Unconquered Son

  “Imperiopoli!” a woman shouted in reply.

  Claudio nodded grimly. After Archamenes’ sack of the city, this group had been sold as slaves. Who knows where the men of Sur would have taken them? To slave markets in the South Seas? To some sweltering jungle? “You are free,” he said. “Come with me.”

  From the slavers’ coffers Claudio confiscated several chests worth of gold, a few silver dragon idols and a handful of ruby amulets. If the slavers meant to take the Imperiopolans to Sur, it would be another several weeks of journeying. The southlands were vast, and Seshán—far though it was from the Empire—was only the northernmost tip.

  The journey that took an hour on horses took much longer on foot, thanks to the Imperiopolans’ slow walk. The sun’s rays were just beginning to spread over the plains when they reached the Imperial soldiers—and there, in the light of new day—Claudio comprehended the carnage.

  The bodies of the three-thousand Fharese had been gathered in many piles and now charred on an open flame. Imperial citizens traditionally bury their dead—with the exception of the emperors—but in Fharas, fire was sacred. If the soldiers intended to disrespect the corpses, they made a cultural error. If, in fact, they meant to accord them honor in the Fharese way, they succeeded; and good for them.

  The carnage was not limited to the Fharese—not by any means. The charred corpses of soldiers, devoured by the magi’s flames, lay there in greater number than the enemy. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers had perished, their armor melted from the searing flames. Claudio would have to do a count of his soldiers, but he had underestimated the power of the fire-storm; he guessed half of his men had gone to see the gods.

  The Asa had fared better. Only a few of their number had passed on.

  Claudio looked back at the bodies of his troops. A weight fell over him; a weight for the wives and children of these brave soldiers, of their lives suddenly taken from them. They had succeeded; Claudio had succeeded. Archamenes, King of Kings, the self-proclaimed God Manifest, was now bound in chains and en route to Imperial City. The lord, now without title, no longer sat on his mountainous throne. The Empire had been avenged; and Archamenes had answered to Imperium. But was it worth all these lives? For a second, Claudio wondered.

  He rode up to his troops on Borak. “We will bury these men!” he shouted. “It is a shame their resting-places are in a foreign land. But perhaps they will be a testament to our mission, lying underneath the Plain of Gor Ilán.”

  They set to work at once, digging vast holes where they could bury the brave soldiers. Together, they said a prayer. Then, in mid-morning, they departed and began the journey north.

  They crossed the yellowish land of the Rock Forts, this time riding openly down the main road. It was wide, and crammed with Fharese merchants. Claudio would not restrain their trade, although he could see Chieftain Nued eyeing the rolls of silk and canisters of spice. Several times, Archamenes cried out for help; each time, his attendant beat him, and eventually, even the proud King of Kings learned his lesson.

  Now, in the full light of the sun, Claudio could tell only three thousand of his troops survived the magi. He was at half-strength, not counting the Asa; and who knew if they, with their strange customs and beliefs, could be trusted? Gods knew, there were cowards and traitors among his own countrymen that would take advantage of his weakness, exchange his gains for treachery and capitulation. He had disobeyed the orders of the Imperial Council. He had gone against the wisdom of the elite for the sake of his people, for the sake of his homeland. There would never be any shortage of traitors in the Empire.

  But as the sun faded, they came within sight of the River Khazan, snaking across the desert and bringing life and greenery wherever it flowed. Before darkness fell, they reached the land of Khazidea, the queer home of a strange people.

  Along the river, through the fertile fields, wound a hard-packed dirt road. It was dark, and the night chill had settled in, when a young Khazidee came running for them, flailing his arms. “Bel ’ai, bel ’ai!” he cried. Milord, milord!

  Claudio, riding at the vanguard, called out in a loud voice: “What is it?”

  A Khazidee within Claudio’s ranks translated the boy’s reply: “An Imperial lord has left his army by itself, intending to sacrifice a girl to the basilisks. In his absence, the army has looted and killed and raped. They defiled the Temple of Great Sagar and stole the Holy Candlestick. Some of them even raped the sacred concubines of the goddess Issa—they must choose the ones they take in holy union. The soldiers have committed a great sacrilege. Please help us, bel ’ai.”

  Claudio shouted his reply. “I will help you! The Empire has always ruled its subjects with respect.”

  Once Claudio words were translated, the Khazidee smiled. He bowed low, then fell prostrate.

  Claudio got the uncomfortable feeling that it was an act of worship. “Stand up, signore,” he demanded. “I will do what I can.”

  But there were more pressing matters, first.

 

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT:

  Venom Flats

  Anthea Abantes

  There they were, larger than any lizards she had ever seen. Larger than the crocodiles of the Khazan River. Skin so smooth that it was difficult to notice the scales. Dark green skin—such a dark green it looked black—with bright yellow patterns that indicated to Anthea its incredibly potent venom. Basilisks, clustered around bright green pools… denizens of a salt flat.

  Perhaps she deserved this; she had killed many men. Women, too. But even in the face of this, all she could think about was her dry throat, how she would give anything for water, to gulp it down and bathe herself in its moisture. Water, lifeblood of mankind.

  A basilisk looked up and hissed; its forked tongue shot from its snout and retreated. The beast’s eyes were yellow, like a crocodile’s except brighter; there was no soul in them, no compassion or warmth. Anthea would say she saw cold, animalistic hunger in those eyes, but that was untrue; beyond coldness, the basilisk’s eyes reflected malevolence—a desire to kill even beyond necessity.

  But all she could think about was thirst; as the basilisk took cautious steps toward them—as Antonio restrained her—she dreamed of waterfalls and rivers, of verdant desert oases.

  A low hissing sound emitted from the basilisk’s snout. In the distance, other basilisks crept cautiously up to the new specimens. Antonio had come here himself, just to watch her die. His bodyguard and the packs of water—water, precious water, which she had not been allowed to drink—were beyond reach of the reptiles, beyond reach of these cold killers.

  As the basilisk approached, looking imperious with its yellow crest, a whimper escaped Antonio. The weakness broke something loose in Anthea: pent-up feelings she had not dared express. Anger at her bruises, anger at the insults, anger at his horrible treatment. She let out a wild shriek and—for the first time—struggled against Antonio.

  She underestimated the strength of his iron thews, grown strong from his many fights and his frequent conditioning. He was like a statue; but Anthea determined to fight harder. She had taken his abuse for so long, and now, if she died, she would die trying to kill him, to make him face even a small portion of what he had given her. The man had forced himself upon her, entered her without her consent, beaten her savagely, and now—now!—she would fight him with everything she had in her.

  She underestimated Antonio, yes; he was strong beyond any man she knew. But she used her intellect against him, kicking a foot beyond his calf and launching her entire weight onto him. Even he, an athlete, could not prevent the fall.

  With a grunt, Antonio hit the white salt of the pan. “Lupa!” he hissed.

  He had called her worse.

  He flipped her around, digging his hands into her shoulders, brown eyes blazing with incalculable rage. The basilisk was almost upon her. Then, a noise so faint it was hardly perceptible; a puncturing of flesh.

  Antonio let out a hoarse gasp. Anthea savored the
terror in his eyes, the subtle trembling of his lip as the poison coursed through his veins.

  “Thank the gods for you, basilisk!” Anthea gasped. “Look at you, Antonio! You failed! You failed!”

  But judging by his shut eyes and convulsing body, he was near dead.

  She ran all the way back to the horses and the dozen bodyguards. Rough men, they were; soldiers of fortune, living only for their daily pay. Not as rough as Anthea’s former clients—not as smelly, as deformed as them—but much tougher. She was utterly at their mercy. Anthea was an assassin, and a successful one; but her ways were subtle, and she wielded poison and a beautiful countenance as her weapons, not the sword.

  She fell to her knees and clasped her hands. “Good soldiers of the Empire,” she begged, “your lord has died. I am a wretch. Please have mercy on a poor, pitiful girl. I am a bad girl, in truth, but have mercy on me. Don’t kill me, I beg of you.”

  Their faces were set in stone, unchanging; Anthea searched their eyes and found no pity in them. One scratched his bulbous nose. Another spat on the sparkling salt-pan.

  “We got to kill her,” said one, whose face was heavily scarred. “Legate’s orders, even if he is dead.”

  Anthea backed away, wondered why in gods’ names she had not run into the desert. After a life in the west side, why had she made the ultimate error—trusting in the goodness of mankind?

  The soldier with the bulbous nose yanked a sharp steel dagger out of its sheath. “Such a pretty one. Too bad she’s got to die.”

  “Wait.” The shortest of the soldiers put a restraining hand on his comrade. “She is pretty. We got no commander anymore. She could go for a few thousand gold pieces. Gods know, those southrons are randy folk, and they like northern women the best of all.”

  “Good point,” said Bulbous Nose. “We should sell her.”

  The other soldiers murmured agreement.

  They had no honor. And now, it would be as they wished: she would serve as the mistress of some strange man of Sur, or worse—gods help her!—some tyrannical lord of Fharas who treats women as chattel. The thoughts sent waves of revulsion through her. To be a slave in the Empire was one thing; she would serve her years in the land she knew and loved. But to be sold into the impossibly-distant slave markets of the south, in a foreign nation where she could not speak the language, to a master with character yet undetermined. Escaping the basilisks had thrust her out of the cookpot and into the smoldering coals. She chafed at the thought, and fell sick.

 

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE:

  Marauders

  Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate

  The sun dawned, and the rosy sky illuminated a pastoral scene: the river Khazan, swiftly gushing across the dry landscape; fields upon fields of wheat and chickpeas; cattle ranches; and, in the distance, a village. Yet despite the pastoral aspect, it was alien to Claudio: crocodiles coasted the waters, and the mudbrick houses were not as beautiful as the red-roofed houses and villas back home.

  Home. The thought of it… the thought of the large northern horses chewing grass in the open pastures. The thought of his mother Catalina, kind-hearted and loving, probably missing him like never before. Here he was, thousands of miles away, and—for once—homesick.

  Yet it was only a passing feeling. The army had pitched tents a hundred yards from the river. Like always he had awoken at dawn, but even at this early hour someone was approaching him: a soldier, judging by his standard-issue armor, sword, and spear. But Claudio did not recognize him.

  “Signor Claudio.” The soldier bowed slightly, then looked up at him to reveal a swarthy face and unruly black hair sticking out of his helmet. “I am honored to meet you.”

  “Speak your mind,” Claudio told him.

  “I come to bear news that Antonio is dead. He was once my commander. I hope you can forgive that misdeed.”

  “It is forgiven,” Claudio said.

  “I believe a soldier without a legate is like a beast without its head. I pledge myself to your service, if you will have me—”

  “I will.”

  “—and there is something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know if serving in Antonio’s legion has poisoned their character, for Antonio is surely a bad man!” the soldier said. “But my comrades have broken into small groups… they’ve been robbing temples, raping the women, defiling the holy places!”

  Only then did it dawn on Claudio that this man was a Khazidee. True, people from the south served in the legions. Sometimes, the Empire used auxiliaries: archers, light cavalry, and the prized Fingers of Barukh. But many—and likely, this man—were deserters from their own country. Khazidea, unlike the Empire, had an extremely rigid social structure that was all but impossible to climb.

  At the top was the satrap—Faridún, before he died—and the brother-sister royalty. From what Claudio understood, the second tier included the minor lords (bels) and the priests, each of whom owned a swath of land. If you were not a satrap, royalty, or a minor noble—and the vast majority were not—you were abjectly poor, and did not even own the wheat and cattle you farmed. The people owned no weapons, and therefore could not rise up against their oppressors. Besides, they lived in such fear that “rebellion” was never spoken of.

  Yet obviously this Khazidean legionary still had respect for his old gods, and was sufficiently disturbed by the soldiers’ desecration to defect to Claudio’s side.

  It was admirable.

  “Do you know Khazidea well?” Claudio asked.

  The legionary nodded. “Like the back of my hand.”

  “Then you will be my guide. We will go from city to city, and purge the province of these evildoers.”

  The legionary—Barca, by name, though he had taken on the name Juliano when he escaped to the Empire—led them to the first village. The most impressive edifice was a temple of sandstone pillars and pointed arches; this, Barca explained, was a temple of Issa. One could tell, he said, because of the frieze along the roof, which depicted her symbols: white tigers and golden crescent moons.

  Without further ado, Claudio entered the vestibule. There, two dozen girls—some barely middle teens—stood there, covering themselves modestly with blankets. Nearby, a group of five Imperial soldiers were busy fixing their breeches; their tousled hair and discarded helmets proved what they had done.

  “By the authority of Imperium,” Claudio boomed, and the soldiers turned in fear, “I sentence you to die. The Empire conquers, but it governs with respect, affording each subject people the right to practice their religion and culture. We are first among equals, and you five have abandoned this principle.”

  “C-Claudio?” one of the soldiers stammered. “I am a citizen… I have rights! You c-can’t just kill us. That’s illegal…”

  “Unfortunately, he is correct.” Claudio frowned. “You will stand trial in whichever province you reside. Until then, lay down your arms; you are my captives.”

  The soldiers removed their swords from their belts and threw their spears on the ground. Claudio’s men bound them with rope and led them away.

  Barca approached the temple concubines. “Oh, you poor girls… they did not understand, they did not care, that you alone can choose to enter holy union. They forced themselves upon you, defiled Issa’s chosen daughters…”

  “What is one of our own people doing in Imperial dress?” one of the girls ventured to say, speaking through the lens of a heavy Khazidean accent.

  Barca looked down; perhaps he had no answer. “Purify yourselves, girls… then again embark on the task the goddess has given you.”

  Claudio said nothing. The idea of this supposedly Heaven-ordained prostitution sickened him, and the thought of the diseases these pitiful girls might be exposed to racked him with chills; but it was not the Empire’s way to change the customs of a newly-annexed province. These poor girls—pious, perhaps, but enslaved to this sickening tradition—would go on doing as they wished. It was n
one of Claudio’s business how they earned their daily bread.

  From village to village, Barca led Claudio and his army. The Imperial soldiers, being citizens, could not be killed indiscriminately and required a fair trial. Claudio disarmed them all.

  One night, halfway through the northward journey, they camped beside the river. Wife-of-Nued approached Claudio in his grand tent. “My lord,” she said, and bowed deeply.

  “What is it?” Claudio said.

  “My husband says you are still a god… but he has changed his mind on one thing. You are not god of war, like we thought. You do not kill your enemies. You are womanly and take them captive. He says you are god of women and feminine mysteries, and of cycles of life. We will serve you no longer. We leave tonight. Horsemen are already gathered. Goodbye.”

  Claudio flew to his feet and reached for his sword; he grasped air, for he was dressed for bed and his sheath was halfway across the tent. Through clenched teeth, he growled in the Eloesian tongue: “You and your people will face the full extent of my wrath when I am crowned emperor.”

  Only then, after the words were spoken, did he realize his goal all along: not just to restore the Empire’s glory, but also to sit upon the White Throne.

  He continued with the thought. “Your taxes will be onerous. You will serve as full soldiers, but I will treat you as less than citizens. I will evict you from your homeland…”

  “You lie,” Wife-of-Nued said. “No one can defeat us… Conquering Asa answer to no one except gods of war.” And she departed.

  Blood boiling, Claudio thought of harming her, but he held back. Starting a skirmish with these powerful warriors might spell the end of his already thinned-out legion. Instead, he struck the tent and growled to himself, cursing these proud nomads. “I’m keeping Borak!” he shouted after her.

  And indeed they left Borak to him. Riding on the swift horse, they continued through Khazidea for a matter of weeks, securing control over the various villages and towns. It was more difficult without the fierce Asa, and with Wife-of-Nued’s caustic insults hanging over his head. But at last, by the middle of Candlebright—the first true month of winter—the sandstone walls of Haroon lay before them. Justice had been done; the people of Khazidea were free to practice their customs as they wished, and the once-proud King of Kings lay bound in chains, treated like the lowest of slaves. Antonio’s soldiers were in captivity, their weapons discarded.