Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  Somehow at that moment, she knew he was a boy. Felt it. Perhaps she too, like Maya, had a touch of the magic, a hint of the Sight.

  She looked down at her clothes. When she had first landed in Aelar, Seneca had clad her in fineries—a silken stola dyed mustard and azure, embroidered with gold. Today she wore the garb of the slave she had become, a rough cotton tunic that hung down to her knees, tied with a simple belt. She tore into the fabric halfway down her thighs. She had always been proud of her long fingernails, even if Atalia had scorned them, but Ofeer had always imagined them to be the talons of eagles. Now she worked at her tunic, ripping, tugging, tearing a wide strip of cloth, leaving her tunic with a shorter, tattered hem. She lifted the circle of cloth, as wide as her palm, and wrapped it around her neck, forming a crude scarf. It was a poor excuse for a scarf, to be sure, and perhaps looked suspicious, but it hid her collar, hid the tag Seneca had engraved. Until she found a proper shawl or a way to break the iron collar, it would serve.

  She left the crypt, her tunic shorter, her neck concealed. The city bustled around her, countless citizens, legionaries, and slaves walking back and forth. Horses neighed. Chariots trundled along the cobblestones. Children ran underfoot. Ofeer thought back to the streets of Gefen and Beth Eloh, narrow roads clogged with donkeys and camels. She saw no donkeys and camels here; Aelarians used horses and chariots, both rare in Zohar, owned only by the nobility. But the overflowing gutters, the crowded passageways, the throngs of people, all those were familiar to her—and even noisier here, more congested. Ofeer had always thought Beth Eloh massive, a city where a hundred thousand people lived together, a number so large Ofeer could barely imagine it. But Aelar was ten times the size, its buildings taller, its song deafening—a chorus of wagon wheels, clattering chariots, vendors hawking their wares, and endless hooves and footsteps on rough stones. A sea of humanity surrounded her, yet Ofeer had never felt more alone.

  She patted her belly. The first order of business would be finding food. She had not eaten since . . . By the gods, not since Emperor Marcus had still reigned.

  She walked through the city, not knowing where she went. She traveled down alleyways under hanging linens, and stray cats hissed. She ambled along boulevards, shying away from legionaries that marched. Along one road, three carts trundled by, bustling with crows and flies. Dead legionaries rotted within, victims of the brief but devastating war between Porcia and the Senate. The bells of the city still clanged in mourning for the dead emperor, and keens rose from temples. Ofeer ignored it. Let Porcia and the Senate fight. The doings in the Acropolis were no longer Ofeer's concern. She no longer cared for her Aelarian family. Marcus had made it clear that she was a bastard, unwanted. So let him rot in a cart. Ofeer's son was her only family now, and he needed food.

  Finally Ofeer found her way to a marketplace, a bustling boulevard lined with stone archways. Each archway led to a nook, roughly the size of her old bedchamber back in Gefen, where sat a merchant selling wares. Thousands of people clogged the main avenue, stepping in and out of the archways like bees in a honeycomb. The smells of spices, roasting meat, baking bread, and fresh fruit wafted. Ofeer's mouth watered. Right now it was food that mattered more than gold, silk, or a throne.

  All people, Ofeer thought, even the daughter of an emperor—we are reduced to nothing but rabid, mindless beasts when hunger strikes. Perhaps that was all that humans were—ravenous beasts in a forest, and all their vestments and jewels were but disguises, hiding the lurking animals within.

  She walked along the boulevard, moving through the throng. She had no money, not even a copper coin, and nothing to barter. Seneca had taken everything from her—her jewels, her coins, her former life. She walked past stall by stall, her mouth watering. Inside one stall, a merchant hawked fresh fish, oysters, and squid, the smell overwhelming, a smell Ofeer would normally find repulsive but which today she found delicious. In another stall, a stout woman was hacking the heads off live chickens, selling the birds to affluent shoppers in fine togas. Poorer folk lined up at stalls selling beans and dried fruit. Ofeer kept walking. She could not afford a meal, but she kept scanning the ground, hoping to find a fallen apple or runaway crab. The crowd jostled around her, wealthy patrons and filthy poor alike, and the stench of sweat filled her nostrils.

  "Five hundred denarii!" rose a booming voice. "Five hundred denarii for a girl!"

  Ofeer raised her head. Several score of men and women, free citizens in togas and stolas, crowded by one of the stalls. Ofeer could not see much over their shoulders, just the keystone of an archway, and beyond a sunlit nook.

  "Five hundred and fifty!" bellowed a voice, and a hand rose from the crowd.

  "Let me see her teeth," boomed another voice, and a corpulent man trundled through the crowd. "I'll pay six hundred, but she's got to have her teeth."

  Ofeer hurried forward, occupying the spot where the large man had stood. She stared ahead at the stall, and the blood drained from her face. Her hands curled into fists, and her pulse quickened.

  This stall sold no meat nor produce but human flesh. It was not a large slave market, not like the one where Seneca had purchased her, but a slave market nonetheless. Twenty slaves huddled at the back of the alcove, naked and chained. Some had their feet whitened with chalk. Ofeer knew what that meant—new arrivals from the provinces. On a stage stood a young girl, barely even a youth, her feet white with powder. Her eyes were downcast, and she trembled.

  She's Zoharite, Ofeer knew. There was no mistaking the olive skin, the long black hair, the shape of her features. The girl looked so much like Maya that for an instant Ofeer was sure that it was her little sister on the stage.

  "Gods damn it, help me climb!" boomed the corpulent man, struggling to rise onto the stage. The slave merchant, a garish man with painted eyelids and many golden chains, helped the burly shopper onto the stage. The man huffed, cheeks red, and thrust his fingers into the girl's mouth. He leaned down, squinted, and snorted in approval.

  "Six hundred!" he boomed, and a gavel fell, and the deal was struck.

  Ofeer tried to make eye contact with the girl. She wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but that would have been a lie. As the men dragged the child away, Ofeer walked onward, head lowered, teeth clenched.

  Look after her, Eloh, she prayed silently. Give her strength.

  Yet as Ofeer walked onward, she scoffed. Eloh? An invisible, intangible god who supposedly had chosen the Zoharites from among all the nations of the world? Foolishness. How could such a god exist? The Book of Eloh taught that God was omnibenevolent, omniscient, omnipowerful. If that were true, why did Eloh allow this? How could a kind god allow his chosen people to be slaughtered, for the survivors—mere children—to be sold into slavery? Ofeer knew what would happen to that child. She knew enough of slavery, about the nature of men. No benevolent god would allow such horror. Ofeer's fists trembled, and her breath rattled in her lungs. No. God did not exist, and if he did, then he was cruel. Then she hated him. Then she spat on him.

  I was punished, Ofeer thought. But I am wicked, and I lay with men, and I drank, and I gambled, and I sinned. But that child is innocent. I will not believe in a god who allows the suffering of children.

  She dried her eyes with her fists and walked onward through the marketplace, leaving the slave stall behind. She passed by several more vendors: a young man hawking apples, grapes, and plums, juggling the fruit as he announced their prices; a wrinkled old woman who sold a hundred kinds of seasonings from a hundred tin trays; a father and son who cried out to the crowd, selling green peas, chickpeas, beans, and legumes of every kind. One merchant even sold live animals—serpents that slithered in baskets, leashed monkeys who wore sequined vests and turbans, and parrots that could curse and sing old tunes. When one shopper banged his fist against a wooden counter, scattering several dried beans, Ofeer knelt and quickly pocketed the morsels, wondering how she'd find a way to cook them.

  "Free grain, free grain!" ros
e a cry ahead, echoing down the boulevard of stalls. "Free sacks of emmer, a gift from the glorious Empress Porcia Octavius!"

  Eyes widened in the crowd. Many shoppers abandoned the stalls—drawing grumbles from the merchants—and began flowing down the boulevard toward the voice.

  "Free grain! Free sacks of emmer! May the gods bless Porcia Octavius!"

  Ofeer was caught in the flow. Her stomach growled. Free grain!

  "With some grain and three fallen beans, we'll have a feast," Ofeer said to her child. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she knew that she had once feasted upon the finest fare in Zohar, the daughter of nobility. But that seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago, something that had happened to a different woman. Her life had begun anew. She would find her own feasts, build her own life, not built upon noble blood but her own resourcefulness.

  "Free grain! Gift from Porcia Octavius, new empress of Aelar!"

  She made her way forward with the crowd. A man elbowed her. A woman knocked into her. Ofeer gritted her teeth and plowed onward, refusing to fall, refusing to leave the throng. People crowded around a stall ahead, and while Ofeer couldn't see beyond the people before her, she could hear grain spilling, see the doves staring from the rafters, as desperate for a meal as she was. One by one, the people before her left the stall, each carrying a sack. The grain rustled within the burlap, a sound sweeter than gold in a purse. The line was long, so crowded that people pressed up against Ofeer, and she remembered her time in the slave market, crammed into a hall with countless other slaves.

  Finally she reached the stall. Under a stone archway and behind a wooden counter stood a man, his nose beaked and his head bald. Sacks of grain were piled up behind him, filling a chamber the size of a house, enough to feed an army. Two soldiers stood here too, their helmets sprouting red crests, their shields emblazoned with laureled eagles—men of the Magisterian Guard, defenders of the city.

  Ofeer reached across the counter. "Free grain, please."

  "Citizens only," said the bald man and looked over her shoulder. "Free grain, free sack of emmer! Gift of Porcia Octavius!"

  A woman approached, her stola woven of plain linen, and reached across the counter. The bald man handed her a sack of emmer, the common grain of the Empire.

  "Blessed be Porcia," said the woman and left, sack of grain in hand.

  Ofeer reached across the counter again. Her stomach rumbled. "I want some grain." She softened her voice. "Please."

  The bald man handed a sack to another man, then glanced at Ofeer and grunted. "Free grain is only for citizens. What are you?" He narrowed his eyes. "Phedian? Zoharite? Some refugee scum."

  "I'm Aelarian," Ofeer said. The sister of your empress, she almost added, knowing that would earn nothing but laughter.

  The bald man frowned. He leaned across the counter and reached toward her. "What's that around your neck? A scarf?" He made to grab it, and his voice rose louder. "What are you hiding there? Is that a slave collar?"

  At his sides, the Magisterians gripped their swords. Ofeer took a step back, hitting somebody behind her, narrowly dodging the grain merchant's fingers.

  "Don't touch me! I . . . I'll get my free grain elsewhere." She glared at the bald man. "And I'm going to report you."

  The man turned toward his guards. "See what's under her scarf. There's been talk of slaves who escaped the palace in the chaos."

  The soldiers nodded and stepped toward Ofeer. She tightened her scarf around her neck and turned to flee. Armor clanked behind her.

  "Girl!" shouted one of the soldiers.

  Ofeer moved faster, worming her way through the crowd, and glanced over her shoulder. The guards were shoving their way through the throng, and when one drew his gladius, the people crowding the marketplace parted. A chill washed over Ofeer. If they saw the tag around her neck, if they brought her to Porcia . . . She ran faster, but the crowd shoved against her. One man grabbed her arm, sneering, his teeth yellow and his face veined.

  "Where you running, rat?" the man said.

  Ofeer tried to wrench herself free, and the soldiers advanced, and she hissed, ready to scratch, to bite, to fight for her child. She was a lioness. She was a lioness of the desert, and she would not let them take her, she would not be a slave again, she—

  Horns blared.

  The yellow-toothed man hissed and released her.

  The horns sounded again, filling the marketplace, rolling down the boulevard. Hooves thumped. Bells clanged. Many suits of armor chinked, and a priest chanted prayers. The guards who had chased Porcia stepped aside at once, pressed their backs to a stall, and stood at attention. Across the market, the crowd parted, clearing the boulevard. They knelt in a great wave, from wealthy men with bulging bellies to urchins in rags.

  Ofeer stepped back and knelt too, vanishing into the crowd again, crouching between a man with a sweat-stained toga and a girl with short blond hair, a slave collar around her own neck. The din continued: keening horns, thumping hooves, clanging bells. Ofeer turned her head toward the sounds, and her heart seemed to shatter.

  A procession was making its way down the boulevard, a great serpent of sound, color, and light. At first Ofeer thought this was another triumphal march, like the one she had suffered when coming here from Zohar, chained among the trophies of the east. But no—this was not march of glory but of grief.

  Twenty women headed the procession, their clothes torn, their faces bleeding. They wailed in grief, their bare feet slogging through the filth, and tears drew lines through the blood on their cheeks. As Ofeer watched from the crowd, aghast, the women tore at their faces, at their arms, at their chests, drawing more blood, ripping their clothes, their skin, crying out in mourning. They tugged at their hair, pulling out strands, and their scalps bled.

  "He is fallen!" a woman cried.

  "Marcus is fallen! Our father is fallen!" cried another.

  Ofeer winced, the coppery smell of blood hot in her nostrils. She had heard of such women—the sorores luctia—professional mourners who earned gold for sharing their grief with the crowd. At their homes tonight, they would bandage their wounds, store their coin, and prepare for their next funeral.

  Behind the hired mourners walked musicians, clad in togas, playing horns and harps, songs of grief. A hundred musicians or more marched here, and burly drummers brought up the rear, their drums moving on wheels, large enough that grown men could have fit inside. Behind them rode generals in splendor, their breastplates filigreed, their helmets sprouting red crests, and jeweled fibulae clasped their cloaks. Their horses too donned rich fabrics of crimson and gold, and behind them marched men of the Magisterian Guard in ceremonial armor, masterworks of iron, precious metals, and gems. They held ten Aquila standards—golden eagles atop wooden staffs, holy idols to the Aelarians, worshiped by soldiers and emperors alike.

  And behind the horses, there he lay.

  My father.

  Ofeer's breath trembled, and she stared with burning eyes. Emperor Marcus Octavius lay upon a bier borne by soldiers. He wore his full armor—a gilded breastplate, filigreed greaves and vambraces, and a crested helmet. Ofeer had heard the stories that Marcus had slipped by the poolside, shattering his head. Others claimed that he'd been murdered, that Septimus Cassius, also known as Mingo the fool, had shattered the emperor's skull. Upon the bier, however, Marcus looked as mighty as ever—his face hard, the nose hooked, the lips thin, frowning even in death. His hands still clutched his gladius, a sword that had slain so many.

  As Ofeer stared at her father's corpse being carried by, she felt just one emotion: hatred.

  You raped my mother, she thought. You doomed me to a life of pain in Zohar. When I returned to you, you cast me aside. She gritted her teeth. May you burn in Ashael.

  All her life, Ofeer had dreamed of meeting her true father, had imagined a noble prince, perhaps a wealthy merchant, a man who would take her into his home, show her the wonders of the Empire. Instead, Ofeer now knelt in the dust, gazing at a man she hated mor
e than she had ever hated Jerael Sela.

  She lowered her head, remembering Jerael, her stepfather. How the tall, bearded man would laugh with her, carry her through the gardens, read her stories, later teach her to read by herself. And she remembered Jerael bloody, whipped, dying, remembered Seneca swinging the hammer, nailing Jerael to the cross. Remembered how Jerael had spent three days dying. Remembered how a drunk Seneca had shoved Ofeer onto the bed—Jerael's own bed—had fucked her for those three days, over and over again, as Jerael had moaned outside the window.

  Ofeer placed her hand on her belly, imagining the child Seneca had placed there, and sudden terror filled her that the boy inside her would become like Seneca, like Marcus, a killer, a heartless monster.

  No, Ofeer swore silently. I will not allow it. I will raise you to be kind, son. I will raise you to be like Jerael and Shiloh. Never like your true father. Her eyes dampened. Because you are like me, born to a cruel father, but you will not be like him.

  The bier passed by her, and the dead emperor disappeared from view. Yet behind him, closing the procession, walked several splendid horses, their manes braided, and upon them . . .

  Ofeer's heart seemed to shatter in her chest. Ice flowed through her, and her breath died.

  Upon two mares, guards around them, rode Empress Porcia and Princess Valentina.

  The new empress wore black armor, and a tight smile stretched across her face. Fiery mirth filled her eyes, the eyes of a wolf before it devoured its prey. Her younger sister, the princess Valentina, wore a plain white stola, the color of mourning. With her pale skin, snowy hair, and colorless eyes, she seemed like a marble statue. As she rode by, Valentina looked at the crowd . . . and met Ofeer's gaze.

  Ofeer cursed inwardly and looked away at once. Her heart burst into a gallop.

  Please don't recognize me. She tightened her jaw. Please. Please. And if you do, please be silent, Valentina. Please.