Haroon drew nigh.
The gatekeepers had no choice but to let them in. Here, they would spend the solstice: Yule, a cheery festival in the otherwise gloomy season of winter; but Claudio did not know whether the Khazideans observed it. One thing he did know: with the month of Freezedeep approaching, New Years was on the horizon, and this year marked the millennial celebration of the Empire’s founding. Every town and city across the provinces would celebrate; it was the thousandth Year of the Empire. Raucous celebration would fill the streets from Imperial City to Thénai, from Ten Cities to far-flung Brilium. Priests would ask the gods for another thousand years of prosperity and benevolent rule. The Pontifex would speak on the honor and justness of the Empire from his seat in Sanctum. It would be a New Years to remember.
But for now, he had more pressing things to worry about. The mid-afternoon sun beat warmly upon them as they entered the city of Haroon. Its red sandstone edifices dominated their vision. As they passed through the gates, the dry, burning heat of the sun continued; the light that guided the day was not kind to Khazidea, and even in winter, it scorched the populace. The moderating effects of the Imperial Sea seemed absent to Claudio; the capital did not feel any cooler than further inland.
Yet the sight of civilization—as foreign as it was, as unknown and unwholesome—filled Claudio with relief. Inward they marched, through the packed-dirt main thoroughfare. If Claudio had any say in matters, the Empire would pave its streets as a gift to the new provincials.
Forming a massive line, with Claudio at the vanguard—riding on Borak—the soldiers marched past temples to Issa, patron goddess of the Khazidees, and those of her lover Atman; Athra, god of fire favored by the magi; Sagar, god of war; and countless shrines to other divinities that Claudio did not recognize.
At last they came to the city square, one of the few paved parts of Haroon. The Royal Palace loomed over it. As the soldiers marched in, the people in the square scattered.
Strange, Claudio thought; but soon he realized that a slave auction of some kind had been underway, and that Imperial soldiers, not Khazidees, were the ones running away.
A man of Sur was the lone straggler; perhaps he had made a bid. Yet on the platform next to him, the “commodity” lay untouched: a young woman in her late teens or early twenties stood there, bound in iron shackles. The bruises that covered her, the weak gaze of her eyes and the trembling of her arms, failed to mask her incredible beauty. Long, dark brown hair, and chestnut eyes; a perfectly-curved body, and a kind face that seemed a fit model for any artist.
For once, in the many weeks since Astarthe’s dark spell, Claudio—conqueror of Fharas, friend of the Asa nomads, capturer of the King of Kings—felt utterly undone by this slave, unworthy of her presence.
Nervous.
In battle he had led the charge against the magi; he had penetrated deep into enemy territory without turning back. Now, he lacked the courage to even meet the slave’s glance. Yet he did find the courage to shout, “Free her!”
And a group of soldiers, perhaps less intimidated by this woman’s beauty, hurried up to the platform and—not without a struggle—undid her chains. As Claudio watched, she half-ran, half-stumbled over to him; with each step his gut clenched.
And when she finally reached him, looming above her on Borak, she fell face-first before him—prostrate—and shouted, “I commend myself utterly into your service! It will be my honor to become your slave.”
“Up! Stand up!” Claudio’s voice cracked. “I am not a southern despot. I am not the King of Kings. Stand up… if you must bow, bow only slightly. If you must show respect, show only a little.”
She stood up, and her slowness in completing the deed indicated reluctance. “You are Claudio… I met you in the Imperial Palace. I will die happy if you take me as your slave. You, alone, out of all the men in the Empire, are good and kind.”
It all came flashing back to Claudio: the beautiful girl in southron costume, the—in her own words—whore from the west side. She was a prostitute, a lupa, yet Claudio would not hold it against her. “You will not be my slave!” he said. “But you may stay in my entourage. I will house you for the winter here, and you may stay with me as long as you wish.”
“Thank you, thank you.” She repeated the gibbering words many times, as if supplicating some foreign god. Judging by the desperation of her tone and the state of her body, she had been under severe duress. “You truly are different. You truly are set above…”
Claudio’s soldiers took up residence throughout the city, and Claudio—with his personal bodyguard, and joined with this new girl (whose name, he soon learned, was Anthea)—took up residence in the Royal Palace. Archamenes, under the constant supervision of soldiers, was kept in the grimmest Haroon prison Claudio could find.
And thus, Claudio and Anthea spent the first evening in the palace living quarters. Wrapped up in blankets to ward off the chill of the desert night, they talked quietly. In time Claudio learned of the true character of Antonio, of how he beat Anthea and forced himself upon her; of how he attempted to feed her to the basilisks. The fast-acting poison was a much quicker death than he deserved, but surely his final resting place was Hell, home of the dishonorable and evil-hearted. Tortured by demons, prodded with spears and burned in the fire-pits, perhaps he would get his justice.
And as they talked, Claudio couldn’t deny his growing desire for Anthea. At the same time, he knew it could never be: Claudio was a knight, and—according to the laws of the Empire—could not marry prostitutes.
His time spent pondering was short, however. In the light of the morning, the sun illuminated an incoming ship. On its sail was the war-eagle of the Empire; a message from the Imperial government was on its way.
And, as Claudio sat in the throne room—seat of the Khazidean kings—the messenger broke the seal of a letter, and read from it.
“On behalf of the Imperial Council, a message for Claudio-Valens, Grand Legate of the Imperial Army: We condemn your actions in the strongest possible terms. You have disobeyed the orders of both the sitting ruler and the Imperial Council. With utter disregard for both the Council’s demands and the moral compass that guides you, you have annexed the sovereign land of Khazidea, and—as we have just learned—captured Archamenes, King of Kings, a sovereign ruler. Your unlearned, insolent actions can only end poorly for the Imperial people. You are hereby summoned to Imperial City to stand trial for treason: the punishment is death. However, we are merciful, and if you release Archamenes, the King of Kings and sovereign ruler of Fharas, we will reduce your punishment to imprisonment.”
Claudio laughed. Incredulous, he was, but not surprised. “I will go to Imperial City, but it will not be me standing trial. Messenger, you are hereafter my captive. The seas are impossible to navigate in winter. I will march through the rain and cold, and I will have every sitting member of the Council stand trial, with me as the judge. I am not a traitor; they are.”
CHAPTER FORTY:
The Long March
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
Honor could prevent Claudio from pursuing his goals. His mother could prevent him from pursuing his goals. But wind, rain, and cold; a march of many hundreds and thousands of miles; the disapproval of the wormlike, treasonous villains who sat on the Imperial Council… none of those could stop Claudio, or quell his wrath. There were things in life more important than safety. To serve the country that he loved, and to punish those who did not love it… that was more important to Claudio than anything else.
And so, the very next day, Claudio gathered his troops and announced the news: they would march all the way to the compact streets of Imperial City, into the Council House, and drag each villainous worm from his den for the Empire’s justice.
As he informed them, shouting from a high lectern in Haroon’s city square, the soldiers cheered; for unlike the vermin who sat in the Council House, they still loved the Empire and ignored its flaws. Like C
laudio, they pretended no flaws existed. And that was how it should be.
Claudio pronounced Lucello, a centurion, the governor of Khazidea, and thus they set out. It took a week over barren land and through a high mountain pass before they reached Ten Cities. The treachery of those metropolises would be forgiven, if they issued an apology; but it would never be forgotten. Claudio could no longer trust the people of Ten Cities, living in such proximity to the King of Kings and his domain that they—despite his oppression—began to empathize with him, and call him their padisha.
From Ten Cities they went on through the Little Desert and, after an arduous journey, reached Imperiopoli. How good it was to see the grass, the sage and the holm-oaks after so long in barren desert lands. The air had grown cold; the sky, a constant mournful gray. But the denizens of the city—rescued from slavery—returned to their homes, and seeing their joy warmed Claudio like nothing else. Thus it was the fifteenth day when the departed Imperiopoli. Korthos was just two days’ march away.
Under a constant veil of cold rain, a constant shivering overtook Archamenes. Claudio continued on, ignoring the King of Kings’ plight just like he had ignored the struggles of Fharese country peasants. For five more days they traveled along the paved Imperial road—which, thanks to engineering, remained solid in winter.
Five more days down the roads, through cities small and large, and they reached the gates of Korthos; yet Claudio ordered his soldiers not to enter. They passed it by, and went on for the long march toward Kersepoli.
Several times during the northward journey, Claudio pondered how the councilors, and perhaps the citizens, would think him mad for marching across the Empire’s breadth in winter. Yet he marched with a purpose in mind, stern and unyielding against the coldness and rain; and he would not stop until the Imperial Council answered for their treason.
Ten days later, they reached the gates Kersepoli; but Claudio would not stop there, either. They continued past the great walls down the road toward Thénai, capital of Eloesus and seat of many an ancient king.
The next day, a soldier alerted him that Archamenes had collapsed. The King of Kings had fallen face-first into the mud and stopped breathing, succumbing to the cold. The soldier led Claudio to the corpse. Astride Borak, he ordered, “Throw him off-road, in a ditch. It is a pity he did not receive justice. Nonetheless, we will not allow him to receive a proper burial, or a funeral of any kind. He will be food for the vultures.”
A group of soldiers did Claudio’s bidding; and then they continued on. Archamenes had died from the cold, and in truth, more than a few of his soldiers suffered as well. Claudio ordered them to add layers to their clothing, then bade them carry on.
The road to Sanctum, capital of Paladium, was fraught with suffering. For fifteen days they traveled through the freezing rain. Many took ill and collapsed. So, too, were there deserters; but Claudio did not consider it treason, because he could understand the soldiers’ wretched state. In truth, he thought more than once about stopping in some flyspeck town and wintering there, waiting until the dry summer sun and the wondrous but far-off days of blue skies and heat. But he remembered he went with a purpose; to show weakness and relent on this journey was to stoop to the same wormlike cowardice that the councilors exhibited every day. He owed it to the people of the Empire, and to the Empire itself. At all points, at all times, he imagined Peregothius, founder of the Empire, staring over his shoulder; and questioning whether he deserved to fly the war-eagle flag.
They reached Sanctum. The high-walled city, overlooking the sea, was not as large as the metropolises of Eloesus or Anthania; its power and glory was over the hearts of the faithful. Sanctum was the home of the Magisterium and the Pontifex, high priest of Hieronus. But again, Claudio ordered that they go on; it was a long journey to Bregantium, and they had to start at once.
In time they reached Bregantium. The idyllic town at the mouth of the River Gad was the northernmost province’s crown jewel. If Claudio traveled for many days up the gushing waters, he would reach a land of stalwart oaks and maples; a land where snow lay on the ground in winter. To the north lay the lumbering town of Brilium, which in their tongue was “Brill.” But though Claudio had great respect for the fair-haired, blue-eyed denizens of the Empire’s northernmost province, he would not tarry. Onward he went down the road, through a land well-farmed and thoroughly tame.
When at last the Goldenhorns appeared in view, Claudio realized it was a short journey to the family ranch. Here he was, on the border of Anthania, and yet he would continue on; he would march down the road, south to Imperial City, and his mother would not know.
As they traveled the Path of Tidus, cutting through the central valley, Claudio couldn’t help but notice the darkness of the clouds. Though the skies were always cloudy in winter, these seemed ominous, even evil. Rumors reached his ears of a rebellion of some kind. But if there would rebels, he would face them without mercy.
PART THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE:
Armies of the Underworld
Bruesio Lornodoris, August
“Dark times,” Bruesio said, and a thunderbolt answered. The winter rains pattered against the dome of the Council House. Inside the air was cold and drafty, and the councilors wore cloaks over their traditional robes.
Despite the chill and the rain, Bruesio knew very well that the rebels stood outside in the midst of the elements, surrounding the city. What they desired, no one knew, though the Council had offered them the world. They would not elaborate; and Bruesio wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
Councilor Fabiano frowned. “Alas, the times will get darker… if the rebels are appeased, the boy Claudio remains alive…”
Bruesio nodded. The arrogant young man was last seen in Bregantium, marching through the cold rain and the damp. A defector reported that Archamenes, King of Kings, had died; Claudio discarded him like a piece of refuse somewhere off the road near Thénai.
“You speak truth, Fabiano.” Bruesio frowned. “The boy has gotten us into a world of trouble. The Lords of Fharas will not cease fighting until we are punished. All the gold and bribes in the world will not stop their wrath. To enter Fharas is enough; to pluck the King of Kings from his throne, let him die of cold on a muddy road…” He shuddered.
A horn pealed, breaking the monotony of the rain. Bruesio looked around at his fellow councilmen. He could be wrong, but he guessed it was the rebels.
His suspicions soon proved correct. A rebel—with Bruesio’s consent—climbed the stairs of the Council House and presented herself. At the sight of her black clothing and the red band tied around her wrist, several councilors visibly paled.
Beautiful chestnut eyes met theirs. Her white, bony face twisted into a smile. “I am Kyra. I have no last name. I am not August. I am not a Knight, or even an Imperial. My mother was a slave, and her mother before her. I think my father was our master Donato. He never treated me like his child. He fed my brother to his fish. He enjoyed other people’s pain; he loved nothing more than torturing his slaves. He forced himself upon me… I wonder if he knew I might be his child, if he liked it better because of that…”
Bruesio’s stomach clenched, grown light as feathers. “My dear Kyra, what can we do for you? Anything you rebels ask for, we will give.”
“What do we want?” Kyra laughed. “A better question is, ‘What do we not want?’ Lord Yblis wants the bodies and souls of everyone in Imperial City. In time, a sinkhole will open up and the depths will swallow all the buildings and people. The Empire will be unmade: the nation of slavery, of injustice, will all crumble.”
“What do you want?” Bruesio’s voice trailed off.
“What we want is simple… everything of value. Once the pit is opened, the city will fall into the earth, into the subterranean world beneath our feet. We want an order from the Imperial Council that all gold, all silver, be stolen from the people’s homes and delivered to us.”
??
?Very well…”
Kyra half turned.
“But why? Why would you not simply come to the city and take it all yourself?”
“The sinkhole could open at any moment. We ‘rebels,’ as you call us, will not risk that. It is the rich and the powerful that Yblis wants to punish, not us.”
Kyra walked away. As soon as she got out of earshot, the Council House erupted with frantic talk.
“Silence!” Bruesio demanded. “I know what we must do. The talk of the rebels must be true. Therefore we have one reasonable path; we must risk the winter storms… flee the city, go to Tiverium or Peregoth or some closer island.”
“Do you truly believe that superstition?” Councilor Galvano hissed. “There will be no sinkhole. These rebels are mad, simply-put. I am staying in Imperial City, though the times are grim…”
“I will go with you, Bruesio,” Councilor Fabiano. “Sinkholes and underworld gods? Stranger things have come to pass.”
“I will, too,” Councilor Karo said.
“Me also,” added Councilor Juliano.
“I will arrange a ship.” Bruesio had gone cold and undoubtedly bloodless. “Though we may flounder in the waves or find ourselves miles out to sea… I fear the rebels more. If we stay in Imperial City, we will certainly die.”