"For Zohar, attack!" rose a shout.
Epher spun around to see Kahan charging forth, sword in hand.
"Slay the heathens!" Kahan shouted. "Cut them down! For Eloh!"
Around Kahan, several of his men and women roared too, brandished their weapons, and charged.
"No!" Epher howled. "No! Kahan, no!"
He tried to run forward, to stop them. As Epher raced, he spun toward Remus and his mother.
The prefect stared into his eyes. There was amusement there. There was mockery. A smile on his lips, Remus swiped his sword across Shiloh's neck.
Blood gushed out from the wound.
Shiloh crumbled and fell.
Epher kept running. His world shattered. Fire and ice filled him.
"Mother!"
The battle exploded, rebels and legionaries cutting one another down, but Epher saw nobody but his mother on the ground, his mother rocking him, reading to him, soothing him on dark nights when he was afraid. Mother laughing with him in the gardens under the pomegranate tree. Mother crying when Mica had died. Mother standing in the sunset, gazing upon her family, smiling.
Epher reached her. He knelt above her. He pulled her into his arms.
"Mother," he whispered.
Her neck gaped open, and her lifeblood still fled. Her eyes were open, gazing up at the sky, dark eyes, finally at peace. Her braid hung down to the flagstones.
You're at peace now, Mother, Epher thought, eyes stinging, holding her like she had held him so often. Rest. Go now to Eloh's great halls of light, and dwell in his grace. I love you.
"Pity." Remus stared down at the body and shook his head. "Such a fair woman. And still young too, only forty." He sighed. "We'll have her corpse preserved and shipped back to Aelar, of course, and presented to Porcia. I believe that Shiloh's pretty head would look quite nice on the gateway to the empress's palace."
Epher raised his head and saw Remus standing above him, amusement in his eyes.
"Epher!" rose a voice from behind—Olive's voice. Epher turned his head toward her.
Olive shoved a dagger across the flagstones. It clattered toward him over the stones.
Remus hissed and raised his sword.
Epher grabbed the dagger, swerved, and thrust upward with a roar.
The prefect's sword slashed downward, slicing Epher's skin. Epher's dagger flashed upward, drove through Remus's armpit, and dug up to the shoulder.
Still kneeling, Epher twisted the dagger and pushed himself to his feet. Remus gasped. He tried to swing his sword again but could not. Epher shoved his dagger deeper, and Remus's sword fell and clanged against the cobblestones.
Remus towered over him, still standing, still alive. The prefect swung his good arm, driving his fist into Epher's jaw. White pain blazed. A tooth rattled. Epher nearly fell, forced himself to stay standing, and pulled his dagger free from Remus's flesh. The general swung his fist again, slammed it into Epher, hitting the same spot.
Epher could no longer see. He tasted blood. He felt a tooth swim in his mouth. He was blind. In darkness, he roared and shoved his dagger forward.
For my mother. For Zohar.
The pomegranate tree swayed.
His family laughed in their dining hall, surrounded by candles and warmth.
Blood sprayed as Epher drove his dagger forward, and with a ragged breath, the shadows lifted and Epher saw his blade sinking into Remus's neck. He shoved it down to the hilt, twisted the blade, and released it.
Epher stumbled backward as Remus crashed to the ground, blood gushing, and lay still by Shiloh's body.
Blood and tears covered Epher's face. His jaw throbbed, shoved to the side, broken. He felt unconsciousness grabbing him, but he forced himself to remain standing. The battle raged again all around him. Olive fought, screaming, lashing a sword in each hand. Kahan and the other rebels were charging against the enemy.
With the loss of their leader, the legionaries were losing heart. Some turned to flee, only for the rebels to cut them down. Men of Beth Eloh stood on the walls surrounding the complex, hurling stones. More Zoharites came racing into the complex, armed with clubs and stones. Epher watched a beefy blacksmith throw a boulder, crushing a legionary's head. Two more men beat down a legionary with clubs, denting his armor, shattering his bones. The corpses still burned, and the statue still gazed down upon the slaughter, and the legionaries still fell. Swords thrust. Clubs swung. Men and women died every moment.
"Cut them all down!" Kahan cried. "Slay them all, send the dogs to Ashael!"
They rallied around him, hundreds of rebels, soon thousands, fighting with whatever weapons they could find, still flowing in from the city. The nation of Zohar flowed across the Temple, overwhelming the Aelarians, cutting them down until none remained. Hammers swung. Chains wrapped around the statue of Porcia. Dozens of men tugged, and the people raced aside as the statue tilted.
With a sound louder than any Epher had ever heard, the statue slammed down onto the courtyard and shattered. His ears rang. The people cheered around him. The corpses still burned, the bodies reduced to bones, a mountain of flame.
"The Temple is rededicated!" cried Kahan, blood on his arms. He stepped onto the statue's cracked head. "In the name of Eloh, Zohar will be free! To the palace! Follow, to the palace! We cleanse this land of the heathens."
The crowd roared, spinning around Epher. Only they no longer seemed like a proud nation but like a mob, enraged, bloodlust in their eyes. Kahan leaped off the statue and marched across the courtyard, heading toward the gateway, and the people followed.
"To the palace, to the palace! We cleanse this land!"
They left the Temple courtyard, heading across the Mount of Cedars. In the darkness, across the hill, it rose—the palace of Zohar. The place where Shefael still ruled as a puppet king. The place where Shiloh had grown up.
Epher knelt by his mother's body. She still lay on the flagstones, eyes open, gazing upon a sky full of smoke and raining fire.
Even the sky is burning, Epher thought. Perhaps we can never extinguish these flames.
Olive raced toward him and embraced him. "You're hurt!"
Epher's head swam, and he wanted to lie down, to sleep, to let the pain drag him into shadows. But he forced himself to walk, to leave his mother behind.
"Come with me, Olive," he managed to say, voice a wet, bubbling sound. White pain flared across his jaw, and he tasted blood. "We have to stop him. To stop Kahan."
She slung her arms around him, and they walked across the courtyard, over bodies, leaning against each other, moving through shadow and fire, through death and hope for light.
OFEER
She sat on the street corner, wrapped in cloak and hood and scarf, her hand held out.
"Please," Ofeer whispered as the people walked back and forth. "Please. A denarius. For my unborn child."
Nobody seemed to notice her. Thousands of Aelar's residents kept walking by: rough workers in simple woolen tunics, heading toward construction sites and workshops; wealthy men in woolen togas, clerks and shop owners and peddlers; women in stolas, some of the fabrics simple, others richly dyed, heading toward the markets or theaters; slaves, some only in cotton subligaculi over their loins, iron collars around their necks, running errands for their masters. Cats hissed and scurried in alleyways, and mice sneaked underfoot, dodging the hunters. Here in the dregs of Aelar along the northern walls sprawled a tapestry of life—from wealthy merchants sporting jewels to base slaves with whipped backs, captives of Aelar's endless wars.
And me, Ofeer thought, sitting on the cobblestones, her back to a wall. The bastard daughter of an emperor, now just a beggar.
"Please, dominus!" she said as an ample-bellied man lumbered by, dressed in a toga sporting dyed hems. The dye was blue, a costly color. "A denarius for my unborn child?"
The man's jowls jiggled as he looked at her, and a mix of pity and disgust filled his eyes. He tossed her a coin, missing her by several feet, and hurried onward, dr
agging with him a young girl. The child looked at Ofeer, then back toward the man.
"Is she a Zoharite, Father?" the girl asked, but the man only hushed her and pulled her into the crowd. They vanished from Ofeer's sight.
Ofeer rose to her feet. Her head swayed, and her knees felt too weak to support her weight. She had not eaten all day. She approached the coin the man had tossed her, but she was too slow. A disheveled child ran up, snatched the coin, flashed Ofeer a grin, and vanished into the crowd.
Ofeer considered chasing him, but when she took a step, her head spun. She was too hungry, too weak. With a sigh, she returned to her corner, kicked away a cat, and sat back down.
How long had she been sitting here? Ofeer no longer knew. It felt like days, maybe months. Only a few denarii jangled in her pocket, barely enough for a meal. Barely enough to feed the child in her womb.
Once you and I dwelled in a palace, Seneca, Ofeer thought. Look at us now.
Seneca no longer lived in the Acropolis, the great inner city that rose in the center of Aelar. In the bars and alleyways, everyone from wealthy tradesmen to whores spoke of how Seneca had fled Aelar, his tail between his legs, slipping between his sister's fingers. They said he was in Nur now, that he planned to marry Queen Imani, to raise the southern province against the Empire. They said that Porcia had sent a thousand ships after the prince, vowing to mount his head on a spike.
Seneca is like me now, Ofeer thought, reaching out her palm for more coins. Just an outcast. Just a beggar.
A woman tossed her a coin, and Ofeer pocketed it, then placed her hand on her belly.
Seneca—outcast prince. Ofeer's half brother. And the father of her unborn child.
Ofeer's eyes stung. She had been a fool. A fool! She had slept with Seneca within an hour of meeting him, a sweaty encounter in a cave outside her home on Pine Hill. Just the stupid mistake of a girl, one who hadn't known who Seneca was—hadn't known he was a monster, a murderer, her own half brother. She had been a child, just eighteen, bitter, rebellious. A fool. And now . . .
Tears filled Ofeer's eyes.
How had this happened? She had once lived in a villa, the daughter of Shiloh Sela, related to the royal family of Zohar. She had once sailed upon an Aelarian flagship, ridden in a chariot of gold. She had come here to Aelar seeking a city of wonder and magic and civilization. She found a cesspool of poverty, of hunger and thirst, and now a child of incest grew in her belly.
Ofeer hung her head low, trembling. She had heard the stories of incest's children—born deformed, beastly.
"If you're deformed, I'll love you still," she whispered, voice shaking, unable to curb her tears.
A passing man halted before her, shadowing the sun, and gazed at her in pity. He knelt and placed three whole denarii in her palm, then walked on.
Ofeer stood up again, leaning against the wall with exhaustion. The sun was setting, and she had not eaten or drunk all day. Her babe needed her to be strong. She had ten denarii in her pocket now—enough for a meal, a glass of milk, and a jug of water at a nearby tavern. It would not buy her a room for the night. She would spend this night like the ones before it, curled up in an alleyway. But she would sleep tonight with a full belly—in more ways than one.
She approached the tavern, a humble brick building topped with a dome. A mosaic above the doorway formed the words: The Hungry Hog. Ofeer doubted the wisdom of comparing one's customers to pigs, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and Ofeer was definitely a beggar these days. She stepped into the establishment, finding herself in a crowded room. Stone pillars supported a vaulted ceiling, and patrons reclined by low tables. At the back stretched a stone bar, large holes cut into it. Within each hole rested an iron dish, some of them warmed over braziers that crackled beneath the counter. A mosaic above the bar displayed the food items for sale and their prices.
Ofeer was ragged, clad in only a tattered cloak and hood, and she hadn't bathed in weeks. The cooks behind the counter narrowed their eyes, and Ofeer worried they would turn her away, but when she flashed her coins, they nodded. There were cheaper taverns in the city—places that sold gruel for a copper—but Ofeer needed fine foods. To keep herself strong. To keep her baby healthy. If that meant buying good food at the expense of shelter, so be it. She took a plate and walked between the iron dishes. She chose a sunfish fried with lemons and garlic, a few stalks of asparagus drizzled with olive oil, a couple oysters simmering in a rich red sauce, three dates, and an apple. To drink she chose a cup of water, eschewing the costlier wines. The meal drained her finances; tomorrow she would begin the day penniless, begging again.
She chose a table at the back, cloaked in shadows. Back home in Zohar, she had always sat on chairs by high tables, but in Aelar do as the Aelarians do, as the old saying went. Ofeer reclined on cushions by a low table, propped up on her left elbow. Outside the sun vanished, and only the oil lanterns now lit the tavern. Ofeer ate alone, wrapped in cloak and hood. The food was hearty but seemed tasteless. There was no more joy to food; she might as well have eaten ash. All she could think of was her home. Dinner at the scarred oak table in the villa. Mother would serve fresh braided bread, crunchy fried tilapia, figs and pears stewed in wine, and honey cakes for dessert. Koren would toss food at his siblings, and Atalia would roar and try to leap over the table toward him. Maya would cower, and Epher, normally so stern, would laugh. Father would embrace them all. Not her blood father, the cruel emperor, but the father who had raised her. The noble, wise Jerael Sela—a man with impossibly black and thick eyebrows that shadowed the kindest eyes Ofeer had ever seen, a man like a bear with a heart of light.
"I miss you, my family," Ofeer whispered. She didn't know if she'd ever see them again. Koren was a slave somewhere here in Aelar, but in a city of a million people, how could she find him? And how could she be sure Koren was still in Aelar at all, that he hadn't been carted off to a mine or farm elsewhere in the Empire? She hadn't seen Atalia since the Gaelian attack at sea. As far as Ofeer knew, her older sister had drowned. Epher, Maya, and Mother were back in Zohar, but how could Ofeer reach them? No military ship would carry her home, and if merchant ships were still traveling to Zohar, Ofeer could never afford the gold such a journey would cost, not if she begged for the rest of her life.
I'm all alone here, Ofeer realized and placed a hand on her belly. My child and I.
She stayed at her table until closing time, the last patron in a shadowy tavern, then stepped outside into the night. Most respectable citizens of Aelar retired to their homes after nightfall. The apartment buildings rose along the street, seven stories tall, the lamplight going dark in their windows.
A second population now emerged, hidden during the day, rising in shadows. Drunkards swayed down the streets, clad in rags, some of them naked, holding bottles of booze. A madman stood at a corner, brandishing a knife, screaming over and over, threatening to stab the world. Three women leaned against a wall, clad in togas—garments for male citizens or female prostitutes. Many of these people weren't Aelarians, not ethnically. Here were refugees and outcasts from a dozen provinces—Nurians, Berenians, Phedians, Kalintians, others Ofeer didn't recognize. Some had come here as slaves, only to find themselves freed and penniless. Others had immigrated here hoping to find work, ending up on the streets. Here was the glorious center of the world—a hive of splendor and misery, of ivory and dust.
Ofeer made her way between these night people, dodging the leering drunkards. A bearded, brutish man reached toward her, toothless, his fingernails cracked. Ofeer lurched aside and kept walking, hurrying her step. A part of her wanted to find shelter in the wealthier neighborhoods, places where people lived in private homes, not apartment buildings. She could perhaps find a garden there to sleep in. But the risk was too great. She could be spotted in the finer areas of Aelar, recognized as an escaped slave, and delivered right back to the Acropolis—into Porcia's grip. The new empress of Aelar scared Ofeer far more than any drunkard.
Walking quickly, Ofeer
made her way to the alley where she had slept the night before, only to find a sweaty man—perhaps a mason or blacksmith, judging by his powerful frame—patronizing a moaning prostitute in the shadows, right on the rug Ofeer had been sleeping on. Ofeer grimaced and walked on. The next alley held two growling dogs on chains, massive beasts that must have weighed more than Ofeer, perhaps used for the dogfights staged for the poor, those who couldn't afford to see humans butcher one another in the Amphitheatrum. Ofeer hurried onward, making her way down a narrow road between tall buildings.
Her heart began to beat faster as she walked. She was alone here. The walls soared at her sides, seven or eight stories tall, their windows dark, and she felt as if walking through a canyon. The sky was a mere strip above. She almost tripped over a sleeping beggar, and she kept walking. This place scared her. She did not want to sleep here. Perhaps she would head uptown after all, find a hidden garden, and sleep among the bushes. It would be safer there, far from the drunkards and whores, and—
Ofeer had almost exited the alley when three figures appeared ahead, laughing and staggering toward her.
They were drunk. She could smell it on them. Mean drunks too. She saw it in their swagger, and clubs hung from their belts. Not citizens, she didn't think; foreigners who'd come to Aelar to find work, though she couldn't tell their land of origin.
"Hey! You!" one of the drunkards called.
Ofeer turned and ran.
The men hooted and chased.
She raced down the alley, heart thumping. She had seen enough corpses picked up on the roadsides at dawn to know what these men planned. She had no weapons, nothing but her teeth and nails, and she panted as she ran.
"Come back here!" cried a man.
"We only want to talk!" said another and laughed.
"How much for a fuck?" shouted another and hooted with laughter.
Ofeer kept running, sweat on her brow, and didn't even see him in the shadows. Her feet hit the sleeping beggar in the alley, and she went sprawling. She banged against the ground, scraping her arms, and cried out.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 26