"Sing us a song!" cried Mariana, standing in the crowd.
"A song, a song!" said Calina, another lupa, a Nurian woman with braided hair and large dark eyes.
As the eyes of the patrons turned toward her, Ofeer suddenly felt shy. She wore a beautiful new stola woven of fine linen, a gift from Lena Florine, but she felt naked. Her mind returned to that day in the slave market outside the Acropolis, how the slave mongers had stripped her and Koren naked, brushed their skin, and sent them onto the stage for the crowd to bid on. She lowered her eyes.
"A song!" cried a man from the crowd.
Ofeer swallowed, not wanting to be here. This wasn't like the taverns of Gefen, when she had been just a lost girl, seeking escape in the bottom of her cups and the beds of sailors. Here she felt exposed. And besides, she knew no songs of Aelar, this great empire, aside from a few children's tunes Master Malaci had taught her during her Aelarian lessons. All the songs she knew were songs from back home, from Zohar.
In the crowd, Mariana nodded at her, a frown on her face.
Sing, the lupa mouthed. You must.
Ofeer nodded and closed her eyes. She played her lyre, and she sang.
She sang in Zoharite. She did not sing a lewd song of sailors. She did not sing the loud, coarse songs of her youth. She sang old songs of the desert, songs her mother used to sing her. Sad songs. Songs of sand, of sea, of ancient stones. A song of sunset over fields of wheat, of maidens dancing upon grapes, of young men who came to choose brides among them. Songs of an old nation that had known nothing but war, nothing but slavery, destruction, bloodshed, yet it was a song of turtledoves and hinds, of sweet spices, of vineyards and figs, of young lovers.
Who is that, rising from the desert?
She is my beloved, my sweet daughter of Beth Eloh.
Whose fingers are soft as myrrh,
Whose hair is scented of frankincense.
Let us rejoice in our love, beloved!
Our love is sweeter than wine.
Our kisses are sweeter than harvest's fruit.
My love, fairest among men!
Thine eyes are as the eyes of the hart
Who walketh among the lilies.
Thy hair is as sheaves of wheat
That hang golden in the sun.
My beloved, fairest among women!
Thy breasts are as hills of spices,
Like clusters of grapes in the vineyard.
Thy lips are as an open pomegranate,
Ripe and full of secrets.
It is springtime, my love, the rain has gone.
The lilies have opened upon the earth.
The almond sends forth her blossoms,
And the desert roses bloom.
Let us rejoice in our love, beloved!
Let us be lovesick, my love!
As she sang, the chamber fell silent around her, and Ofeer no longer stood in the Lunapar, no longer in this empire so far from home. She was back in Zohar, wandering the hills with Maya, her cotton dress swaying as she danced between the pines. She was in Beth Eloh, the holy city, walking over ancient cobblestones and under crumbling archways. She was Ofeer of the east, from a land of lume, a land of beauty. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, a wind from the desert.
Come, daughter of Zohar,
Tether thy flock.
Let us go into the desert,
Walk upon the hot stones.
A string of rubies I shall give thee
To place upon thy sun-browned throat.
Scarves of silk I shall make thee
To replace thy cotton robes.
Links of gold I shall shape thee
To place around thy sandy ankles.
A gift of love I shall grant thee
To light thy starless nights.
Come, daughter of Zohar,
Tether thy flock.
Let us go into the desert,
Walk upon the hot stones.
Her voice died, and Ofeer lowered her head. Across the hall, they gazed at her, many with tears in their eyes. Ofeer did not like this, and now she felt more naked than ever before.
This isn't who I am, she thought. I'm Aelarian. I'm the daughter of an emperor. I . . . I wear a stola, and I used to wear an eagle pendant, and . . . those songs are not who I am.
And yet that was a part of her, a part Ofeer had always denied, always hated . . . yet had always known was there. Through her veins flowed the blood of an emperor, but also the blood of desert tribes, and though she was now far across the sea, perhaps the desert would never leave her.
Slowly the crowd returned to drinking, laughing, and conversing. As Ofeer began to step off the stage, a new patron near the doorway caught her eye . . . and she froze.
Her heart burst into a gallop. Her head spun.
He must have entered while she had sung with closed eyes. And now he stared at her—stared from across the hall, eyes intense, and Ofeer almost fainted, wanted to run, to fight, to scream.
No. Oh God, no, please, no.
She looked away hurriedly, then glanced back, just to make sure it was him. It was. It had to be.
He was a burly lord in his fifties, tall and wide. His head was large, squat, and bald, the nose bulbous, the forehead wide, the jaw strong. He wore a fine toga, plain white but hemmed with costly ultramarine. Ofeer had seen him several times in the villa on Pine Hill, had seen him riding through the streets of Gefen even more often.
Praetor Tirus Valerius, the ambassador to Zohar. Claudia's father.
Ofeer had never much stomached the Valerius patriarch. Whenever Tirus had come to the villa to dine with Jerael, Ofeer had headed to the taverns at the port, places a fine lord such as Tirus would never set foot in—though it seemed he was not above visiting brothels. As for Claudia Valerius, his daughter . . . that was a different story. Ofeer had spent many hours with Claudia, walking with her along the beach, speaking with her of Aelar, even visiting her home in the city. On many of those visits, Tirus had been there, grunting over some scroll from across the sea and complaining to his wife about the whims of Emperor Marcus. The bald praetor had never paid Ofeer much mind back in Zohar, aside from the occasional glance at her breasts, an act he had never tried particularly hard to hide. Would Tirus remember Ofeer now? Did he recognize her?
She walked toward the kitchen, refusing to look back, but she felt his eyes bore into her back. She stepped around the lounging patrons and laughing lupae, and she had almost made it to the kitchen door when a hand clutched her shoulder. A heavy hand. The fingers wide as sausages, the nails bitten down to stubs.
Ofeer gulped and turned around, though she kept her gaze lowered.
"Dominus?" she whispered, daring not meet his eyes.
Please, she prayed silently. Please don't recognize me. Please.
"I quite enjoyed your song," Tirus said, speaking flawless Zoharite with just the faintest trace of an accent. "How long have you been in Aelar, child?"
Ofeer still dared not raise her eyes, still dared not look at that squat face. "Many years, my lord." She answered in Zoharite, voice barely a whisper. "I don't remember much from home, only old songs. My name is Odelia. They call me the Desert Rose."
He placed a finger under her chin and raised her head, forcing her to gaze at him. His nose was deeply veined, his lumpy head completely hairless, and his eyes scrutinized her. "You're a daughter of Gefen. You don't speak with the accent of Beth Eloh. I lived in Zohar for many years, and I'm an expert on accents." His eyes narrowed. "Who's your father?"
He doesn't know, Ofeer realized, relief flowing through her. He doesn't recognize me. He spent too many years staring at my tits instead of my eyes.
"I never knew him," she said, speaking truth, in a sense. "He was a shepherd from Erez, my mother a milkmaid in Gefen, but they died when I was young. I caught ship to Aelar with a merchant. My songs are all I remember."
He stroked her hair, tucking strands behind her ear. "You're a pretty thing. I keep a room upstairs. No other patron
may use it. Come with me, and sing me your songs, and we'll reminisce of the east."
Ofeer turned away. "Pardon me, dominus. I'm only the wine girl." She looked around her for air. "Calina here will be glad to service you, and—"
"I don't want Calina." He cupped her cheek and turned her face back toward him. "And I don't need anyone to service me. I desire pleasant company is all. A song. A little reminder of the desert. Come with me to my chamber."
He took her hand in his—gently but firmly. Ofeer looked toward Mariana for aid. The brown-eyed lupa sat on the lap of another patron. She gave Ofeer a helpless look.
"You should speak to Lena Florine, dominus," Ofeer said, staring down at her feet. "She will be happy to send you one of her girls, maybe two, and—"
Now he gripped her wrist—painfully. "Florine will do as I tell her." His voice was taut, threatening to rise to a shout. "Do you know who I am, girl?"
Ofeer raised her head, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze straight on. "Praetor Tirus Valerius, lord of the marble quarries, once ambassador to Zohar, and close personal friend to the Octavius family."
He smiled thinly, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Clever girl. And you would know then that I take what I want, be it the lives of Zoharite men or their women in my bed." He tugged her arm. "Come with me."
Ofeer tried to tug back, knocked over a glass lantern on a table, and it shattered on the floor. A woman shrieked. A few men laughed, and a boy ran forward to douse the flame under a blanket. Mariana rushed forward, smiling prettily, but there was anxiousness in her eyes. She doffed her toga, exposing her nakedness.
"Dominus!" she said to Tirus. "I would be glad to pleasure you, and—"
The praetor struck her, a blow with his massive fist. Mariana fell to the ground, crying out, blood on her lip. A few of the lupae screamed. Others stared at their toes and twisted their fingers. One legionary even rose to his feet, only for his comrades to pull him back down; the boy must have been a fool, or too drunk, to recognize one of the mightiest men in the Empire.
Tirus tugged Ofeer upstairs. At the top of the staircase, Lena Florine herself met them. The corpulent mistress of the Lunapar leaned on a cane, and two of her girls stood at her sides, steadying her. In all her time here in the Lunapar, Ofeer had never seen the lena rise from her divan. Her silks billowed across her ample frame, and her cheeks were flushed.
"Praetor Tirus!" she said, huffing for breath. "I've heard a ruckus. What seems to be the problem, dominus?"
The beefy, bald man smiled thinly. "No problem, my dear. I merely desired a forbidden fruit. I'm told that dear Odelia here only serves wine and sings. Perhaps she can . . . sing for me privately in my chamber?" He stroked Ofeer's cheek, his finger rough. "I will pay a fine price. As you know, I have access to the coffers of Empress Porcia herself."
Lena Florine paled. She glanced at Ofeer, then back at Valerius. "The girl is pregnant," the mistress said.
A strange light filled Tirus's eyes. A wolf's grin split his face. "Good."
Horror filled Florine's eyes, then—when she turned toward Ofeer—pity. Finally resignation. The mistress of the Lunapar lowered her head.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Ofeer as Tirus dragged her down the corridor.
Ofeer struggled, but she might as well have fought a bear. Tirus was among the largest men she'd ever seen—shorter than Jerael had been but wider, all bulky muscles over heavy bones, his head like a boulder, his fists like vises. He yanked a door open and led her into a bedchamber. A typical brothel room awaited them. A bed. A ewer of water. Clay bowls full of aromatic oils. The curtains were drawn back, revealing a view of the Acropolis in the distance, the Amphitheatrum cresting the hill like a crown.
"Shall I sing for you, my lord?" Ofeer said. "I can dance too, and I play both the lyre and flute, and . . ."
Her voice died as he pulled open his toga. His manhood hardened, large and thick like the rest of him. He pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel before him.
"You will do as a hundred other girls of Gefen have done." He grabbed her hair. "You are no singer or dancer, Ofeer Sela. Yes, I recognize you. I know your name. I've wanted this for a long time. You're far from your home now. You're just a whore here in Aelar, and you will do your job."
Ofeer's heart pounded against her ribs. She grimaced, looked away, and reached into her stola.
"What—" Tirus began when Ofeer whipped out her saw.
She had used this saw to cut off her collar. Now she cut something else.
Tirus screamed.
As his blood gushed, as he stumbled back, Ofeer released the saw and leaped away. She ran across the room, knocking over a chair. He howled behind her. In the mirror she saw him tug the saw free.
So much for Aelarians not being circumcised, she thought, crazed laughter bursting from her. She leaped onto the bed, climbed onto the windowsill, and jumped down into the night.
She fell from the second story, landing on sacks of dirty laundry in a back alley. She bounded up and raced into the night. Behind her still rose the screams.
"Catch her!" rose a howl behind. "Legionaries, find the Zoharite! I want her dead! I want the whore dead!"
Ofeer ran through the night, leaving behind her weapon, her money, her brief respite from pain. She vanished into the shadows, knowing she could never return, knowing that once more, as perhaps she had always been, she was lost.
KOREN
They galloped through the night, the cloaked riders thundering in pursuit.
"God damn it," Koren muttered as he rode his horse. "I was finally living in a mansion, making love to a beautiful woman for a living, and you just had to buy me, didn't you, Valentina?"
The princess of Aelar rode her own mare at his side. "Shush and ride!"
They galloped onward across the dark countryside. The grass rose tall here, and a line of cypress trees rose in the distance, bordering forested hills. The moon was full and too bright. Their horses could probably be seen for parsa'ot—or leagues, as the Aelarians measured things.
Koren looked over his shoulder and saw them there. Ten riders or more. The moonlight shone on their armor and helmets.
The Magisterian Guard, Koren knew, belly curdling. Porcia's goons.
He looked at Valentina, who galloped at his side. The wind had blown back her hood, and her white hair streamed in the wind. The moonlight shone on her face. She was pale as moonlight herself, no color to her eyes or even eyebrows and lashes, only a hint of pink to her lips. Those lips were tightened, her eyes narrowed, and her hands clutched the reins. She looked as innocent and sweet as Maya, yet the wrath of the Empire hunted her.
And now it hunts me too, Koren thought, cursing.
This was not his conflict. If Empress Porcia wanted to kill members of House Octavius, seeing them as rivals to the throne—so be it! More power to her. Koren had been happy enough at Claudia's villa. He had bathed every evening, eaten fine fare, drank wine, and twice a day—oh God above—serviced Claudia in her bed. Sure, she had threatened to drag him to Zohar and torture him in an attempt to draw Epher out from hiding. But even that would have meant a nice journey home, a reunion with his brother, and surely no more pain than what he had suffered in the quarry.
And now this. Being a refugee. Galloping through the dark wilderness, fleeing Porcia's assassins. All because of an Aelarian civil war unrelated to him.
I was happier being Claudia's slave than Valentina's. Koren sighed and kept galloping.
But the soldiers kept gaining on them. Their voices rang across the night.
"Halt, Valentina Octavius!"
"In the name of the empress, surrender yourself and you will live!"
Koren debated halting his own horse. Maybe if he asked nicely enough, they would bring him back to Claudia. No more nights sleeping on the hard, rocky ground. No more fleeing death in the wilderness north of Aelar. He would be back to the wine, the shade, and Claudia's naked body against him, and—
"Hal
t, in the name of Empress Porcia!" the soldiers cried, and arrows flew across the night.
Koren cringed and leaned down in the saddle. An arrow whizzed over his head. No, there would be no use surrendering to these men. Not now. Not after fleeing them here. They would drag him back to Porcia, and that insane she-devil from Ashael would skin him alive.
The horses rode onward. More arrows flew. One slammed into Valentina's mare, and the beast whinnied but kept galloping. The fields rose and fell. The cover of the forest seemed impossibly far.
An arrow grazed Koren's arm, slicing through skin. He hissed. He dug his heels into the horse.
Please, Eloh, he thought. I'm normally not a religious man. But if you save me, I swear that I'll never more wiggle worms in front of Ofeer—if I ever find the girl again, that is—and I'll go to temple every morning—assuming I ever find a temple again—and always bless my wine—assuming I ever drink wine again—and . . . Let's just say, save me and I'll owe you one.
Perhaps his prayers worked. Another arrow scraped his arm—the damn legionaries shot the exact same spot—and they reached the trees. The horses galloped through the forest. The canopy hid the moon, and the shadows were so dark Koren kept expecting the horses to slam into the boles, but the animals kept navigating deftly between them.
So did the pursuers' horses. The soldiers' torches blazed between the trees, and their voices rang out. It was too dark here, too cold. Bad place to die. Koren had always imagined himself dying in bed, an old man, a lovely naked lass in his arms, his belly full of wine, and piles of gold around him for his great-grandchildren to squabble over. Ideally Epher would be there too, weeping for all those times he had scolded Koren and called him a ne'er-do-well. No, dying here in the Aelarian forest simply wouldn't do.
Koren looked at Valentina.
"Trust me!" he said.
She tilted her head, galloping beside him. "What—?"
"Trust me!" He reached out and grabbed her hand. "Fall and roll!"
They were galloping around a hill thick with oaks when Koren leaped from his saddle, yanked on Valentina's hand, and pulled her down with him.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 22