Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  They exited the city through the Gate of Olives, the eastern gate of the city, and traveled along a dirt path up the piney hills. They took twenty guards with them, leaving Gervasius behind. Claudia refused a palanquin and instead chose a white mare from the city stables. The family lumer walked with the guards, while Tirus rode ahead, leading the way. Mother took her palanquin as always, fanning herself and complaining about the heat, the buzz of insects, and the sweat that dripped across the slaves who bore her.

  As they rode, Claudia glanced behind her. Most of the fleet was now docking, and the legions were emerging from the vessels. The sunlight glinted on thousands of spears and helmets. She looked back east, staring across the hills, imagining Beth Eloh in the distance. She had been to that city several times. It was built like a fortress, massive, surrounded by parapets and towers. If the stories were to be believed, Epher had managed to butcher or cast out the legionaries from within—a stunning victory for him. Now he holed up in his desert city.

  No doubt, he knows we're coming, Claudia thought. You cannot hide forever, Epher. You cannot or they will kill you. You must kneel before me.

  The villa rose before her—Ein Sela, the ancestral home of the Sela family. It was a small villa by Aelarian standards, certainly smaller than the Valerius family villa outside the city of Aelar. But it was comfortable compared to the crowded city streets and the brick home by the water, the house where Claudia had been raised. Cypress and pomegranate trees rose above a garden, and lantana flowers bloomed in the windowsills. Claudia remembered many evenings spent here, dining with the Sela family, sneaking secret glances at Epher. None had known about their love, and those evenings had been hours of agonizing anticipation, building up and up, tingling her, until at night—with everyone else asleep—they would come to these hills, lie beneath the trees, and surrender to their passion.

  Claudia wished she could go back to those days. To be just a girl in love again, not the daughter of a consul, not an Aelarian here to crush a rebellion, but just a girl—her, him, these hills, their love.

  But those days were over. Claudia tightened her lips. There was no use pining like a lovesick child. She was not here to love Epher. She was here to break him.

  They were only minutes away from the villa when the shouts rose, and Claudia's heart burst into a gallop.

  "For Zohar!" rose the cries. "Blessed be King Epher!"

  They emerged from behind the trees—a band of ragged Zoharites, bearded, gaunt. Their arrows flew.

  Claudia's mare whinnied and reared. An arrow slammed into its flank, missing Claudia's thigh by a mere digitus. The animal fell, and Claudia spilled off its back, banging her hip against the ground.

  Screams rolled across the hill. More arrows flew. Across the imperial convoy, the legionaries were tossing spears at the enemy, and the Zoharites kept advancing, and Tirus grabbed a gladius and raised the sword.

  Claudia's heart galloped. Cold sweat drenched her. Her limbs trembled. She swallowed the fear, drew the dagger she kept at her hip, and crouched by her horse. The animal still lived, kicking miserably, the arrow embedded in its side.

  The battle raged around her. The Zoharites bore curved, ugly blades, rusted and chipped. The legionaries fought back with their broad gladius swords. Blades clanged. Tirus wore only a toga, but he fought among his men, swinging his sword at a cadaverous Zoharite.

  The damn fools are half-starved, Claudia thought.

  The Zoharites wore no armor, only rags, their ribs showing. She doubted they had eaten much since their land had fallen six months ago. Their hunger had led to madness; their eyes shone, feverish. One man's blade slashed through a legionary's throat, and blood showered. Two Zoharites fell to the spears of the Empire, but another rebel swung a sling, and a stone slammed into a legionary. The soldier fell, and Zoharites descended upon him, slamming down blades and stones.

  Claudia struggled for air, and she couldn't stop shaking. Would she die here on the coast where she had spent most of her life?

  "Eagle scum." A Zoharite advanced toward her, blade raised, grin mad. "I'm going to slice you open."

  The man ran toward her, sword swinging.

  Claudia stared for an instant, waiting for her father, for the legionaries, even for her lumer to save her. But no aid came; the others were fighting their own melees.

  Claudia did the only thing she could think of doing. She grabbed a granite stone, and she tossed it.

  She was not particularly strong, and she had never trained in war, but her aim was solid enough. The stone slammed into the Zoharite's face, crushing his nose, and blood spurted. He did not fall. Still he ran toward her, and still his sword swung. Claudia leaped aside, and the blade missed her, slamming instead into her horse. The animal screamed and kicked.

  Before the man could tug his blade free, Claudia thrust her dagger. The blade scraped across the man's forearm, digging down to the bone. He screamed. His blood spurted onto Claudia's stola. She stared in horror as he raised his blade again. He took a step toward her . . . and a kicking hoof found him.

  The Zoharite fell, his leg shattered. He dropped his sword and screamed.

  Claudia stared down at him.

  He's just a boy, she realized. He couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen. Just a foolish, hungry boy who thought himself brave for fighting instead of kneeling.

  She knelt above him.

  "What's your name?" she whispered as the battle still raged around them.

  He grimaced, his leg broken, his arm cut open, his nose crushed. He choked on blood. "Please," he whispered. "Please, I . . . I'm Ben'el."

  Claudia sighed and stroked his hair. "You're sweet, Ben'el. Truly you are, and truly I'm sorry."

  Gently, she slid her dagger into his neck. He gave a last spurt, then fell still.

  The battle died down around them. Tirus slew the last Zoharite with a swing of his gladius. The corpses lay across the hillsides, most of them Zoharites, a few Aelarians. Claudia panted and walked through the killing field, nausea rising inside her. She had never seen battle up close. She had never taken a life until now. As she passed by a disemboweled man, his entrails slung across the path, slick and pink, she couldn't help it. She fell to her knees, and she vomited for the first time since she'd been a child.

  "Claudia . . ." Her father stood above her, voice gentle. "Claudia, close your eyes. Close your eyes and walk with me."

  Kneeling, she wiped her mouth and swallowed the taste of vomit. Her eyes narrowed. There was something wrong with her father's voice. Something too soft. Something she had never heard there before.

  Frowning, she rose to her feet.

  "Claudia—" Tirus tried again, reaching toward her. She shook off his hand and walked through the battlefield.

  There it lay on the ground. A gilded, jeweled palanquin. And there she lay—Claudia's mother, her neck slit open like a second mouth, her eyes glassy and staring. Flies were already bustling across the corpse.

  Claudia stared, silent, her knees trembling.

  "Pity," Claudia finally whispered. "I did think the eastern air would have been good for her."

  Then her tears flowed, and she turned away, and she wept against her father's chest as he stroked her hair with his thick, clumsy fingers.

  That night, Claudia lay in Epher's old bedchamber in the villa. She lay on his bed—the bed he had sneaked her into several times in the dark, taking her silently as his family slept across the hall. Lying here, curled up, tears in her eyes, Claudia could hear them from the dining room. Her father was pounding the tabletop, vowing vengeance, demanding to slay every last Zoharite in this land, to bring him King Epher's head. His soldiers all cried out agreements, each vowing to slay a thousand of the desert rats.

  But as Claudia lay here in the shadows, she did not crave death, did not crave killing. She could see it over and over—Ben'el's young face, his pleading eyes, and how she had felt nothing—no guilt, no pain—as she had slid the dagger into his neck. And she knew
his face would never leave her. And she knew that for the rest of her days, she would be Claudia Valerius, the woman who had taken a boy's life. A girl without a mother.

  She grabbed one of Epher's pillows and clung to it. It still smelled of him. By the gods, even after all this time, the pillow smelled like his body. She closed her eyes, and she missed him, and she loved him, and she knew that someday soon she would have to kill him too.

  SENECA

  The savanna queen smashed off the leg of a chair, raised the pointed shard of wood, and bared her teeth.

  "Reach to draw your sword," Imani said, "and this stick goes into your throat."

  Seneca sighed. Every time he tried to approach Imani in her chamber, she was like this. Snarling. Threatening to kill him. Once, only last week, she had tossed a floor tile—she had ripped it free herself—and slashed his cheek.

  "Sooner or later, Imani, you'll realize that I don't visit you here to kill you," he said. "Just to talk."

  "I don't want to hear your words." Imani glared at him. "You're an Aelarian. You're my enemy."

  He shrugged and looked around him. "Am I? Then perhaps I should toss you into a dank prison cell, not the finest room in the city of Tereen."

  Yes, he had given her this chamber of opulence, hoping to soften her resistance. They stood in the old bedchamber of the late Lord Fabricus, the sniveling toad Seneca had delighted in slaying. This palace on the coast of Nur was his now, and all that was in it: the wealth of coins and jewels and artwork, the slaves and soldiers, and this disgraced queen.

  The tall, arched windows afforded a view of this southern province. The Majina River flowed between rushes and trees, thick with oared galleys, reed boats, and sailing ships. Temples and homes and granaries rose along its banks. This river would lead him farther south—south to the legendary city of Shenutep, heart of the savanna, this land of ivory, diamonds, gold . . . and enough soldiers to conquer an empire.

  All of Nur is mine now, Seneca thought. Uncle Cicero is dead, slain by this queen who snarls before me. Fabricus lies rotting, dead by my own sword. Now the wealth and might of this land are mine, and soon . . . soon Aelar will be mine too. Soon Porcia will join the dead.

  Queen Imani growled, the pointed stick steady in her hand.

  "Lead me out of this palace," she said. "Give me a ship. Let me sail south, back to Shenutep. Do this and I will spare your life."

  Seneca watched her, arms hanging at his sides, making no move to retreat nor draw a weapon. Imani wore a kalasiri of white muslin, and golden serpents encircled her arms. She had been stripped of her crown, yet Seneca was struck by her grace, her nobility. She was older than him, probably closer to thirty than to his own twenty years, but still in the prime of her beauty. Seneca marveled at the smoothness of her dark brown skin, the lushness of her mane of black curls, and mostly the fire in her eyes. This one was a warrior, noble, brave. A fitting queen to fight at his side. A fitting wife.

  "And what awaits you in Shenutep?" Seneca said. "To rule as what—Porcia's puppet? To be first among slaves? To govern a dying province, a land for Porcia to rape and plunder and crush? Yes, you slew Cicero, but there are a thousand Ciceros in Aelar, all lined up to replace him. All of Nur is embroiled in rebellion. Aelarians fight Nurians, and this is a war you cannot win." He shook his head. "There's nothing for you down in Shenutep. Perhaps it was once the capital of a free, proud kingdom. Today it's rotting, the largest hog in a slaughterhouse."

  Imani hissed and took a step closer, her makeshift weapon pointed at his neck. "Yes, I killed Cicero. I can kill you too, boy."

  Skewered Cicero with an elephant's tusk, Seneca thought. By Dia's marble tits.

  He raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose that after killing me, you'll swim to Aelar, kill fifteen thousand soldiers of the Magisterian Guard, and finally slay Empress Porcia . . . using a chair's leg?" Seneca allowed himself a small smile. "If you want to win this war, Imani, it won't be done with pointed sticks. You'll need ships—Aelarian ships. You'll need soldiers—Aelarian soldiers. You'll need the might of the imperial armada and legions. All these I can give you."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You wish your sister dead?"

  "I wish her very much alive," said Seneca. "Death is too kind for one such as Porcia. No, Imani, I won't kill her for many years. I'll keep Porcia alive. To see me become emperor. To see temples and statues rising in my name, while her legacy is defaced. I will fight her, and I will defeat her. There are fifty Aelarian ships stationed here in Nur. There are two legions across this land—one here at the port, one in Shenutep—ten thousand men in all."

  Hesitation filled Imani's eyes. Her resolve was slipping. She tightened her grip on her stick and raised her chin. "So leave. Take those legions and leave! Sail back across the Encircled Sea to Aelar, and face your sister there, and leave us."

  Seneca sighed. "If only I could, dearest Imani. Yes, I command fifty ships and ten thousand men. My sister commands twenty times more. Hundreds of ships, hundreds of thousands of legionaries—all serve her. I can defeat her, Queen Imani, but not alone." He took a step closer to her, so close her stick nearly grazed his throat. "Together. Nur has ships of its own. Nur has warriors—the rebels who have been fighting the legions. We must cease fighting each other. Let us fight together, you and I—against Porcia."

  Slowly, Imani lowered her stick. Her chest rose and fell, and fear and fury still filled her eyes. "Why should I help you?"

  Seneca approached an ornate table by the window, its legs carved as giraffes. He lifted a silver jug inlaid with amethysts and poured wine into two cups. He offered one to Imani. When she didn't react, he placed it back on the table and drank from his.

  "Because I have much to give you," Seneca said. The wine was rich and warm, sweeter than northern wines. "When I'm emperor, I won't be a tyrant like my family. That's not me, Imani. I don't desire to grind the province under my heel. Help me win the throne of Aelar, and you'll return to your own throne. You'll serve the Empire, yes. I'll appoint a new governor to oversee the province of Nur. But I promise you, Imani, I will appoint a governor who's fair and tolerant, not a brute like my uncle Cicero. Yes, I confess it—Cicero was not the most delicate flower in the vase. I won't interfere with how you rule Nur. You'll still pay Aelar its taxes, yes, but I'll reduce them, and I'll withdraw an entire legion from this land. I'll once more let Nur worship its old gods. You will no longer bow before the statues of Aelar's pantheon." He licked the wine from his teeth. "You'll have more freedom than you've known in years, Imani. But that will never happen while Porcia rules the Empire. Help me dethrone her. As my fellow warrior. As my wife."

  She spat—right on the mosaic floor, hitting a poor gazelle formed of shimmering tiles. "Find yourself an Aelarian princess to wed, one with ivory skin and cascading locks and sapphire eyes, pampered and powdered. I am a warrior and queen of the savanna. I need no husband."

  "Oh, but you do." He placed down his mug of wine. Before Imani could react, he grabbed her wrist. She tugged back but he refused to release her. "You need me, Imani Koteeka, Queen of Nur. And I need you. Our people—rebels and legionaries alike—would not follow some alliance of convenience. They will follow a husband and wife." A smile stretched across his lips. "Imagine it! An emperor of Aelar, noble and fair, a true hero for the people to worship. And a queen of darkness, beautiful and brave. Two great rulers, bound by love, fighting a usurper and tyrant." Seneca sighed theatrically. "It's a tale for bards! A tale that will echo across the ages. Two young lovers fighting an empire."

  Imani's rage finally seemed to leave her. She turned toward the window and gazed out at her kingdom. Ibises and cranes fluttered across the river, and lush farmlands sprawled beyond, leading to the desert. In the north, just visible from this angle, the sea glimmered. Both the military ships of Aelar and the merchant and fishing barges of Nur anchored in the cove. Obelisks and temples soared from the city, and statues rose, just as tall, depicting men and women with the heads of beasts. A statue of Marcus O
ctavius still rose here, installed by Cicero; Seneca would have the face scraped off and replaced with his own countenance before this war was over.

  The wind ruffled Imani's hair. She spoke softly. "They tell tales of you in the south. The Little Monster, they call you. Seneca the Sadist. They say that you bathe in the blood of your enemies, that you wear a necklace of skulls, that you lie with goats."

  Seneca smiled thinly. "I bathe in regular water, I assure you. I wear only this golden chain around my neck. Skulls would get quite heavy, and as you can see, I'm not a particularly large man. As for goats . . . while I admit I do enjoy their meat in a rich stew, I prefer the company of women for my bed. Tales are like that. Meant to inspire dread or scorn . . . or to inspire the hearts of nations. As our story will."

  As he spoke those words, Seneca thought back to the tales in Porcia's journal. Tales of her depravity, of orgies in Aelar and in military camps across the Empire. Those tales had been true, written in Porcia's handwriting. He shuddered to think what sins Porcia was committing, what filth she was staining his empire with.

  And he thought of his own sins. He thought of shooting the stray dog on the hill. He thought of swinging the hammer, of nailing Jerael into the cross. He thought of fucking Ofeer—his own sister!—in Jerael's bed as the man died outside the window. He thought of all those he had killed in Gefen, of the thousands of dead, their blood still on his hands. He thought of Fabricus, dead and burned, more blood to stain Seneca's soul.

  He finally released Imani's wrist, and he knelt before her. He bowed his head.

  "My queen, I'm not a perfect man." His voice was soft, tight with pain. "I killed people. People who did not deserve to die. I drank, and I whored, and I fought in wars of conquest." He looked up into her eyes, still kneeling before her. "I'm not a good man, Imani. I'm not a noble hero. But I promise you: I am better than my sister. I am better than Cicero. And together, we will make this empire a better place."