Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Come, Ambrosia, let us take a closer look."

  Porcia motioned for her guards, and soon she and Ambrosia were riding in a palanquin, borne by slaves, heading down toward the lake. Ten other palanquins traveled at their sides, full of her harem, the young men and women Porcia had plucked from across the Empire—more pretty things, shining jewels, her coterie. Three hundred soldiers of the Magisterian Guard walked with her, their armor gilded, their helmets shining with jewels. Porcia had never much cared for jewels in the legions—a campaign was a place for blood, for iron, for fire—but an empress needed to shine. She was the greatest light in the world. She would shine brighter than any emperor before her, and all the world would worship her light.

  They reached the lakeside. The sun shone, and the air was warm. The water was crystal blue, and forested mountains surrounded it, lush and green even in autumn. It was a place of beauty, only a day's ride from the city, a place where Porcia had spent many summers as a child. A place her mother had loved. Her slaves carried her along a pier, and Porcia alighted onto the deck of the Luciana Nave. Her harem and guards joined her.

  The shipwrights greeted her there, bowing before her. Their chief was a wiry man, his hair as snowy white as his toga.

  "Welcome, glorious Empress Porcia, daughter of Aelia!"

  Porcia scoffed. She had never cared much for Aelia, the goddess of music, said to have founded the city of Aelar centuries ago. She had always preferred to worship Camulus, god of war, but perhaps those days of blood were behind her.

  I shed rivers of blood, she thought. Now I will enjoy the spoils.

  She looked across the deck. "I told you I wanted blue marble." She took a few steps, her sandals clattering against the white marble tiles that coated the ship's deck. "Not this cheap white shit."

  The shipwright glanced up, then quickly bowed his head again. He hurried to catch up as Porcia walked across the marbled deck. The guards and harem followed.

  "My empress, we have tiled the deck with the finest marble in Aelar, brought straight from the Valerius quarries. Nobody has ever marbled a ship's deck before, and—"

  She turned toward him and gave him a withering stare. "I asked for blue marble. As blue as this lake and the sky above. Rip off this shit and toss it overboard, and if you cannot find blue marble, you will coat this deck with sapphires."

  As the shipwright nodded, Ambrosia leaned close to Porcia and whispered in her ear, "Are you sure you can afford this, domina?" She giggled. "We might need to conquer a few more kingdoms."

  Porcia nodded. "Then we will conquer them. Then we will strip Zohar bare of gold. Then we will bring Sekadia to its knees and plunder its halls. This ship's deck will shine, blue as the sacred lake upon which it sails." She looked back at the shipwright. "Show me the rest. Show me the galleries!"

  They kept walking across the ship. Structures rose ahead upon the deck, little palaces. Decorative doors, engraved with mythological scenes, led into a fine hall. Workers were kneeling on the floor, assembling a mosaic depicting the fall of Zohar. Painters stood on ladders, adding feathers to pastel eagles that flew across the ceiling. A few men were busy erecting a statue onto a pedestal; it depicted Porcia herself, dressed as the goddess Dia, one breast exposed, an overflowing jug under her arm. As she entered the hall, the workers ceased their labor and bowed before her.

  Porcia spent a while examining the hall, pointing at objects.

  "This banister. I want it shining with jewels. The window frames! Gods, are you using cedar? I want giltwood." She frowned at her statue. "My nose is not that large. Make it smaller. And my hips aren't that wide." She suspected that last claim was false, but she was ready to slay anyone who contradicted her. "Next room!"

  She explored chamber after chamber in her imperial palace. The dining room's tables stood on plain legs. She ordered them replaced with platinum claws. The bedchamber was too small. She ordered it torn down and rebuilt, large enough to contain a massive bed where she and her coterie could sleep together. The toilets in the privy were plain marble. She ordered them replaced with gold; she would not piss on stone like the plebeians.

  A marble staircase, its banister forged of silver, led her to the lower level. A grand hall spread belowdecks, lined with statues of the gods. There were holes for oars, each one filled with a golden ring shaped as an animal's roaring mouth. There were no rowers here yet, but Porcia could already imagine them—line after line of men, shirtless and beautiful, worshiping her, propelling her glory across the water.

  "I want these statues gilded," she said to her shipwright. "No, not gilded. I want them all to be pure gold, inside and out. And the oars! I want them coated with gemstones so that they shine with every stroke."

  Past the hall, she made her way to the ship's bathhouse. Arched windows revealed the lake and mountains. A stone staircase led into a pool. It was large enough for twenty bathers and already full of water. Lead pipes shaped as dragons, complete with fanged mouths, spilled water into the pool. Steam rose, nearly obscuring mosaics of dolphins and divers across the walls.

  "My empress, this is the first ship in the Empire with heated plumbing," said the shipwright. "We invented a new system of pumps. We can draw the water from the lake, heat it in hidden chambers over coals, and guarantee a continuous flow of hot water to the pool. It will keep you warm in the cool months ahead." He pointed toward a marble basin by a wall. "That pipe there, meanwhile, delivers cool, refreshing drinking water. And do you see that basin? The one shaped as grapes? The tap delivers wine from a hidden cask, the finest wine from the southern vineyards."

  Porcia nodded in approval. So far, this was the only room that seemed up to standard.

  My father died in a bathhouse, she thought. She had ordered the Aelarian Bathhouse torn down. Here, far from all her enemies, far from all the sniveling, conniving commoners who filled the city, she would bathe in splendor.

  "I don't want hot water in this pool," she said. "I want to bathe in warm milk. It replenishes the skin. Can you replace the water with milk?"

  She was growing bored with seeing the man's eyes widen. He gulped, hesitated, then nodded. "Of course, my empress."

  A cold wind blew through the windows. Gods damn it, why did they not fit them with glass? Porcia hated the thought of coming winter. There was melancholy in winter. There was madness that dwelled in the cold season and the rain.

  "My empress, let us bathe!" Ambrosia said, hopping and grinning. "Let us test the grandest bathhouse in the Empire!" She bit her lip. "We can test the wine too!"

  Porcia had not bathed in a bathhouse since her father had died in one, instead using a portable bath in her private chambers. But she nodded. It was time to put the past behind. It was time to enjoy all that she had worked for, fought for, suffered for. To enjoy the hot water. This floating palace. The wine. The harem. All the spoils of an empire. She was a goddess now, as holy as Dia or Camulus.

  I've always been smarter, fiercer than mere mortals. Now the world knows this.

  She nodded and turned toward her guards. "Guard the doors. There are assassins everywhere." She turned toward Ambrosia. "Disrobe me. Then disrobe yourself." She looked at the rest of her harem, twenty men and women, the beauties of the Empire. "All of you! Let us bathe together. Let us share the wine and share the glory."

  They pulled off her stola, then undressed themselves—her precious flowers, her glittering jewels, chosen for their beauty. She would never be alone again, Porcia swore. She would nevermore be alone with that demon inside her. With that sadness. With that fear that kept clawing, screaming in her mind.

  Seneca is coming to kill you.

  Valentina is plotting to slay you.

  The Zoharites will pillage and rape you.

  The Nurians will shatter your halls.

  The Gaelians will rip you apart.

  All those voices. All those cackling demons. No. Porcia would never listen to them again. The jewels, the gold, the harem, the laughter, the sex, the wine—they drowne
d out those voices. Porcia would bend this world to her will, take every precious jewel in it, and once she had it all, once she was a goddess of purest excess, those voices could never haunt her again.

  She stepped into the pool and let the warm water caress her body—a body scarred by so many wars, marred by cuts of sword, axe, arrow, by the kiss of fire. A body that had grown strong, nourished by the hearts of her enemies. A body that all her servants worshiped. A body that still screamed with ghosts, with the memories of her campaigns, other bodies, bodies crushed, eviscerated, burning, dancing around her. They always danced around her, dripping, the jaws torn off, laughing, laughing around her. But the splendor would silence them. The light of jewels burned them. The light of her glory banished them.

  Her harem joined the water with her, their bodies unmarked, beautiful, jewels in their navels, jewels around their fingers.

  Seneca is coming to slay you.

  "Wine!" Porcia shouted, and a servant passed her a mug. She drank deeply.

  Valentina is plotting to overthrow you.

  She grabbed a man, and she pulled him toward her, pulled him inside her, and moaned against the pool wall.

  The Zoharites will pillage and rape you.

  She grabbed a woman, kissed her deeply, clutching her hair, weeping into the pool.

  They will shatter your halls. They will rip you apart.

  "More wine!" she called, and her head swam. A man passed her another cup, but Porcia spilled it, and the precious crimson liquid spread through the pool. She kissed the man, fucked him, tugged her fingernails down his back, and the voices were silenced, and she drank again.

  "Wash me," she said. "Wash me hard. Scrub my skin. Scrub off the filth."

  There were tears in her eyes, but they would never know. Not here in the steam. They would wash her clean. They would wash off the scars. Wash off the fire. Wash off all the blood, the shame, the sin. All the things she had done. All the dead who still screamed inside her. All the dead she had eaten, forever part of her, forever scratching from within.

  They gathered around her, the beauties of her harem, forming a ring. A slave brought forth a tray of sponges and scented oils, and each one of her concubines took a sponge.

  "Wash me clean," she whispered.

  One of her harem slaves approached, a beautiful boy with dark eyes and full lips, a boy she loved to kiss. He brought a sponge to her breast.

  "I will wash you clean," he whispered, pressing the sponge hard against her.

  The pain bloomed across Porcia, and she gasped. Her teeth clenched. Her brow furrowed, and she shoved the boy away.

  She gazed down at her chest.

  A wound pierced her breast, gushing blood.

  "I will wash you clean," said another servant, a beautiful Nurian girl with deep brown skin. She pressed a sponge against Porcia's side, delicately at first, then more firmly.

  Porcia screamed and shoved her off. Pain flared at her ribs, and this time she saw it—a blade hidden in the sponge. Her blood spurted.

  "Fucking trait—" she began when agony blazed across her back.

  "I will wash you clean," said a slave behind her, and she felt his cock press against her backside, and she felt his blade plunge between her shoulder blades.

  "We will all wash you clean." Another sponge, this time to her belly. Another blade. She flailed, trying to hold them off, her head spinning.

  "We will wash this empire clean." Another slave. Another sponge. Another hidden blade, cutting under her ribs.

  "All your sins are washed away, Porcia Octavius."

  She screamed as a blade pierced her kidney.

  She could barely remain standing. The blood flowed from her, filling the pool, dancing like red demons. Porcia wept.

  "Please," she whispered. "Ambrosia, please."

  Through the haze, she could see her finest beauty, her dearest friend. Ambrosia approached, hair golden, and came to stand before Porcia in the water. Ambrosia kissed her—gently, lovingly—and stroked her hair.

  "You are clean," Ambrosia whispered . . . and the blade hidden in her sponge drove into Porcia's chest.

  They all swam back from her. They all left the pool, red with her blood. Porcia's head spun. She couldn't breathe. She wept. Traitors. Traitors . . . They danced around her. All those she had slain in her campaigns. All the Zoharites, broken, burnt, entrails dancing, limbs shattered, hearts eaten, all those she had killed. All dancing around her. Mocking. A ring of mockery.

  "I am a goddess!" she shrieked, head tossed back, blood in her mouth. "You cannot kill me. You cannot! I am a goddess of Aelar! I will rule this fucking world!"

  She took a step through the water. She took another. She climbed the underwater staircase, bent over, bleeding from many cuts, blood gushing, but she was an empress, she was a goddess, she was Porcia Octavius and she would not die so easily, she would not die in a fucking pool like her father. She reached the pool's edge, tossed her arms open, and she howled—back arched, mouth open wide, a howl of fury that shook the ship, a howl of a goddess of death, a howl of a thousand dead, a howl of falling nations, a howl of kingdoms slain at her hands, a howl of dying children, a howl of falling walls, a howl of burning history, a howl of a girl, afraid, hiding in the shadows from all the demons of her dreams.

  And through the blood, through the raining smoke, through the inferno already blazing around her, he emerged. A young man in armor. A boy. His face forgettable, soft. The new commander of the Magisterian Guard, the man she had appointed, the boy she had entrusted with her life.

  "Caelius," she whispered to him, tears on her cheeks. "Caelius, save me. Please."

  He stepped closer to her, smiling thinly. He had a beautiful smile, her beautiful boy. He held her red, dripping hand. He leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

  "Do you remember a soldier, fourteen years ago, in the Phedian campaign?" he said. "A short, slender boy, tossed to the wolves, beaten, buggered, as you laughed? Oh, how you laughed, Porcia Octavius."

  And she remembered. And she wept. "Please. I'm sorry. Please."

  He brushed back a lock of her hair. "You are so beautiful," he said, and he swiped his dagger across her throat.

  As Porcia fell, her blood gushing, as she landed back in her pool, she smiled, because she was beautiful. She was a goddess. She would always be worshiped. She sank into the red water, and the demons laughed around her, bared their teeth, and swarmed in.

  OFEER

  As her child kicked within her swelling belly, Ofeer sat in Ohel Adom, the small Zoharite temple in Aelar. A shawl covered her hair, and she prayed softly.

  Back in Zohar, Ofeer had never liked praying in temples. When her mother dragged the family there on Restdays, Ofeer would often sneak out, head to the port, and spend the morning walking along the sea or visiting taverns. For the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the Zoharite year, Jerael Sela would insist that the family travel to Beth Eloh—a full three days away from Gefen—and pray in the Temple upon the Mount of Cedars. For the last three Days of Atonement, Ofeer had hidden in the alleyways of Gefen, refusing to travel east, forcing her family to take the trip without her, and for a week—a blessed week, indeed the holiest week of the year—Ofeer would find pleasure in the port. She would drink wine until her head spun, smoke hintan until she could do little more than giggle uncontrollably, and let the sailors take her in their beds. Whenever they fucked her, Ofeer—even through the haze of wine and hintan—would close her eyes, clench her fists, and imagine that it was a beautiful prince of Aelar making love to her. She would imagine that, as her head spun, she lay in a ship that rose and fell upon the waves, taking her to Aelar, to a land of wonder and majesty.

  And finally I met that prince, Ofeer thought. And I sailed on that ship, and I came to this land—here to Aelar. She inhaled deeply, letting the peace and grace fill her. I had to leave the land of God to find God in a distant land. I had to enter Aelar to banish the Aelarian from my heart.

  Ohel Adom, here
in the crowded streets of Aelar, was a humble place. Here was not a vast, glittering hall like the temple in Gefen, a place where priests stood high upon cedar daises, where chandeliers of many crystals gleamed in the light of a thousand candles. And it was certainly humbler than the Temple, the massive shrine in Beth Eloh, a building as grand as Aelar's imperial palace. Here was a simple house, smaller than the villa on Pine Hill. A few pews stood here, carved of pine. A pulpit rose ahead, built from the same unadorned wood. There were only two objects of wealth here: a silver pomegranate, large as a dinner plate, which hung on the wall, an ancient symbol of Zohar; and a massive scroll of the Book of Eloh, costlier and holier by far.

  The scroll lay on the pulpit, draped with deep purple fabric embroidered with golden lions. Two other pomegranates, these too carved of silver, topped the scroll's rollers. A scroll this large could take two years to produce, every word—and it contained hundreds of thousands of words—lovingly inscribed on costly parchment. This copy of the Book of Eloh was probably worth more than the building that contained it. The scroll was rolled up now, its ancient wisdom hidden.

  The priest who normally stood at the pulpit, a kindly old man named Shaveet, stood in the temple's kitchen at the back, preparing meals for the city's poor Zoharites who often came here for wine and bread. The morning prayers had ended, and Ofeer sat alone.

  No, perhaps not alone. Ofeer gazed at the ceiling. A mosaic sprawled there, depicting a rampant Lion of Zohar, the symbol all Selas wore around their necks, the symbol Ofeer had always scorned and rejected. Are you here with me, Eloh?

  They said that Eloh's spirit dwelled in an ark within the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctum in the Temple in Beth Eloh. That land lay far from here, eighteen days away with the swiftest ship and good wind. There was no lume in this land, aside from what lumers soaked up on their yearly pilgrimages to the east. This was a land foreign to Eloh, the god of her people, and yet Ofeer remembered that presence she had felt, that light she had seen, that voice that had spoken in her mind.