Unconquered Son

  A few cheers echoed through the air. Julia smiled.

  “Being half-southron—my father was a Khazidee—I know how their minds work.” Hushed silence. “I have offered the Padisha Emperor a large sum of money to keep him at bay. Peace will return!”

  The crowd roared, but as it became deafening and overwhelmed her son’s speech, it slowly donned on Julia that they were angry.

  Why are they angry? Surely they want peace! Julia wrung her hands. These Imperials were a strange lot, so proud and so ungrateful.

  A stone flew from the crowd and nearly hit Giton.

  “Calm down!” Julia screamed.

  More stones flew. “Traitor!” someone in the crowd screamed above the roaring din.

  “Traitor?” Julia was aghast.

  Antonio walked up to the lectern and took Giton’s hand. He led her son away, and told her, “It is best if we leave.”

  “I will send out soldiers to kill them all,” Julia growled.

  “Send out soldiers to block off the palace, but do not kill them,” Antonio said.

  Julia did send out soldiers. From her upper story room, she watched as several hundred of the dogs died, until their roars finally stopped in the night hours. She did not understand these Imperials. But one thing she knew: they would learn to respect their emperor.

 

  CHAPTER TEN:

  The Visitor

  Emperor Giton Seánus Algabal

  Giton awoke in the middle of the night. A shadow hovered above his bed. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the figure of the young man at the party. The Imperial, about his age… the knight, the son of the legate Lucento. “H-hello!” Giton stammered.

  The knight held a sword in both hands.

  He was handsome, Giton noted. Had he come into his room like a worshipper unto the priests of Atman? The knight, his Celestial Visitor, and Giton, the Godling priest?

  “What do you want, friend? Wine, perhaps?” Giton asked.

  “No.” His booming tone seemed to shake the walls. “I’ve come for something entirely different.”

  “Love?”

  The knight laughed coldly. “If I had any love for you—which I don’t, not at all—my love for the Empire would infinitely outweigh it.”

  The knight pitched back his sword, and before Giton could react, drove the cold metal deep into Giton’s chest. Giton choked, unable to scream or speak, unable to inhale.

  The knight yanked out the blade, his eyes void of mercy. As Giton’s veins opened, the knight wiped the blood off his sword on the dry side of the bed. The life left him. The knight stalked out as silently and coldly as he had entered.

  The life slowly drained out of Giton; and in time, he was dead.

 

  PART TWO

 

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  Vengeance

  Claudio-Valens Adamantus

  Claudio kept a low profile in the ensuing mad days. The Imperial Palace, as expected, spiraled into a frenzy; the Imperial flock no longer had a shepherd. Without a strong commander, the bureaucratic council had taken charge, even as the news reached them that the Fharese army conquered Ten Cities and pressed inwards toward Imperiopoli and Korthos.

  Through it all, no one suspected the true assassin: Claudio, son of the famous legate Lucento. Respect for the emperor was paramount, and had been instilled in Claudio at a young age; yet Lucento had also taught his son that he should never revere the emperor more than the Empire. Claudio knew that, in Heaven, his father beamed with pride.

  The fourth day after the assassination dawned. The air still was cool, and a few clouds rolled in from the sea. Claudio already resigned himself to another quiet day, waiting for things to run their course.

  Someone knocked on the door. Claudio rose and crossed the room. An open door revealed Councilor Bruesio with the purple councilor’s sash. “Claudio-Valens Adamantus.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Council has argued over this issue for a few days… We are all in shock after the assassination, and doing our best to recover from what has happened. But the threat in the east remains…”

  And now you will make me emperor. Claudio laughed under his breath. Unlikely.

  “The army of Archamenes is about ten thousand strong,” Bruesio said. “We are lucky to have you here. You are the son of the legate Lucento. We have nominated you to Grand Legate. You will have, in your power, three legions: a force of twelve-thousand men. Do you accept?”

  “Absolutely,” Claudio said without hesitation.

  “You must drive them away from Ten Cities and the southern vale, and make arrangements so that they will never incur so far into our territory again. We are assigning you to the legion because they respected your father, and they respect you. It is your chance to prove yourself.”

  Claudio nodded. “I will do my utmost for the nation.”

  The letter to Mother would aggravate her indeed. But even she understood and respected duty; and duty called.

  As soon as Bruesio left, he set to writing it:

  Dear Mother,

  I am so very sorry to tell you this. I know you wanted me to stay at home, and live a quiet life on the ranch. But Hieronus, God of Just War, has different plans for me. I regret to tell you that I must face the barbaric Emperor of Fharas. But if I live, and I believe I will, then I will return to you. And if I die, you will have the ranch; and I will have what I’ve always wanted, honor.

  —Claudio

  He sent it with a letter-carrier, who departed at noon.

  Late in the day, a military advisor took Claudio into the boardroom and explained the logistics of the counterstrike. One three-thousand strong legion was already stationed in Imperiopoli, waiting for the others. One was in Gad, near Bregantium, about four-thousand strong. The last of them, about five-thousand strong, was stationed near Imperial City. This left several legions in Gad, and a full legion in Nichaeus, to protect the Empire in the others’ absence.

  The Empire controlled the sea, and had for hundreds of years. With vicious boarding tactics they subdued the triremes of the ancient Eloesians; with liquid fire they burned away the dhows of the Fharese. In great galleys, they would transport the Imperial City legion; and another, separate fleet would ferry the Bregantium legion to Imperiopoli.

  Meanwhile, another fleet would blockade the port of Haroon and forbid any ships from leaving. All trade was frozen with the Fharese Empire. Once the army was out of Eloesus, the advisor said, it was up to Claudio to make sure such incursions never happened again.

  I won’t stop there, Claudio resolved.

  The next morning, they would set sail.

  Claudio awoke before first light. When the sun finally rose over the sea, hundreds of ships—transport-galleys and war-galleys both—greeted him. Dawn cast her glimmering pink light on the square sails, all bearing the war-eagle of the Empire. Like an army of the sea they filled the harbor.

  Down below the palace, the legion made a procession through Imperial Square, carrying their armor, helmets, and weapons in hand. Not an official procession through the Walk of Triumph, but a practical one. Yet still, the thousands and thousands of soldiers went on without number as they walked down the way, and it seemed in Claudio’s mind—and perhaps in the minds of all who watched them—that there existed no larger force in the world. Soon these legionaries would filter into the transport galleys, and then—with Claudio-Valens Adamantus on the flagship—they would sail to Eloesus to fight the Empire’s enemies; and there was nothing more Claudio wanted in the world.

 

  CHAPTER TWELVE:

  The Departure

  Marcus Silverus

  Finding ships proved a difficult proposition. Though Marcus raked in a tidy sum of money each month, he, without fail, spent it all. But right after Tivera—that foolish girl—murdered the augur, he had run to his room and gathered every last penny. In all, he counted silver coins worth about five gold pieces, give or take a few pence.

&nbs
p; At this time of the year, large freights sailed in from Haroon and the lush Khazan River Valley, transporting full cargoes of grain to the hungry citizens of the Empire. They, of course, had to sail back to their home port, and Marcus could likely find a ride with one of those.

  Yet going to Khazidea, home of a strange people, was something Marcus would do only as a last choice. Rumors had reached Marcus about that far-off land; their king and queen were brother and sister, and some of their priests—unlike the Imperials—held vast political power and were wealthier than most nobles. Gods should not line men’s coin-purses; priests should strive for higher goals. Yet who was Marcus to reprimand them? He lived first and foremost for himself… until now.

  He eyed Tivera, trembling and murmuring about her parents and about the augur. He wondered what they did to her, and why the augurs experimented on her. But it was not worth worrying about until they were safe on a ship.

  One by one he searched the ships docked in the port. There was a fleet of pleasure ships planning to sail around the coast to Nichaeus and, from there, to Peregoth—birthplace of the Empire—and to the various historic sites on the islands of Imperial District. The captain, however, said he would charge twenty-five gold pieces; a price Marcus could afford, perhaps if he saved his money. But alas, he did not.

  In the end a difficult choice was forced on him: go to the strange land of Khazidea, or take up with another ship bound for Bregantium. Marcus would not mind going to Bregantium—by all accounts a pleasant small city—but it was the crew that filled his mind with doubts. The captain was a large man, with iron thews of arms and scars running the length of his body. He was swarthy; Eloesian, perhaps, or just kissed by the sun.

  The man’s name, as Marcus soon learned, was Perga.

  “I promise an easy journey, as the winds allow,” he had said. “And, as long as you help me with whatever I need, I’ll let you ride along for one gold piece.”

  Marcus had walked away, then deliberated for an hour. He did not trust this Perga; but Marcus truly had no choice. If he refused, Tivera would be put to death, and he would be thrown into jail. He would not allow either of those things to happen.

  And so he walked back to Perga and told him, “I’ll go.”

  Marcus led Tivera on board The Sea Dragon.

  The poor girl was mumbling incoherently. “I don’t trust them… don’t trust… won’t trust!”

  But Marcus put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Tivera. We don’t have a choice… It will all be okay.”

  Around the eastern shore of Anthania, the water reached a remarkable depth. Strange fish—poisonous sea jellies, octopi, squid, and more—often washed up on the beaches, or ended up in fishermen’s nets.

  Perga gave Tivera and Marcus a tiny room below deck. Huddled there, they had felt the first movements of the ship disembarking, and now, they careened with the ship as it plowed through the waves. It was nearly pitch black, but Marcus held Tivera’s hands to console her.

  “It’s dark,” Marcus said, “but soon we will leave in the light, and we’ll be in Bregantium. And from there, who knows what will happen to us?”

  “Light,” Tivera said. “Light…”

  A dim spark appeared, casting light on the hands that had drawn it up. It grew in brilliance until it was a white luminescent orb, and the room was bright: as bright as broad daylight.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t do that.” Marcus frowned, though the light was a comfort in the dank darkness of the ship. “Look at all the trouble it’s gotten you into. And me, too.”

  “No?” Tivera sounded shocked. “No light… No light.” In a moment’s span, the brilliant orb faded to a spark, and then to nothing. Again the pitch blackness took over.

  Marcus shut his eyes, noticing no difference; then, he let the movements of the ship and the creaking of wood soothe him to sleep.

  When he awoke, he had no idea whether it was night or day; below deck, all light was absent. For a moment he longed for the light that Tivera had brought him. He stood up and shivered. He opened the door a crack, and saw a bit of light filter in.

  Gulls cried out overhead. Tivera was sleeping. He walked up the stairs and climbed onto the deck.

  The brightness of the sun and the celestial orb’s low position proved that it was morning. The skies were bright blue. To Marcus’s left, land was visible: clusters of population, with houses, temples, shops and shrines; and large expanses of golden wheat-fields, olive orchards, and walnut groves. He had no idea where they were. But a fair wind was blowing, and the ship cut through the waters at a swift pace. The men aboard left the oars unattended, letting the sails do the work.

  Perga approached him. The sailor, with his black beard and scarred face, was as crass and uncultured a man as any Marcus had seen. But he greeted Marcus with a smile. He was friendly and he had not yet done anything to earn distrust; and that was the important thing.

  “My good signore.” Perga smiled. “The winds have favored us greatly today. It is as if Lorenus, god of the seas, is blessing our journey. Or perhaps an augur is in our midst, guiding the winds to our fortune…” He laid a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “But that’s not likely. The gift for augury is rare; the hand of magic is fickle, and chooses few. I am sure neither of you two have any such gifts.”

  “No, we don’t,” Marcus lied. “We are as average, as ungifted as people come.” He smiled.

  “That is good,” Perga said. “The world needs the labor of common men; else, who would trim the hedges in the gardens of the rich? Who would till the soil and feed the Empire’s great cities?”

  Marcus chafed at the comment, but managed to keep silent. He was not common in that sense. His hands had no blisters, and he knew nothing of manual labor. But would he, soon? “I am common as dirt,” Marcus told him nonetheless.

  The constant rocking of the ship had begun to make him nauseous. They had only been at sea for a day. But the day was bright and warm, and it was good to be outside and bathe himself in light… though, on reflection, he realized that Tivera’s light had comforted him even more than the sun.

  Days went by at sea. When required—and it was often—Marcus helped the sailors to the point of exhaustion. They braved choppy waters and minor storms, but for the most part fortune had favored them. But Marcus, unused to long journeys such as these, grew more and more seasick with each passing day.

  To his left the land rolled on; from the densely-packed megalopolis that ran from Imperial City to Nichaeus, the area became steadily more agrarian. By the fourth day of sailing, the majority of land was farmed: rolling hills covered in wheat; walnut groves and olive orchards; and cattle ranches where plants refused to grow. It was noon of the fourth day when Marcus—for the first time in his life—caught sight of the Goldenhorn Mountains. Named for their rich stores of ore, the peaks reached great heights. To the east of them—and soon, in Marcus’s plain view—was chaparral heathland, dry and bereft of water, where nothing useful to man could grow.

  On the galley sailed, hugging the shore for the most part and never leaving sight of the heath-covered waste. The air grew oppressively hot, and sweat slicked Marcus’s skin; and Tivera’s as well, when she left her room below deck, although that was rare.

  Halfway through the fifth day, a large bay opened up in the shoreline. A few boats sat there idly, tied to primitive docks. To Marcus’s surprise—and not without alarm—Perga barked orders for men to land there.

  Tivera, climbing up from below-deck, cried out something about continuing to sail.

  “What are we doing?” Marcus tried to sound assertive, but he knew these sailors outnumbered him. “I thought we were going to Bregantium!”

  A wicked grin crept over Perga’s lips. “You thought wrongly. We are going to Tarso.”

  Marcus had heard of Tarso, though he had always considered the name fodder for stories and nothing more. A city of pirates, escaping the wrath of the Imperial army by reason of its seclusion. He put a hand aroun
d Tivera’s shoulder, and told her it would be all right.

 

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

  Grave Tidings

  Bruesio Lornodoris, August

  The issue at today’s meeting was what some now called the worst crisis in hundreds of years. The White Throne sat empty, the Fharese Emperor invaded Eloesus, and a mysterious rebellion began in the north. The Empire, Bruesio knew, was in peril.

  All thirty councilors were in attendance, packing the seats of the Council House. The White Throne sat empty; with the death of her son, Julia Seánus retreated into her personal chamber and hadn’t left in days.

  Bruesio, Speaker of the Council, walked into the middle of the circular marble floor and shouted, “Men of the Council, I greet you. Long live the Empire, and long live the emperor.”

  “Long live the Empire,” the other councilors chanted in unison, “and long live the emperor.”

  Bruesio spoke loudly. “Claudio-Valens Adamantus has gone to fight Archamenes with a force of twelve-thousand men and twelve augurs. If he has even a little of his father in him, the soldiers will respect him. His family’s patron god is Hieronus; and I have told the high priests in Sanctum to make sacrifices on his behalf.”

  “I do not like that boy,” grumbled Councilor Fabiano. “Nor did I like his father.”

  “That is your loss,” Bruesio said coolly. “Now the first matter of business is this: I believe in the power of the Council. Yet an empire as vast as ours must not be ruled by thirty bickering men. We must elect a regent—just for now—to manage the affairs in this difficult time.”

  “And I suppose you will be the new emperor,” sneered Councilor Karo.

  “Truthfully, I would not be averse to such a responsibility,” Bruesio said, “but I will not nominate myself. For I am modest, as rare a trait as it is these days. We need a ruler experienced in the military… someone who will project strength and be well-liked—and reassuring—with the people.”