Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Go prepare for your journey. Come to my chamber tonight at sundown, and I'll hand you a scroll—my terms for Tirus Valerius. You'll ride out tonight. Maybe we can still resolve this without more bloodshed."

  That afternoon, Epher sat in his chamber, staring at the empty scroll, then pacing, thinking, debating with himself. For those hours, Olive sat in the chamber, watching him, a soothing presence, speaking to him softly, offering advice, leaving the final decisions to him. Finally Epher wrote, struggling to keep his hand steady.

  To Tirus Valerius, consul of Aelar,

  March against us, and your legions will perish. We will slaughter them as we slaughtered the legions who dared enter the walls of Beth Eloh. The armies of Zohar are strong, and the light of Eloh shines on us. If you choose war, our wrath will descend upon you. As the wrath of Gael smote three legions, we will smite five, and we will smite any others that land on our beaches.

  While Zohar excels at war, she loves peace. Zohar recognizes the nobility of Aelar and her dominion over the Encircled Sea. We will pay tribute to Aelar—as nations around the sea pay tribute. We will send gold and grain, and we will allow Aelar free access to our port.

  Epher paused, grimacing. The next words pained him—pained him more than anything he had ever written. And yet he wrote them.

  We will accept a governor from Aelar, and we will become a province of the Aelarian civilization, joining the family of nations around the Encircled Sea. Yet the Temple will remain dedicated to Eloh, and no Aelarian shall set foot upon that hallowed ground, and new priests will rise among us to command our daily affairs. We will continue to speak our language, sing our songs, tell our tales. If we keep our way of life, our religion, our courts, and our culture—we will accept your rule. We will become a province, and we will have peace.

  Hand me your guarantee that it shall be so, and I will open the gates of Beth Eloh, and I will welcome you into my hall. Refuse me and this land will become a burial ground for the sons of Aelar.

  Epheriah Sela Ben Jerael, of the line of Elior, King of Zohar

  He placed down his quill, feeling drained, haggard, aged by a decade.

  "And so there it is," Epher said, hands on the tabletop. "I sacrifice our freedom for a hope to live. I surrender."

  Olive stepped closer to him, sat on his lap, and slung her arms around him. She kissed his forehead. "Sometimes surrender is wisest choice. You choose life. Aelar is death, destruction. We Zoharites. We always choose life."

  Epher marveled at how, within only half a year, she had learned to speak nearly perfect Zoharite. When he had first found her in the wilderness, she hadn't spoken any language. He held her and kissed her—desperately, deeply. She slung her arms around him, kissing him back, and he tasted her tears on his lips. He lifted her tunic and slipped it over her head, exposing her body, pale, strewn with freckles like stars. She tugged at his tunic, pulling it free, and slung her legs around him. They made love on his chair, her back arched, her hair draping back across the scroll he had written. She moaned, and he held her, clutched her, drowning. Needing to be strong. Needing to be a king. Needing her. His inkpot fell over, and the blackness spread across the floor.

  They lay in his bed that night, the scroll delivered in the darkness. His bed was large, its beams carved of cedar, and the mattress soft, but he could find no rest. Olive lay in his arms, naked, her body pale in the moonlight. Epher gazed up at the dark ceiling.

  I don't know how to be strong like you, Father, he thought. I don't know how to be wise like you, Mother. But I'm trying. And I'm afraid.

  He wondered if all kings had been like this—strong in the day, afraid at night, armored in iron, consumed with doubt like worms digging from within. Perhaps kings were like kingdoms, all iron and rust, stone and sand, glorious for an era before fading into the ground. He closed his eyes, held Olive close, and waited for dawn.

  CLAUDIA

  She sat in the theater, a daughter mourning, a woman raging, waiting to see desert rats fight to the death.

  The walls of Gefen rose to the north, just down the road. No—not Gefen. That cursed name would be forgotten. This city where Claudia had been born, raised, where she had seen her mother slaughtered—this city was now known as Valeria Maritima, a rising jewel of Aelarian civilization, a glorious city to celebrate Claudia's family. Most of the rats had fled the city, seeking shelter in their mountains. But there would be no shelter from the wrath of eagles. There would be no shelter from the fury of a daughter torn by grief.

  You murdered her. Claudia clenched her fists. You murdered my mother, Zoharites. She will be avenged.

  Her father sat at her side, his toga draped across his stocky frame, and the sunlight gleamed on his massive bald head. Five thousand others filled the semicircular theater with them, hiding the tiers of stone seats—soldiers, merchants, dignitaries, all Aelarians. Unlike the great theaters in Aelar, built in a ring, this theater was open at one end, revealing the beach and sea. The waves flowed ahead, kindled in sunlight, bright blue splotched with green where boulders rose underwater, bristly with algae.

  "Welcome, welcome to the inaugural performance of Valeria Maritima Theater!" boomed a voice, and Claudia looked down to the sandy arena. Gervasius emerged from an archway built into the theater and strutted around the arena, arms raised. The city's new lord wore a resplendent sash embroidered with many colors. Two musicians walked at his side and blew a fanfare on silver trumpets. More musicians emerged, wearing pastel tunics, and played citharas, lutes, and lyres.

  At Claudia's side, her father tapped his thick fingers, his lips a thin line, visibly bored. The man had never appreciated the fine arts. Tirus had always been happiest going over his ledgers, scolding his servants, hunting and feasting on the meat, and visiting brothels—always a man of business or carnal pleasures.

  "This theater is an extravagance the Empire cannot afford," he muttered.

  Claudia raised an eyebrow. "The Zoharites paid for it, Father. And built it! I'll rather enjoy seeing them die in a monument they themselves raised."

  Tirus harrumphed. "Personally, I'd like to see these musicians killed in the arena."

  Dancers soon entered the arena, young nude women, wearing nothing but laurels. Now Claudia finally saw her father perk up, his interest—and, undoubtedly, his loins—stirring. The women performed a dance of the seasons, bearing palm fronds for spring, parasols for summer, gourds for autumn, and white scarfs—Claudia supposed they were meant to be clouds—for winter. It was ridiculous. There were only two seasons here in Zohar: summer and inferno.

  A comedy followed, full of stock characters Claudia had seen in countless performances in Aelar. The villain was a leno, a brothel owner, bald and greedy and hunched over, going nowhere without his money sack. The adulescens, the hero, was young and naive and handsome, deeply in love, clad in crimson. The virgo, the heroine, was beautiful, virtuous, and utterly boring to Claudia; the girl had the mind of a cow. And yet the hero spent the play pining for her, battling the evil leno who owned her as a slave. When the hero finally gained his maiden and carried her off, prepared to deflower her offstage, the crowd cheered. Claudia yawned. Women in these plays were always treated as prizes. They could easily be substituted with a pile of golden coins.

  I'm going to ask Empress Porcia to have this playwright's bullocks cut off, she thought. Then he can perform as a virgo.

  Finally, when Claudia was already antsy to leave, and with her bladder uncomfortably full, the trumpeters blew another fanfare, and the highlight of the day began.

  Two gladiators stepped out into the arena. The crowd cheered wildly. Tirus, who had been drowsing through the play, leaned forward in his seat and licked his lips. If there was anything he loved more than tits and wine, it was blood. Claudia too stared with interest. The men below were not professional gladiators, not like the greats who fought in the Amphitheatrum in Aelar. They were Zoharites, and frightened ones. Their backs were whipped, and their masters—Aelarians in armor�
�stood behind them, holding spears and lashes. The two gladiators stumbled into the arena, eyes darting, wearing nothing but subligaculi around their loins.

  Father had his nude dancers to ogle, Claudia thought as she leaned forward, lips peeled back. Now it's my turn to enjoy the sights.

  At first the gladiators refused to fight, even tossed down their swords in protest. Legionaries had to advance into the arena, raise crude crosses, and nail up the two men as the crowd howled. Two more Zoharites, also beaten and half-naked, were brought out. They too held crude swords. On the crosses, their recalcitrant brothers were still alive, moaning and bleeding. If they were lucky, they'd die tonight; otherwise they might last for days.

  "The victor shall live to fight another day!" said the slavedriver to these two new gladiators. "The loser will enjoy a quick death."

  Claudia licked her lips. She knew one of these gladiators! He had been a wine merchant once in Gefen. She had enjoyed buying his bottles, would sometimes imagine him when Epher fucked her. He was a handsome one, even now, whipped and frightened. His opponent was unfamiliar to her. He had the rough look of a fisherman, and Claudia immediately hoped that he lost. If the wine merchant won, perhaps she could summon him to her villa, could let him fuck her for real. Maybe she would take him with her to Beth Eloh, force Epher to watch it.

  As the two previous men moaned on their crosses, the two new gladiators began to fight, hesitantly at first, then swinging their swords with more vigor. The crowd cheered, and Claudia rose in her seat and cheered the loudest when the wine merchant scored a blow, slicing his blade across the fisherman's ribs. But her joy soon soured. The fisherman, screaming, slammed his sword into the wine merchant's chest, and the beautiful boy fell down dead. It was a relief to see the fisherman plunge the blade into his own heart next, calling out to his god before he fell and died—but only a slight relief.

  The fights continued, Zoharite after Zoharite brought out, each victor forced to fight again and again until he finally died. Those who refused to fight decorated new crosses. Claudia's bladder soon felt ready to burst, but she dared not leave, not miss an instant. She lost count of how many died here today, and their blood soaked the sandy arena.

  "You murdered my mother," she whispered, clutching her stola, fists trembling. "You murdered her, you sons of pigs. Now all of Zohar will weep."

  Tears filled her own eyes, but she wiped them away and grinned as another man died.

  They rode back to the villa on Pine Hill—her, her father, and a hundred legionaries. The trees alongside the road had been cut down, offering no hiding places for rebels—and sadly, no place to relieve herself until they finally reached home. A palisade of sharpened wooden stakes now surrounded the hill, and legionaries patrolled the perimeter. The place was now secure, but all the legionaries in the world could not bring Mother back.

  The sun was setting into the sea, and Tirus, Claudia, and several Aelarian generals and dignitaries sat in the garden to dine. Slaves—Zoharite girls captured in Gefen—brought out the feast: fried fish caught fresh that day; greens mixed with nuts and berries; chickpeas and mushrooms drizzled with olive oil; and flat breads topped with yogurt, sliced olives, and oregano. Zoharite wine was served, crimson and dry, and several bottles from Aelar, spiced and aromatic.

  Claudia was scolding a servant—the damn girl had poured the wrong wine—when galloping hooves sounded, and she turned to see the Zoharite riding from the eastern hills.

  She rose to her feet at once, eyes narrowed. The rider was bearded, haggard, and a ragged cloak hung across his shoulders. At once, the legionaries who secured the villa rode out to meet the rider. Claudia watched from the garden. Horses were costly even in affluent Aelar; here in Zohar, only the absolute wealthiest men could own them. This rider, despite his ragged appearance, must have been important.

  A legionary approached the garden, leaned down, and whispered to Tirus. The consul listened, brow furrowed, and nodded. Within a few moments, more legionaries entered the garden, surrounding the Zoharite rider. Claudia stood by the table, staring at him. He was a tall, rawboned man. She recognized him. He had served in this very villa when the Sela family had lived here, one of the family's bodyguards.

  "Your name is Hanan," she said, walking toward him, speaking in Zoharite. "Isn't it?"

  The tall man breathed heavily. He looked a decade older than she remembered, gray now strewn through his beard. He bowed his head to her. "You are kind to remember, Domina Claudia." He turned toward Tirus next and bowed his head. "King Epheriah sends his blessing, Consul Tirus, along with this gift."

  The man held out a wooden box. Claudia frowned, stepped forward, and yanked it from his grasp. She opened the box to reveal a fist-sized gemstone, engraved into the shape of a lion's head. She scoffed. "Why should we Aelarians desire a lion?" She tossed the crystal down. It split in two. "And Epher is no king. He's nothing but a rebel, one who will soon kneel before us."

  Hanan's eyes darkened, and he held out a scroll toward Tirus. "Epheriah, be he king or rebel, sends this too."

  The consul grabbed the scroll and unrolled it. His brow furrowed, and soon he snorted. Claudia read the words with him.

  Epher is afraid, Claudia thought. He's weak.

  She raised her eyes from the scroll and stared at Hanan. "What is the meaning of this drivel?"

  Hanan bowed his head yet again. His neck must have been as soft as a sprig. "King Epheriah's terms, Lady Claudia."

  "His terms?" Claudia shouted. "His terms? He would give us terms?" She crumpled the parchment and tossed it at the man. "He hides in his cesspool like a rat, and he would deliver us terms?" She scoffed. "He cowers and yet threatens us!"

  "Claudia!" Tirus roared. He placed a meaty hand on her shoulder, and his voice softened. "My darling, my daughter. Why don't you go into the villa and practice your lute, and I will—"

  "I will not practice my lute while a province rises in rebellion." She glared at her father. "If I were your son, would you send me to the lute? I am not some virgo from a play." She looked over her shoulder. "Leean! Come to me, lumer. Guards—bring me the lumer!"

  Guards stepped forth, dragging the young Leean. The girl hobbled forward, ankles chained, wrists bound behind her back. Her hair was cut just long enough to cover her eyes, and she gazed up at Claudia with fright.

  "I need you to send a message," Claudia said. "To Avinasi, lumer of Zohar's so-called kings."

  "Claudia—" Tirus began.

  She glared at her father. "I know what I'm doing." She looked back at the girl. "Well, go on! Use your witchcraft. Contact the crone!"

  The girl swallowed and shut her eyes. For a long time nothing happened, and Claudia tapped her foot, but finally the glow of luminescence flowed across Leean, spread out from her in strands, and formed a luminous figure before her. The apparition flickered, vanishing and reappearing, vaguely shaped like an old woman. Avinasi—lumer of the Zoharite court.

  "Now repeat my words to her," Claudia said. "A week hence, the legions of Aelar will arrive at the Gate of Lions. I expect to find those gates open. The Temple on the Mount of Cedars will once more raise a statue of Empress Porcia, and the palace will become the home of Tirus Valerius. The barbaric religion of Elohism will be disbanded. The people of Zohar will no longer worship their invisible god, no longer circumcise their sons, no longer read their ancient scrolls. Every copy of the Book of Eloh will be burned. Every Zoharite child will learn Aelarian. Any tongue that speaks Zoharite will be cut out. Like this city on the coast, Beth Eloh will become a city of Aelar, renamed Orientia Capitolina, and its people will become Aelarians, worshiping our gods and worshiping Empress Porcia. Any who refuse will die. Painfully." Claudia smiled thinly. "If I have to, I will slay every last desert rat and reduce this province to rubble."

  Leean conveyed the words over the luminescence, the light pulsing, flowing, thrumming, a language of light.

  Claudia stared at the astral, glowing figure of Avinasi, only vaguely humanoid.


  "Avinasi," Claudia said. "Can you see me? Can you hear me?"

  The glowing figure seemed to turn its head. Glowing white eyes regarded Claudia.

  "I want you to see something," Claudia said. "I want you and Epher both to see this."

  She looked at her father. Tirus's broad face was stern. He knew her thoughts. He nodded at her.

  Claudia smiled thinly and turned to her guards. "Men, bring forth Hanan. Cut off his nodding head."

  Hanan drew his blade and lunged at the soldiers.

  His sword slammed into a legionary's armor, denting the iron. A gladius swung, hitting Hanan's leg, cutting deep, forcing the man to kneel. Before he could rise again, legionaries grabbed his arms and yanked them back.

  "Keep the light flowing," Claudia told Leean. "Keep them looking." She stared into the glow and raised her voice. "Can you see this, Avinasi? Can you see this, Epher? This is what happens to desert rats who defy the eagles."

  It was Tirus who did the deed, slicing at Hanan's neck again and again. It took several swipes to finally sever the head. Funny—it wasn't quite as wilted after all. The head rolled toward Claudia, and she gazed down at it in disgust. Ugly brute.

  "You may return to the house, Leean," she said.

  The luminescence vanished. The lumer all but fled, chains clanking, shuddering with sobs.

  "Their fucking necks are made of solid leather." Tirus wiped his sword with a handkerchief. "Almost ruined my blade." He groaned, unable to remove all the blood, and finally tossed the gladius aside in disgust. "Damn thing stinks."

  Ignoring her father, Claudia turned toward one of her guards. "Take the head. Preserve and pack it. We'll take it with us to Beth Eloh, and we will return it to Epher." She smiled thinly. "I have a feeling we'll deliver him many more heads before this is over."

  Your men killed my mother, Claudia thought, jaw clenched, fists trembling. So you will pay, Epher. You will know grief like I know it.