“My lord councilors,” Kerius said, and Bruesio suddenly got the impression he had planned a speech, “I have a proposition. Since Geta’s death I have thought this over. I wish to take a delegation—completely unarmed—and head to the holy city of Seshán. I want to have a serious discussion with Lord Archamenes and give him the respect he deserves. I believe the reason he invaded Ten Cities was because of our profound disrespect for him and his culture; and I want to ensure him that it will never happen again.”
“A bold proposition in wartime,” Bruesio said. “Perhaps we should let the matter of Claudio settle before we take such actions.”
“What if he is so bold as to attack Seshán, and he corners you?” Galvano suggested.
Kerius laughed. “I don’t think even Claudio is that stupid! The southrons have won many victories over us for endless centuries; they are a stronger race, and an older race. No one in their right mind would attack Seshán. It’s suicide to face the Fharese on their own turf.”
“And what if the Fharese attack you?” said the usually-silent councilor Marsilio.
Kerius laughed again. “The Fharese are not intrinsically warlike, as the common brown-bread folk of the Empire are. The Fharese are cultured, and respect those who respect them.”
“I don’t think any of us will stop you,” Bruesio said, “and I will get you a swift ship and a crew to steer her if that is what you wish to do. You must hurry, though, because of the winter storms.”
“I know what winter storms are, Bruesio,” Kerius sneered. “And I will accept your offer on the ship. I will also need a guide who knows the way to Seshán.”
Bruesio nodded. “There are many resident Fharese in the city. I will fetch one of those as well.”
“Then I will go, and pay the Padisha Emperor the respect he deserves.” Kerius frowned. “If the brown-bread electorate chooses another war hawk in my absence, then they will get what is coming to them. As for us—the Council—we will make the respect we have for Archamenes very clear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
Dark Clouds
Regent Antonio Laureana
Antonio had been gone from the harem only three days and already he had gone crazy in its absence. He missed the thirty girls in his possession, and his whole body ached now that he left them. Once exposed to what common men could only dream of, suddenly ripping yourself away from it hurt.
He began to question his decision to personally lead the charge as he boarded the flagship Victory. But he needed to correct that arrogant cur, Claudio, and just thinking about the letter Claudio sent him infuriated him to no end.
Clouds were gathering when they left the harbor of Nichaeus, sending the garden-snake of unease wriggling through his gut. Winter lurked in the horizon and the air cooled every day. Soon it would rain, and the sun would hide its face from the people of the Empire.
A steady wind began from the south. The sailors assured Antonio that it was nothing to worry about. He had brought Anthea with him. Before he fed her to the basilisks, he would have his fun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:
Coming Doom
Anthea Abantes
Bound in steel chains, Anthea lay immobile below the deck of the flagship Victory. She shut her eyes and tried to soothe herself.
Better women could find consolation in the gods, and in Heaven; but Anthea had not led a perfect life. Perhaps, the gods would understand the circumstances that made her turn to prostitution. But Anthea had done worse than sell her body to the night. Under pressure from the terrifying Lady Ciutta, she beat the lesser brothel-girls when they refused to take on an ugly or frightening client. Under pressure from Ciutta, she dropped poison into the wineglasses of innocents. Despite the pressure from her madam, Anthea could have stopped it. She could have refused. She could have run away. She could have fled to Sanctum and become a vestal.
Simply put, she was bound for Hell.
At the thought a shiver ran up her spine, and she convulsed. I was born a poor Eloesian girl, Anthea prayed silently. No one ever gave me a chance. I fell through the cracks… I lost my way. I am a victim as much as anyone else. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with her sleeves.
Antonio towered above her. Despite her sobs, there was no empathy in his eyes, only anger. When she first saw him, she never guessed what a monster he was. She showed the intent of poisoning him; that was enough for a death sentence. But to drag it on for days and weeks… to force himself upon her and beat her until welts covered every part of her body! All this with the threat of the basilisks.
At the sight of him, her bruises ached as if in expectation.
“Well, well, Anthea.” Antonio smiled. “Do you know there is a certain species of spider… I’m not sure what it’s called, but the name doesn’t matter. Once the dominant finds its mate, and has its way with her, he eats her, little by little. That’s the way of nature, I guess. You are passive, Anthea. And I am your lord, your domino… your god. And—like that spider—I was I’ll do whatever I like to you. And you don’t have any choice.”
She spat in his face. “You aren’t a man!”
Antonio’s face flared to a cherry red. He fell upon her and beat her with his fists. Softer than the branch he used last night, Anthea mused. But the welts flared up with each punch and soon she was sobbing quietly, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… forgive me my lord, my domino…”
She hated him more than ever; but fear is stronger than hate. She crumpled before him as his blows continued. She let him have his way with her; she let him enter her, and she prayed again that the one from before—that Claudio—would save her… the only good man in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY:
Seshán Must Burn!
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
Claudio rode Borak through the wilderness. The Asa—on their quick, sleek horses—meandered from one watering-hole to the next, knowing every detail of the dry, sandy desert. At night, they picked the few plants that grew throughout the bleak landscape and made a special brew. When Claudio first tried it, he spat it out and thought it was the most foul-tasting concoction he’d ever put to his lips. But as the nights progressed, it tasted better to him; and soon he liked it better than water. The Asa called it akil, and said that boiling the plant cleaned the water and gave the drinker vigor.
Day by day, watering-hole by watering-hole, the Asa made their way across the desert. Soon the green took over: irrigation ditches flowing from the Khazan River, its wheat-crop nearly ripe for the cutting. Date-palms, patches of watermelon, and barley grew also; but the Asa did not bother with such luxuries. As Nued, and Wife-of-Nued, told him, they followed the demigod Claudio’s command; and he wished to return to Haroon—what the Asa called the Place of Unmoving Tents.
At last it was before them; Haroon, red city of sandstone. Jewel of the Desert, some called it. But as Claudio approached at the Asa’s vanguard, he could see—on the turrets—the flag of Fharas, the Four-Pointed Star. The gates were open. The satrap Faridún did not expect Claudio to return alive.
“Ehu!” Charge. As soon as Claudio gave the order, the Asa understood. They plunged through the gates, galloping and throwing a cloud of dust into the air. Under a clear blue sky they thundered through the city. Women screamed. Men ran out of the way, bolting into alleys to avoid the horses’ trampling hooves.
None could stand before the Asa’s might. Soldiers in full armor shrieked and fled before them. Claudio led them through streets and up hills to the Royal Palace of Haroon. Soon the red wonder stood before him. The iron portcullis was shut, and a group of five guards—black-bearded, in Fharese dress—stood watch. Their hands trembled but they had nowhere to go.
As it should be. Claudio smiled. “Il bahar,” he said. Kill them.
In a moment’s span, the bows went up and the arrows flew, piercing the guards like pincushions. They drew in their last gasps and sank to the flo
or one-by-one, unable to talk. The Asa’s reputation for marksmanship was well-deserved.
How will we get in? Claudio wondered. The Asa were fierce fighters, but Haroon’s royal palace was of stone and steel. Flaming arrows could not draw the Queen of Haroon and the scheming satrap out. So what could?
For several minutes, they stood in the shadow of the gate. Claudio wondered what had happened to the Imperial army he left; had the Queen of Haroon slaughtered them all? The army outnumbered the queen’s and outmatched her men in skill, so that seemed so very unlikely.
Claudio felt the queen approach before he saw her. She walked up to the portcullis, wearing a beaded headdress and a red midriff. For an instant, Claudio saw her bulbous nose and masculine features, and wondered how on earth he had lusted for her so badly. Then he looked into her eyes and her spell once again fell over him; this time, he realized it was a spell, and diverted his glance.
“Foul queen,” Claudio said, not looking at her. “What have you done with my soldiers?”
“Claudio,” Astarthe said, “truly you are born of heaven. Under an evil moon you traveled the desert; but you have returned with the fearsome Asa.”
“Shut your mouth, lupa!” Claudio snapped. To call a queen that name was an insult bordering on sacrilege, but she deserved the title. “You swore to honor Imperium, Spirit of the Empire. You betrayed my trust.” Claudio kept eyeing the ground. “Open the portcullis or I’ll have the Asa kill you where you stand.”
“Look at me!” Astarthe shrieked.
Her words proved to Claudio that she was a wise-woman of some kind; a weaver of emotions, a shaper of wills. Some eldritch power was in her eyes, and despite her strange features she had great power over men.
“Open the portcullis! You have five seconds. Five… four… three…”
From Astarthe’s mouth came a loud, ear-piercing caterwaul. But it ended as soon as it began; she screamed, “Open it!” and the steel barrier lifted.
The Asa bound her in rope made of twisted desert brush. Claudio ordered her blindfolded. He told the Asa horsemen to stay behind and block the exit, and then—with Chieftain Nued, Wife-of-Nued, and a handful of dismounted warriors—entered the Royal Palace. The sandstone corridors brought back memories of the queen’s bewitchment. Now she was helpless, at his mercy.
As it should be.
In time they reached the throne room. Faridún stood near the throne itself. When he saw Claudio, his eyes widened, and he screamed. He turned and ran but the Asa warriors were quicker; their muscular legs carried them like the wind, and they cut him off at the door. Nued and his wife remained by Claudio’s side.
Claudio grinned. He would make an example of this satrap.
The Asa grabbed Faridún, restraining him with their strong dark hands.
“Achar,” Claudio ordered. Still. He looked into Faridún’s wide eyes, and saw wormlike terror in them. “What shall I do with you? The man who led me into the desert, thinking I would die? The Asa revere me as a god. And now what shall I do with you? I know one thing: I will flog you senseless first. But after that… do you have any suggestions? Shall I feed you to the basilisks? Shall I roast you on a pyre?”
Faridún was mumbling incoherently. Astarthe, blindfolded, let out a shriek.
“You are a worm, Faridún,” Claudio sneered. “Admit you are a worm. Say it. Say ‘I am a worm.’”
“Imperial dogs!” Faridún hissed. He looked up at Claudio, eyes suddenly lighting with anger, and spat.
“Beat him until he stops moving!” Claudio growled. “Then we will roast him. And this one…” He eyed Astarthe. “What to do with her? Perhaps I will grant the lupa mercy if she tells me where my soldiers are.”
The Asa warriors near Faridún grabbed candelabras. The treacherous satrap cried out as the first blows landed.
“My lord,” Astarthe mumbled. “You know I have sworn fealty to you.”
“Where are my soldiers, lupa? I will not ask again!” Claudio tightened his grip on her.
“They are many leagues from here. I convinced them that they should serve Archamenes; a lord of Sur is taking them to the King of Kings. They are probably in the desert, or already to Gor Ilán and the Satrapy of Seshán.”
“Your words make sense.” Claudio threw her to the ground. “But in all my time with you I have never known you to be honest, Astarthe. I would threaten you with death, but that hasn’t worked. I have made you swear fealty to me, to the god Imperium.”
“To the god Claudio,” Astarthe corrected him.
“Shut your mouth, lupa. I am not a god.” Claudio glared at the blindfolded queen. “Killing a woman is something I hoped I would never have to do. It is the lowest of all lows. It is against what my father taught me. But I’ve realized, now, that it is necessary. You, Astarthe, I cannot leave alive.”
“So ends the thousand-year reign of holy Anakh and Astarthe; brother and sister, man and wife, purebloods to the last generation. Alas for me!”
Claudio pitched back his sword. “Alas for you, indeed!”
Astarthe turned and ripped off her blindfold. She looked up at him; her eyes were like black marbles, soulless and mad. “Do not kill me!” she boomed. Claudio nearly obeyed the command, but the blow was already coming. The blade sliced through her neck and severed the queen’s head. Her body hit the ground with a thump, and a pool of blood collected where it lay.
The conquest of Haroon was complete.
Claudio received reports that the enslaved soldiers were not far-off. Astarthe’s bewitchment apparently occurred the night before, and they were still in the Khazan River Valley. Men of Sur held them against their will.
With the Asa, Claudio galloped out of the gates of Haroon. The last dying screams of Faridún—roasting on a pyre—soon vanished from Claudio’s ears.
The Empire never left a soldier behind, let alone six thousand. In the middle of the night, they reached the camp—a gathering of tents in a rare break in the wheat-fields. The Imperial soldiers had turned against the men of Sur; perhaps the spell had broken with the sorceress’s death.
But one man of Sur remained alive. He was a lord of Sur, and perhaps they thought he would fetch a high ransom.
“Do not kill him!” Claudio shouted. They would need a guide.
Astride Borak, Claudio gazed at his troops, one after the other.
“Seshán must burn!” he roared. “The King of Kings must answer to the Empire! Southward! We must go southward into the plains of Gor Ilán. Seshán must burn!”
“Seshán must burn!” the soldiers roared in return.
Astride Borak, Claudio turned and headed south. Behind him rode five-thousand Asa and the Imperial soldiers—a force that now numbered eleven-thousand.
The words repeated in his mind: Archamenes must answer to the Empire. Seshán must burn! Onward!
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE:
An Empire In Decline
Lucello Seldano Kerius, August
Kerius’ journey had begun a week ago. They sailed from Imperial City to Zoar and—with a small group of Imperial soldiers and a band of desert-men guides—navigated the treacherous desert beyond Kheroe and reached Gor Ilán (“High Plains” in the Fharese tongue). He handed the desert-men several pouches of silver as promised, and bade them goodbye. They rode off on their camels.
Over the days he had noticed how polite and respectful they were. They were so unlike the insolent individualists of the Empire: the ungrateful, unintelligent and worthless citizens Kerius presided over.
Before him was a vast, rolling plain of knee-high yellow grass and an occasional juniper. The sun beat down with unbearable strength, and even hidden in the light white robes of the desert-men, sweat covered every inch of Kerius’s body. Down a winding dirt road, Kerius—accompanied by his soldiers and his translator—began the southward journey toward Seshán.
An ancient city. The Queen of Cities, as some called it. A jewel that hardly any man in the north had ever glimpsed.
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For two days, they traveled down the road. The villages they passed were shabby, composed of unadorned mudbrick houses and unkempt streets. The men wore long brown robes of uncolored wool. The women did not wear veils—the red and green lace veils of Khazidees seemed to be noblewomen’s attire. They were poor, but they respected authority. They respected Archamenes, unlike the arrogant Imperial citizens who despised their rulers.
The Empire’s ceaseless robbery caused these people’s poverty. They were disadvantaged because of the Empire’s aggression, because of the Empire’s domination of trade in the markets of Haroon. The imbalance needed righting, but with such an insolent, greedy populace, the Imperial Council would have to work very hard to correct this great wrong.
On the afternoon of the second day, a group of Fharese warriors rode in on horses. All but one wore simple mail shirts and wielded curved steel scimitars. Their leader was covered head-to-toe in mixed plate and mail armor—as was his horse—and he gripped a spear in his right hand. The extensive armor proved his identity as a cataphract, the strongest of Fharese warriors and the superior of any Imperial soldier.
In unison the Fharese drew their scimitars. The cataphract barked foreign words at Kerius.
The translator spoke. “He says, ‘Northerners, by the look of you. And of such little number! Have you lost your minds?’”
Kerius laughed and smiled warmly. “Tell him, ‘I come to bring a message to your lord Archamenes. A message of great hope! Our empire has been aggressive in its dealings with you, and I want to express our sorrow to the King of Kings, God Manifest.’”
For a while, the cataphract said nothing; his face was unreadable through his steel visor. Finally he answered, speaking again in his tongue.