Anthea would never underestimate Lady Ciutta. If she rebelled, Ciutta would have her head mounted on her wall. The sadistic madam had done worse things to lesser offenders.
“Yes, you will do nicely,” Antonio said.
Anthea looked into his dark eyes with a half-smile, knowing she had to kill him, but wondering if she could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
Bad Faith
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
For two days, Claudio and his army marched down the Imperial road, over the high hills covered in holm oaks and the windblown purple heather. Food was in fair supply, thanks to the numerous towns and villages along the way. Eventually the road took a sudden turn, and—beyond the mountains—Claudio and his legion found themselves in a desert.
The cloudless blue sky gave no hope of moisture. The sun beat down on this barren waste unforgivingly; the dry, cracked dirt indicated how infrequently rain fell. This mostly-flat land—the monotony of its sunbaked black rocks and windblown dust only rarely broken by dry brown shrubs—stretched into the horizon. The paved stone of the Imperial road pierced through it in a straight line.
Despite the road and its evenly-placed food stockpiles and cisterns, the journey seemed to sap everyone’s strength. For ten long days, they traveled the hellish waste underneath a scorching sun. They had gone many miles without the relief of water when—in the distance—a green horizon appeared, and a few of the parched legionaries cheered.
Cautious it could be a mirage, Claudio signaled the legions to wait and keep calm. He had little doubt the region of Ten Cities lay close-by, but running through this scorched wasteland—which the geographers termed the Little Desert—would only worsen their thirst.
They continued down the road as it pierced through the sand and rock. Eventually, the green haze took shape: thick grass, pink-flowered bushes, and an occasional cypress tree. The singing of birds and the gushing of a nearby river greeted them. If Claudio’s memory held correctly, a river indeed ran through here, allowing for irrigation and providing a source of water and wild game for Ten Cities. Those ten settlements—according to reports—lay under the thrall of the Padisha Emperor, Archamenes; but without his army, he had no power except threats.
At the sound of water and the sight of verdant greenery, the legion broke rank and stampeded down the road toward the distant river. Claudio smiled and laughed quietly, knowing he could not stop them. Once the legionaries had their fill of water, they would continue on to Megaris, the queen of Ten Cities and the home of the prefect.
After leaping into and gulping the fresh, clear waters of the river—full of egrets and herons and all manner of birds—they returned to the Imperial road. The last leg of the journey awaited them. Now, with water, food, and people nearby, they could travel with ease.
On the nine-day journey north, the legion passed near three of the Ten Cities—Kythera, Galea, and Biblis—before reaching the open gates of Megaris, capital of the region. Through a maze of tall houses, shops, and limestone temples, the blue waters of the Middle Sea were visible.
The legion entered without a struggle.
Apelles, an Eloesian nobleman of some kind, had apparently taken control after the murder of the Imperial prefect Felix. As the army waited outside, Claudio took his personal bodyguard and entered Felix’s former home, the House of the Divines. There, in a spacious room with four marble columns and ten tall, gilded statues of the local ‘gods,’ Claudio looked Apelles in the eye and said, “Where are the Fharese?”
“They have left, following the news of your approaching force,” Apelles explained. “They fled back to Haroon.”
“And the cities have renewed their allegiance to the Empire?” Claudio meant it more as a command than a question.
“Despite the stifling taxes,” Apelles began, “we are still with the Empire, for the most part.”
Claudio clenched his teeth. “You just let them into your gates, didn’t you? Archamenes promised sweetmeats: stacks of desert gold, perhaps? A promise of no taxes, maybe? If it weren’t so dark during the battle, perhaps I would have seen some Ten Cities men fighting in Fharese dress.”
Apelles’ silence cemented his guilt. Claudio grabbed the man’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard.
“Your actions will not go unpunished.” Claudio glared at him. “At the harbor we will wait for more men. Then, my friend, we will see what is to be done with you.”
Apelles’ nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. Then he spoke. “You are mistaken,” he said. “Urbanus?”
An attendant brought a scroll. The remnants of an Imperial seal clung to it.
“Read,” Apelles ordered.
“Words from Regent Antonio Laureana: Claudio-Valens, I demand you return to Imperial City at once with your troops. I forbid you from attacking Haroon without my consent and I do not give it.”
By the time the letter-reading was finished, a smug smile had crawled over Apelles’ lips.
This will not stop me, Claudio thought. He snatched the paper from the servant’s hands. “Do you know what this is?” Claudio said. He shredded it in two. “This is a slip of paper. Worthless. The new ‘regent’ may be a spineless sea jelly, but I am not.”
Apelles’ smile disappeared. “Disobeying Imperial order is a crime. You would be well-advised—”
“What do you know of the Empire?” Claudio sneered. “You let Archamenes into your own gates. You are as spineless as Antonio.”
Apelles bristled at the accusation. An insult hovered under the tip of his tongue, but— perhaps eyeing the steel-armored, sword-bearing bodyguards around Claudio—he refrained.
When Claudio entered the stone-walled harbor district of Megaris, dotted with palms, he saw—as he expected—that his fleet awaited them. The square sails of the galleys shone bright white in the heat of the day.
After an arduous boarding process, the soldiers entered them. By nightfall, Claudio rode on the deck of the Vanguard. It had been a troubling few days. The regent had shown his true self: whether a coward or an envier, he did not know. The soldiers did not know of Antonio’s orders, but when they arrived at Haroon perhaps Claudio would tell them, and every man that did not wish to serve the Empire would be ferried back to the ill-minded man who sat on the White Throne.
They sailed into the night, and the oarsmen did not stop rowing until darkness fell. The whole time, Claudio stood above deck in the cool night air, thinking of what would unfold. For too long, Haroon had sat in the Khazan River Delta, growing rich from both the north and the south. Now Claudio had his chance. The Empire had its chance. With Archamenes’ army soundly defeated and the King of Kings in quick retreat, Claudio would disobey the emperor and do the impossible. Politics, cowardice, and the unspoken threat of the Padisha Emperor had prevented almost everyone from attempting such an invasion; but the time was now.
Eventually sleep overtook him.
He awoke at the sun’s first rays. A few clouds hung in the sky. To the south, the new morning light illuminated reddish mountains. A screech rang out and Claudio looked up. Before him, a figure danced in the blue sky. It was reptilian, similar—in some ways—to a crocodile, but with bright red scales, luminous blue eyes, and huge bat-like wings.
“Is it a dragon?” Claudio mumbled, more to himself than anyone else; and yet the Vanguard’s captain, Prospero, answered.
“No. The dragons are long-gone. These are Sand Drakes; fierce, but they do not eat humans except when they are starving. They are territorial, though; the Khazidees stay away from them and for good reason. They rarely come this far out to sea. You’re lucky to see one. It will not harm us.”
The day faded to afternoon; the afternoon into night, and still they sailed through the Middle Sea, hugging the shore. Claudio drifted to sleep once more. When he awoke in the mid-morning, the sea had grown busy with ships: huge grain-freights bound for various cities, passenger-ships heading in all directions, and sleek trade-ships sailing t
o their ports of call. By mid-afternoon, Haroon lay before them: a red city of sandstone.
The buildings were clustered around the insulated bay. Onion domes topped the temples that overlooked the wave-splashed embankments. Thin towers rose high above the skyline. On the turrets of the walled-in bay, Fharese flags rattled in the wind: a four-pointed star on a purple field. Further in, the streets of its harbor swarmed with people. As Claudio waited on the deck of the Vanguard, he caught a scent of curry and cinnamon and spice; yet whether it was just his imagination or not, he didn’t know.
Most pertinently, the blockade had ended. The Imperial fleet Claudio expected was nowhere in sight. That regent—gods damn him—had lifted the blockade, making Fharese trade-ships, and perhaps war-ships, free to travel the seas without harrying.
A small dhow was sailing out of the bay. The lateen sail bore the four-pointed star of Fharas. Claudio had a feeling it was a government ship; and in time, his feeling proved true. A man in a long, gem-encrusted purple robe and a flame-orange turban stood there on the deck of the dhow, surrounded by soldiers.
“My lord!” the man shouted as the two ships creaked in the wind. “I am Faridún, satrap of Haroon, in service of Archamenes the God-King! But I also serve Queen Astarthe of Haroon, and she wishes to inquire of your reasons for coming to our hallowed city!”
“I do not come with peaceful intent!” Claudio hollered over the deck. “If you do not surrender to the Empire, I will show no mercy!”
“Your ruler just lifted the blockade!” Faridún shouted back. “He said the Empire’s squabbles with Archamenes had nothing to do with Haroon!”
“Tell your queen that she will either surrender, or her city will fall to the legion!” Claudio roared.
Faridún’s eyes lighted with trepidation. “Do you want a tribute? I can deliver you ten-thousand marks, paid in gold!”
Ten thousand marks would make Claudio the richest man in Imperial City, but riches were not what he sought. Claudio had one thing in mind: to punish the Empire’s enemies, to defeat the traitors and put a worthy man on the White Throne. “I have no interest in money.”
“Then Astarthe herself wishes to speak with you,” answered Faridún.
The dhow sailed back to harbor.
A riverboat arrived from the harbor. The slender vessel had five pairs of oars and a high prow. In front of the oarsmen, the queen of Haroon lay lengthwise across the deck, completely nude. Her body was tan, her hair dark. By her posture and her feathered headdress she imagined herself beautiful, a goddess; but her features were masculine, her nose bulbous and strangely-formed. Her arms were long and gangly. Lotus flowers lay strewn all about her.
“I come to offer myself to you, mighty Imperial!” shouted Astarthe. “I, a widow; a vessel of Issa, almighty goddess. By her fertility—by her presence in the sky, the moon—I offer her potency to you, mighty Imperial. I am a widow; my brother-husband Anakh has passed on. I am Astarthe, embodied moon, and you will take the place of Anakh, embodied sun. You will reign as King Anakh, and you shall be lord of Haroon, the City of Issa.”
The religious gibberish made no sense to Claudio. Despite the distinct plainness of Astarthe, he had not been with a woman in a long time and felt a budding attraction to her naked form. “I do not understand your foreign ways,” Claudio began, “but let me understand this: you claim to be a descendant of the goddess Issa.” He grew hot and his voice trembled. “You are some sort of divinity—”
“Take me, Imperial,” Astarthe cried out. “You shall reign as King Anakh; you will forgo your barbaric northern gods. You will embody Atman, the great god of fertility who rides the sun, and reign with me—Issa, the moon—over her great city. You will be reborn.”
The riverboat drew closer.
“No!” Claudio roared with a strength he didn’t know he had. “I will not worship the strange gods of Khazidea. I, Claudio, serve the god Imperium; and you will revere him, and him alone.”
The prow of her riverboat struck the starboard side of the Vanguard. “So be it!” Astarthe groaned. “The Empire shall first force himself upon me, and then rape the City of Issa for all its gold.”
“That’s right I will!” Overcome with lust, Claudio leapt off the deck of the Vanguard and struck the riverboat, which wobbled.
He undid his belt and forced himself upon her as she said, forcing himself into her like an animal until she stopped moving and both were left breathless and satisfied.
“It is done,” Astarthe panted, covered in sweat. “What has long been prophesied by the Godlings of Qabash has finally come into fruition. Shall I fear the east wind? / Nay! Their time is fading fast / Shall I fear the south or west? / Nay! When th’ North Wind comes at last / Then will come an iron age, ignoble and unjust.”
No longer bound by her spell, completely released of his lust, Claudio clenched his teeth and stopped himself from striking the queen. “We are not unjust,” he shouted. “We are called by the gods to rule over the nations. Now let the prophecy be true, Astarthe. Do not get in the way of it. The north wind has come.” He tied his belt again.
“So let it be!” Astarthe called out. “Who is to argue with the godlings? Who is to argue with the prophecy? Who is to argue with you? You are greater than the godlings; for even the godlings answer to me, the queen. But you… you answer to no one.”
“Now take me to the royal palace,” Claudio said. “I will ride in my own ship, and the army will dock in your port.”
In small groups, the Imperial soldiers filtered in to the so-called City of Issa. Perhaps a hundred Fharese soldiers remained within the walls, keeping order. Claudio ordered them all put to death. A few managed to escape, but the city was his. In time, the green river delta that stretched east, west, and south for many miles would all be the property of the Empire.
Queen Astarthe led Claudio personally into the Royal Palace. An airy walkway of red pointed arches led into a garden: blossoming pink myrtles, purple saffron crocus, fig trees and date palms combining into an intoxicating aroma. By now Claudio’s lust returned, and they made love again, like two animals, in the midst of the greenery. Truly she was some sort of witch; for though she was plain and strangely-featured, she had cast her spell over him.
In the middle of the lovemaking Claudio shouted, “Witch, will you call Imperium your god?”
“I will call you my god!” Astarthe cried.
At last the deed was done. Claudio stood up, filled with shame, and saw a few gardeners staring at them. At him. A wholesome Imperial knight from Gad, fornicating with this desert queen in public view. What had happened to him since he departed from the family ranch? What was he turning into? “What have I become?” he said aloud.
“Anakh!” Astarthe cried. “You have become the last of the proud line of brother-kings, joined to me, your sister-queen.”
“Stop the gibberish!” Claudio roared. “That’s a command. Now where’s my crown?”
“We have no crown,” Astarthe answered. “The lord of Haroon wears a blue turban with a diamond aigrette, in the manner of Fharas.”
“Useless woman!” Claudio didn’t know what else to say, but the shame was building inside him. His face flushed red. He tied the belt tighter. “I am now lord of Haroon. But you will lift your spell from me, Astarthe! Your city is under Imperial control; the Empire is not under the control of your seductive wiles. Now restrain yourself!”
“Restrain my self?” Astarthe said. “You are the one who is so drawn to me, the Goddess of Haroon, embodied moon, Vicar of Issa.”
“I said stop the gibberish!” Claudio demanded. “Now take me to the crown.”
In the middle of a spacious red chamber, the throne of Haroon beckoned. There, Claudio took a seat.
When the High Priest of Atman entered to perform the coronation, Claudio thought—due to the high voice, the garish face-paint and the women’s robes—that it was a female. The closer the priest drew, however, the clearer his faint masculine features became unt
il Claudio knew beyond a doubt that a male eunuch stood before him, dressed in feminine garb according to foreign custom.
The androgynous priest knelt before him. “My lord, crowning you and naming you brother-king will take seven days.” The high, boyish voice seemed so odd to Claudio; he had never met a eunuch. “The people of Haroon will fast, and at the end of the week you will receive your turban. At that point a great feast will begin, and you will be named brother-king Anakh, great king.”
“Give me the crown, now,” Claudio snapped. “That is the command of the Empire.” He jabbed his sword threateningly.
The High Priest hesitated, but after glancing into Claudio’s eyes his resolve seemed to soften. He scurried away to obey the command.
An hour later, the “crown”—a cyan turban with a diamond aigrette—lay on head of Claudio-Valens Adamantus, the Bel of Haroon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
Into the Depths
Marcus Silverus
The priest of Orkus and several armed guards escorted Marcus and Tivera through the chaparral. Perga, the pirate-captain who had brought them to accursed Tarso, had long gone with his crew. Surely now—as Marcus awaited his plunge into murky doom—Perga sailed through good winds and warm skies, stealing and murdering, and yet escaping the wrath of the gods… if the gods even existed. Yet Tivera’s faith in Mira, the Trifold Mother, seemed stronger than that of many priests Marcus knew. Into the slimy depths she would go, but her faith would sustain her… and there, in the darkness, Marcus would thrash and scream, desperate for air, no consolation, nothing to cling to. His end would be abyssal misery.
Thinking about that did nothing for the fluttering in his stomach, the constant shaking, the sickened feeling overcoming him. He didn’t know why it had to come to this, he thought, as the priest’s men forced them onto the ship—a small vessel with one sail, so unimposing that it was a wonder it was seaworthy. They could not be going out very far; but the waters around Anthania were deep even a short distance from shore.