the same way—food for flies."
A few of the lords and ladies wrinkled their noses, but Marcus only roared with laughter. "Forgive my slave! Forgive him. His crudeness reminds us all of things we'd rather forget. Sit down, good man! The food is safe to eat."
"The flies will be the judges of that," said Mingo. "They feed upon what we expel—both our food and our flesh, when we end our meals and when we end our lives."
Chains jingling around his ankles, the mememto mori lay back down upon the cushions beside Valentina. She cringed, shifting away from him, directing her attention toward a young man who reclined at her other side—a suitor who had been wooing her for months now, seeking her surname more than her love, no doubt. As the young prefect regaled her with tales of his prowess—he had fought for a year in Leer, finally scaling the walls of their city to ransack and loot—Valentina pretended to listen, faking her smiles. But all the while, she thought of her bird at home, a robin in a palace, stolen from his nest.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 11