Unconquered Son

  They set out. The priest’s men had to take out the oars. The wind—perhaps due to Tivera’s prayerful mutterings—did not favor them. The oars creaked on their hinges; and with each stroke Marcus’ shivering increased, his breath colder and shallower.

  Yet in time—and, upon first glance, in sight of shore—the men stopped their rowing. The priest of Orkus’ eyes widened. The wind had picked up from the west, and in that direction, steely gray clouds had gathered.

  “You may not think we are far from shore,” the priest of Orkus rasped. “You may, mistakenly, think you are safe. Yet here, beneath the deck of this vessel, is one of the deepest chasms of the ocean. A rift of incomprehensible depth; and some say, if you sink here, the world will end before you hit bottom.” The familiar sharkish grin crept over mouth. “And now, Orkus, lord of sharks, friend of pirates… I commend these souls into your gaping jaws…”

  “Tivera!” Marcus blurted in desperation. “Tivera! Shine!”

  Tivera made a startled sound: half a gasp, half a whimper. At the command her eyes brightened; convulsions overtook her, like those of childbirth. She obviously wanted to shine, yet loosing this power from herself obviously caused her pain. She let out a whimper; her skin turned translucent, a light shining through a veil.

  “Dump them!” the priest of Orkus hissed.

  A pirate laid his meaty fingers around Tivera’s shoulders.

  She screamed. She was a lamp; light burst from her luminous skin, shining like a star. The priest of Orkus cowered before the blinding light. Marcus hid his eyes, but even through his flesh the light was blinding.

  Tivera screamed, as if in pain. The priest of Orkus fell out of the boat and landed with a splash in the water. The priests’ servants cried out.

  Despite the blinding light, despite the pulsing, radiant energy illuminating from this girl—this insane and gifted lass, this freak, as some might call her—Marcus stood up, and squinted just enough to look at his environs.

  In a second’s lapse, the light ended. Tivera crumpled to the deck in tears. The men grasped about, fumbling this way and that. She had blinded them. But she—perhaps on purpose, or by her goddess’s will—had not blinded Marcus.

  Everything suddenly seemed dark. Still, Marcus finished what he intended when he had stood up. He yanked a sword out of one of the pirate’s sheaths, cheap thing that it was, and—leaning precipitously out of the boat—thrust the steel blade at the priest of Orkus. The wicked man was, perhaps, three feet out into the choppy waters, but he was blind and offered no resistance. The blade bit through his thick cotton robe like it was air, sliced through ribs and striking the heart with a spurt of blood. The water turned red.

  One by one, Marcus finished off the rest of the priest’s men. They, too, were blind, and offered no resistance. Grasping air, eyes white and useless, they resembled—in Marcus’s mind—what they truly were. Dark-hearted, blind to life and honor, ignorant of all goodness, grasping for the wind.

  He stabbed them and tossed them into the water, one by one. The water, already grown red by the priest’s blood, grew an even brighter shade of crimson. Then, spattered with blood, Marcus laid the sword down on the deck, and rested his bones. All thanks to Tivera, Marcus could live another day. It was a debt he could never repay.

  She had collapsed to her knees, and the sleeves of her gown were already wet with tears. He stooped over her and put a firm hand around her shoulder. “You did a great thing, Tivera… you saved my life.”

  “I feel blood on your hands,” she said.

  The words surprised him. “It was necessary.”

  “It was not,” Tivera said.

  Marcus surveyed the seas around him. The gruesome spectacle—the bodies floating in the water—indeed looked like a spat of reckless carnage. But it was necessary. “If I had not done that, they would have killed us.”

  Tivera’s eyes opened. They were red from weeping. “Mira, my goddess… she blinded them. They did not stand a chance to hurt us. You killed them. I’m sad for them. Mira’s light touches all… Mira’s light blinds evil… it does not kill evildoers. Killing is bad. Killing is always bad!”

  Her trembling lips were apple red. Marcus looked at the skies. He could not operate this vessel. A wind was blowing from the west, and already the water had grown choppy. Though they were—distantly—in sight of land, it would still be a treacherous journey to swim there. In these waters, it would be very difficult.

  “Do you swim?” Marcus asked.

  “No!” she screamed. “I can’t swim… I hate water… we need to get out! We need to get out!”

  “It will be okay.” Yet Marcus’s words did nothing to ease the trembling that had overtaken her.

  He tried to row, but the wind was strong; it was blowing them steadily east into the sea.

  A ship appeared in the distance; a large galley with several sails and many dozens of oars. As the wind bore them across the seas, Marcus called out, “Shine! Shine again, Tivera!”

  Tivera listened to him. Though the light was smaller than the burst of radiance before, it was bright enough to shine like the beacon of a lighthouse. So, too, was it shorter-lived; it was a burst of light, lasting perhaps five seconds, and then gone. Yet it was enough; for the ship began to sail toward them. Tivera collapsed in exhaustion, but she had saved them twice today—first in overcoming the priest of Orkus, and then in drawing in these sailors.

  Silently Marcus prayed that these were good men, that they were not pirates or thieves or murderers. But—as he watched Tivera lay there, drawing in exhausted gasps—he knew he would find out very soon.

  Soon the ship reached them. The men aboard did not look like pirates, at least from what Marcus could tell. They did not seem to be military men, though a few wore swords on their belts. One man leaned over the railing and called out, “Are you in danger?”

  “Obviously!” The shouted reply was perhaps more brusque than Marcus intended. “We need help! If you are going anywhere, take us. We are in poor condition.”

  “I see that!” the man replied. “There is blood all over you.”

  “We ran into pirates! Their undoing was their own fault. I only sped up the gods’ justice.”

  “We are bound for Zoar, but we are stopping in Peregoth as our port-of-call… you may ride with us there, or to Zoar if you wish to go that far.”

  Marcus could think of a lot worse places to stay than Peregoth, ancient founding city of the Empire—though now her glory was faded like a flower in autumn, and the center of power had moved mainland, she still held a place in the hearts of men.

  He glanced at Tivera. Without thinking beforehand, he asked her, “Can we trust them?”

  “Yes!” she answered. “Yes! They will do as they say…”

  Marcus led Tivera onboard and soon the ship was on its way.

  The city of Peregoth, though its name was no longer revered like in the past, was still impressive to look upon. Layers of white concentric walls, going ever higher and higher until reaching their pinnacle, stretched high above the waters of the bay. The Colossus—famous around the world—greeted them, an emblem of the city’s former glory.

  The ship docked in its port of call. Marcus thanked them, though he had no money; it had all been confiscated, ripped from his hands by the pirates and their dark priest, and now he would wander the streets penniless.

  Out of the harbor district, through the gate of the first wall, they entered the city of Peregoth. Townhomes—all built of stone—overlooked the paved streets. Within their rooms, old Imperial families went about their affairs. They had money, unlike Marcus.

  The sun was dipping below the western ocean, beneath the endless waters never explored by man. In the fading twilight, he held Tivera tight; he huddled into an alley. And as he did, he realized a priestess was walking toward him. In her slender white hands, she held a shepherd’s crook. Her head was completely bald. She was a priestess of Amara, the Good Mother, and removed her hair—the pride of woma
nkind—to show her devotion.

  “You look troubled.” Her voice was soft. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “No…” Marcus frowned.

  “The Temple of Amara houses the desperate. You are always welcome… you may follow me there, if you wish. It does not matter if you are sick, or crippled.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. “Thank you.” And he hugged her.

  He could think of a much worse fate than staying in a hospice. Until he got back on his feet, he would spend Yule here, in this ancient city of man, and New Years, and perhaps more holidays after that. But for now, he and Tivera had a place to stay and meager fare to eat; and for that, he could not help but be thankful.

 

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

  Disobedience

  Bruesio Lornodoris, August

  “The first order of business,” Bruesio told the Council, “is some disconcerting news out of the south.” He read from a scroll. “‘Apelles of the Pharsis Family, of the City of Megaris, says this: Be advised that your young general, Claudio, has disobeyed your commands and set sail for Haroon. May he come to ruin! Whether he has met with ill fortune or completed his insolent goals does not matter. He is proud and dangerous.”

  “Good for Claudio!” shouted the—according to some, warmongering—councilor from Gad, Geta.

  “Enough!” Bruesio roared. “And Kerius, do not rebuke him. We do not need any more petulant bickering from you two.”

  Kerius was glaring at Geta. Bruesio knew the two never agreed on anything. “Now,” he continued. “That is not the last of it. A new missive from Haroon.” He dropped the first on the floor, took another one and opened it. “It says this, councilors: ‘Dear regent, the city of Haroon has been conquered and utterly subdued. Claudio’s soldiers pilfer treasure from the holy temples, and the boy himself wears the turban of a great southron lord. Yet resentment is building; for Queen Astharte, a great temptress, has cast her intoxicating spell over him and rumor has it they have begun an affair. Signed: Edelio, Tribune.’” Bruesio looked over the twenty-nine faces that stared at him. Some were stricken with abject horror; others, with anger. Only Councilor Geta looked pleased.

  “He has disobeyed Imperial order,” said Councilor Kerius. “Therefore, Claudio must be brought back to Imperial City and executed.”

  Through gritted teeth, Geta growled his reply. “The only people you wish to execute are those who stand against the Empire’s enemies.”

  “Enough!” Bruesio called out. “I will not tolerate another bickering match, as I said before.”

  “We should send the Nichaean Legion to fight him,” suggested Councilor Fabiano. “He has grown arrogant. And with this victory over Haroon, he will become the most prideful man in the whole Empire! He will be a threat to us all!”

  “That is complicated,” Bruesio said. “The rebellion grows in the north.”

  “Who cares?” hissed Councilor Kerius. “This boy must be stopped! He obviously hates the Fharese! He invades a sovereign land, robs temples, and proclaims the Empire’s virtues! The Empire has committed injustices too numerous to count. We invaded Eloesus long ago, a great center of learning, and now we want to add Fharas?”

  “Do not forget Gad,” said Councilor Geta. “I come from Gad; my family comes from Gad, and I am glad the Empire rules us.”

  Councilor Kerius sneered. “Oh, you brown-bread Gadites, blond and pasty—having no culture or science, always urging people to war, yet you are poor and the least of all peoples. It is no wonder you cling to your swords and your farming gods and farming festivals, because you are so destitute and wretched, and cannot possibly understand great intellect.”

  Geta went red.

  “Stop!” Bruesio roared. “No more personal insults, Kerius, and no more hawkish statements from you, Geta.”

  Geta’s face reddened even further.

  “Solutions, councilors!” Bruesio demanded. “That is what we are called to do.”

  “I make a motion that we send the Nichaean Legion to face him,” said Councilor Fabiano.

  Bruesio shook his head. “The rebellion grows in the north.”

  “Are you really that worried about a bunch of runaway slaves?” Fabiano laughed.

  Bruesio decided to play devil’s advocate. “Winter nears.”

  “We still have time to transport the troops,” said Councilor Arappo, a man from Bregantium who took an amateur interest in sailing. “We have one or two weeks before the storms begin in earnest.”

  “And where will the fleet winter?” asked Bruesio. It was an important question, one that needed to be answered.

  “If they cannot return in time, they can winter in Megaris,” Arappo said.

  An easy solution, Bruesio reflected. “So we will send the Nichaean Legion to Haroon, capture Claudio and bring him back to answer for his crimes. That is what we propose?”

  “I would add something,” Councilor Kerius said. “Once Claudio is taken care of, we will send a delegation first to Haroon and then to Seshán. We make a formal apology to both the queen of Haroon and to Archamenes himself, and make it clear we do not agree with Claudio’s conquest.”

  Geta was nearly purple.

  “I would agree about apologizing to the queen,” Bruesio said, “though I would venture to guess the damage is already done. However, apologizing to Archamenes seems inappropriate, as he just invaded one of our territories.”

  “Finally, some sense!” Geta cried.

  “Shut it, Geta,” Bruesio snapped. He looked at the other councilors. “So here is the proposition, good members of the Council: The legion disembarks from Nichaeus, arrives in Haroon several days later. We defeat Claudio’s army, and bring the spoiled brat back in chains. We send a delegation to make formal apologies.” Bruesio scanned the councilors in their seats. “All for?”

  Twenty-eight hands went up.

  “All against?”

  One hand went up—Geta’s.

  “I will bring our decision for the regent’s approval,” Bruesio said.

 

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:

  Insolence

  Regent Antonio Laureana

  The news was disconcerting indeed. “You mean to say,” Antonio began, “that Claudio has successfully captured Haroon.”

  “It appears so,” Bruesio answered. “But the Council has—with your permission—made a proposal.”

  “What of it?”

  The proposition about the Nichaean Legion was in good judgment, as far as Antonio was concerned. “Let it be done,” Antonio said. “We must punish Claudio. He has no idea what his place is.”

  Really—since the place was established—Antonio only cared about his harem. Thirty girls served within, and he often bedded more than one a day. Anthea, the blonde Eloesian girl, Portia, the redhead Anthanian, and Anica, the blonde and blue-eyed Gadite, were his favorites. Life had never been this exciting. Now any girl in the Empire with half a mind would be his.

  Some prudes might call it an unhealthy obsession, but truthfully, it was every man’s dream. Occasionally, he told himself there were things more important than the harem, but his animal side wouldn’t listen.

  As he sat on the White Throne, he was getting anxious to go back downstairs to the pleasure house. But it appeared Imperium, Divine Force of the Empire, had other plans. A messenger arrived bearing a letter. It had an Imperial seal, indicating official business: a man of some import had apparently written it.

  “My lord emperor,” the messenger said, “a letter from Grand Legate Claudio-Valens Adamantus.”

  Antonio repressed a shudder. “Read.”

  The messenger broke the seal and read it: “Lord Antonio, it has become clear to me that I am the only one in the government who cares about the Empire. Your request for me to return is denied. Neither you, Antonio—nor any of the members of the Imperial Council—fit the example of the founder of the Empire, Peregothius. Imperial City has become a den of vice and cowardice. Let it be know
n that the city of Haroon and the entire Khazan River Valley is completely mine, and all its riches now belong to me. I request you change your mind; else, I will have to change it for you. –Signed: Claudio-Valens, Grand Legate and new Lord of Haroon.”

  “I will not tolerate threats!” Antonio roared. “Tell me, messenger. Whom do you serve?”

  “The Empire,” the messenger answered.

  “Do you serve me, your emperor, or do you serve the Empire like this spoiled boy?”

  “I don’t know,” the messenger said. “Can’t one serve both?”

  “The emperor is the Empire,” Antonio said. “I will spare your life. Leave me now before I change my mind.”

  The messenger hurried out the door.

  “Fetch me Artavio,” he told the Imperial Guards in their red halfcloaks who stood beside him.

  In time, Artavio, chief clerk and a man of eastern learning, arrived in the throne room. “What can I do for you, lord regent?” As always, he had his wax tablet in hand, for writing and making writing public were his sole duties.

  “Write this letter and send it to the governors of every province. Say this: ‘Claudio, the son of the legate Lucento has—without the consent of either the Council or the sitting Regent—entered the city of Haroon. While there he has fallen under the spell of the lecherous Queen of Haroon. As a witch she has captured him, and as her willing slave, he wishes to conquer the whole of the Empire for her. If he has his way, he will let her rule as a despot in the style of Fharas, with neither the Council nor the governors to keep him in balance.’ Send one to Bregantium, one to Sanctum, one to Thénai and another to Peregoth; and have the governors send heralds to every magistrate to announce his treason!”

  “It shall be done, Your Worship,” Artavio said.

  Antonio dismissed him with a wave of his hand. One thing Antonio demanded of all people was respect. Now, with that snide missive the spoiled boy had sent him, he wouldn’t play fair. He would turn all the people of the Empire that Claudio loved so dearly against him. He would send the full force of the legion, and he would personally lead it.