Echoes of light, p.18
Echoes of Light, page 18
"Peel their skin!"
The chants continued. They never stopped. For weeks now, the legionaries had been laughing, singing, shouting—an eternal, demonic song. Claudia's voice rose loudest among them. Even now, gazing down, Epher saw her riding through the camp on her horse, shouting until she grew hoarse.
"We come, we see, we kill!" she chanted. "The crosses will rise from Zohar to Aelar!"
We cannot escape, Epher thought. Even if we tried to flee the mesa, we're trapped. We're a tor rising from a sea of fire.
And day by day, as the legions manned the wall and prepared for war, the slaves kept toiling. Zoharite slaves. Cart by cart, they were raising the great earthworks of wood, stone, mortar, and soil. Cart by cart, the fortress grew taller and closer to Tarath El, this fortress in the sky.
The ramp.
Day by day, growing.
The death of Tarath El.
The final fall of Zohar.
"This is ridiculous," Ramael said, standing at Epher's side. "We have to shoot them. We have to fucking shoot them." He clutched his bow and pointed at the slaves laboring on the ramp. "We have arrows! We have archers! We can stop this."
Epher shook his head. "I will not have us shoot the slaves. They're our own people. Wives. Sisters. Children. No."
Epher stared back at the rising ramp. It now rose halfway up the mesa. Hundreds of Zoharite slaves moved up and down the structure, adding cart after cart of earth and rock. All Zoharites. All people Epher could reach with his arrows. All people he could not, dared not slay.
"Epher," Ramael said, softer now. "Once that ramp rises as tall as the cliffs, and once it reaches us . . . we will die. We will all die. We're nine hundred and sixty people—many of us not even warriors. They're fifteen thousand, the most efficient killers in the world. If they break into Tarath El, we cannot defeat them."
Epher stared down at the ramp. He recognized one of those slaves. Even from here.
Abishag, he thought. Maya's friend.
He nodded. "If they break in, we cannot defeat them."
Ramael groaned and paced along the wall. "Then we have to shoot the slaves."
Epher lowered his head. Perhaps Ramael spoke truth. If they slew the slaves, perhaps Tarath El could still survive. Yet how could Epher do this?
"We abandoned Beth Eloh," he said slowly. "We left a million people to die while we sought safety here, and that is a sin no god could forgive. Let us not stain our souls further. If we slay our own people, we are monsters. I would rather die with whatever righteousness, whatever honor still remains for us, whatever forgiveness we can still claim. I would prefer this death to a life of evil."
"An evil they force upon us!" Ramael said. "You led us here to protect us. You abandoned Beth Eloh so that a thousand could live. Do not see that work undone now."
"So a thousand could live!" Epher said. "Yes. Yes, so a thousand could live. Not even a thousand; a few hundred only. Yet more than a thousand of our own people toil before us! Would I slay them to save us?"
"What kind of lives do they have?" Ramael's eyes were red, and he gestured toward the growing ramp. "A life of whips, chains, misery."
"Lives of misery," Epher said softly. "Yet not lives that are ours to take. I will not kill my own people. My father would not ask me to."
"And your father died," Ramael said, then turned and walked away.
For a long time, Epher remained on the wall, staring down at the desert, at the ramp that grew every day, and at the siege tower already being constructed in the distance.
That night, he entered the palace built onto the precipice of Tarath El, and he climbed the stairs to his chamber. Olive was still awake, standing by the window, gazing out at the night. The moonlight limned her form—slender, graceful, her belly bulging. From the distance rose the sounds of the legions. Cracking whips. Screaming slaves. Rolling stones and creaking wood. Horns and drums still rose in a din.
"They never stop," Olive whispered, still looking outside, not turning to face Epher. "The damn horns. They never stop."
Epher approached, stood behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. "Turn away from them. For tonight."
She turned to face him, her back to the window, ghosts in her eyes. Over her shoulder, Epher could see the legions below, their campfires spreading from the foot of the mesa to the circumvallation wall. He pulled the curtains shut.
"We can no win," Olive whispered, holding him. Her eyes dampened. "What we do?" She pulled his hand down to her belly, and he felt the baby move. "How we save our child?"
Epher wanted to speak comforting words, inspiring words. But he could only say, "I don't know."
Olive lowered her head, her red hair brushing his chin. "Then we surrender."
Epher looked aside. He stared at their bed, at the crib that rose beside it, still empty. "I would have surrendered many days ago, if I thought that was an option." He shook his head. "There is no surrendering to the legions. Not after Beth Eloh. Our fate would not be slavery. It would be crucifixion for our warriors along the road from Polonia to Aelar and my death in the arena."
"Then what we do?" Olive said. She ran her fingers through his short beard, eyes damp. "Tell me. Tell me how to stop this."
A lump grew in his throat. Epher wanted his father here for guidance. Wanted his mother. Wanted Avinasi. Someone wiser, older, stronger. Why should he lead them? Why should he be king of Zohar's last survivors? This was not a burden he had ever wanted, not a burden he'd been born for.
I should be back in Gefen now, he thought. I should be at the table under the painting of elephants, as mother lights candles and father sings in a low voice like rolling thunder. I should be banging wooden swords with Koren and Atalia, or listening to Ofeer speak of distant wonders, or reading with Maya from scrolls. I should be on the beach, making love to Claudia, not waiting for her to break into this hall and murder my people, my family. None of this. None of this should be.
"There are many cellars, cisterns, and tunnels within the mesa," Epher said. "If the legionaries breach the walls, we go underground. We find shelter there."
"For how long?" Olive said. "How long can we stop so many legionaries, how—"
"Then what would you have me do?" Epher said, suddenly shouting. He tore himself away from her. He placed his fists against the wall and lowered his head. "What do you fucking want, Olive? For me to become a lumer and blast them all with magical fire? For me to summon Eloh himself to fight our battles? Maybe for me to leap into the legionaries' camp and slay them all with my sword?" He turned his head and looked at her through the veil of grief and rage. "They all come to me. You. Ramael. The others. A constant fucking barrage, as if I'm a god to be prayed to. For the first time in my life, when you all need me the most, I am helpless. So what would you have me do? What, Olive?"
She was weeping now. She stepped toward him. "Just hold me. Right now just hold me."
He held her. For a long time, he held her in the night, as outside the horns kept blowing.
SENECA
I'm so close. I'm only a few steps away. It's there. There before me. The Acropolis. The heart of the empire. My birthright. Ultimate power.
And yet here they had him. Here they surrounded him. In a grove of cypress trees, trapped between the Acropolis wall and the bustling city streets. Here Seneca stood, facing his last—perhaps his greatest—battle.
Caelius stood before him, smiling thinly. Seneca was not a large man—he was shorter and thinner than many warriors—but he felt downright burly by Caelius. The slender man must have been at least a decade older than Seneca—he had been commander of the Magisterian Guard for years now—but seemed even younger than Seneca. The face soft. The nose and lips thin. The ears protuberant. The hair limp. He wore only a toga, no armor, even as the city smoldered after its greatest battle in history. A dozen of Caelius's men surrounded the cypress grove, a man behind every tree, also wearing humble togas but carrying daggers.
"Well, Seneca Octavius, son of the dog," Caelius said. "We have much to discuss."
Seneca felt like collapsing. His armor was dented and cracked. He bled from several gashes, losing another drop of blood every moment. He had not slept nor eaten in two days, or was it three? Right now just standing up felt like battling an army.
"Caelius, what do you want?" he said. "And make it quick. I've come home to see my city burning under your watch. I'd like to start rebuilding it."
Caelius's thin eyebrows rose. "Your city? My, my." The young man tsked his tongue. "I do believe that this city has not belonged to any emperor, not for a very long time." His smile widened. "This city belongs to me, my boy. Tirus, that brute who died like a fool outside a whorehouse. Your sister, a bloodthirsty madwoman who died in a pool. Both were just puppets. And I am the puppeteer." Caelius sighed. "Your father was the only emperor who had any balls beneath his toga, but he was a rare breed. One I'm glad to see burned away from this world."
Seneca grunted. "Is this some pissing match, where you try to prove your worth to the Empire? Yes, you hold some power. I'll grant you that. Now—"
"I hold all the power, Seneca." Caelius's smile stretched wider, shaking, twisting. "I hold the only power. For a long time, I was weak. For three years, I served in the legions under your father. A skinny boy. Mocked and beaten by your father. And when I would not break, he tossed me to his men, and they—" With visible effort, Caelius swallowed the rest of his sentence and uncurled his fists. "I made a vow then. I vowed to destroy your family. And so I will keep you alive, Seneca. And I will place you on the throne you so crave. And I will make you serve me."
Seneca had no patience, no strength for this. Not now. Not so close to the end.
I should draw my sword, he thought. I should cut through them all. Even as I am, wounded and weary, I can kill them all. A year of war gave me this strength.
His hand strayed toward his sword, just a finger's length. Across the grove, the Magisterian guards drew their daggers. In a turret on the nearby wall, he glimpsed movement, and he saw a man with a crossbow, pointing it at him. Seneca froze, his blood dripping, his hand still.
Caelius never lost his smile.
"Go ahead, Seneca. Draw your sword. Try to cut me—like your father and sister cut me. Who do you think withdrew the usual guards from the bathhouse, letting Septimus Cassius shatter your father's head on the poolside? Who do you think placed daggers in the hands of Porcia's harem? Who do you think arranged the death of Adriana Valerius, motivating his daughter to butcher the Zoharite rebels?" Caelius's smile stretched. "And who do you think gave the Zoharites access to the imperial lumer, using her lume to raise her sisters in rebellion across the Empire—a rebellion that ravaged your ships and would have slain you, if not for your Nurian wife? It was my work, Seneca. All of it. I pull strings attached to the most distant provinces. Sometimes my marionettes stumble. Sometimes they fall. Sometimes they must be discarded and replaced with more malleable puppets. Yet make no mistake, Seneca. They are all attached to my hands. You will become one of my puppets, or you too will be replaced."
Seneca tried to think, even as his mind fogged. Most of the legionaries he had brought with him here had fallen on the streets, dying to rid Aelar of the barbarians. Most of his other troops were Nurians and Phedians, loyal only to their homelands; they would not remain here to defend him. Seneca didn't know how many Magisterians still remained in the city, how many had survived the war, but he knew that Marcus had often boasted that they were the finest warriors in the Empire, gleaned from the legions' elite cohorts. Only those who had distinguished themselves in battling the Empire's enemies were chosen to defend her capital city.
Seneca sighed.
"Fine." He nodded at Caelius. "You're the puppeteer. Now pull some of your strings and open the Acropolis gates, and let me sleep."
I'll kill the fucking bastard later, he thought.
Caelius nodded. "Good. You understand now. So like a good slave, kneel before me."
Seneca frowned. "What—"
"Kneel," said Caelius.
Seneca grunted and turned away. "I have no time for this. I—"
"Kneel!" Caelius shouted.
Seneca spun back toward the boy, rage flaming across him, and reached for his sword.
The Magisterians leaped toward him. Pain bloomed across the backs of his knees, forcing him to kneel. Seneca cried out, began to draw his sword, and screamed as a dagger drove into his hand. He lost his grip, and rough hands grabbed his arms, tugging them behind his back. Another hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing, constricting his breath. Feet pressed down onto his calves, forcing him to remain on his knees, while another hand pulled his hair, tugging back his head. Seneca struggled, unable to free himself. His hand was an inferno, the palm pierced.
Caelius stood before him, smiling again.
"Good," Caelius said. "And now I want you to kiss my feet."
"Fuck you," Seneca managed to mouth, his voice only a hoarse whisper. The Magisterian behind him still squeezed his throat, pressing against the Adam's apple, and Seneca struggled not to gag.
Caelius reached into his robe. He pulled out a small vial.
"I assure you, Seneca Octavius," he said, "this treatment is far more pleasant than how your father treated me when I was but a lowly legionary."
Seneca thrashed in the men's grip. He tried to call to Imani, to his warriors, but the hand tightened around his throat. Caelius approached, placed his hand around Seneca's jaw, and squeezed, forcing his mouth open. Seneca tried to spit, could only sputter.
"This will have no taste," Caelius said. "I assure you, it will go down smoothly." He tilted the vial over Seneca's mouth. "Drink it. Swallow it all."
When the vial was empty, Caelius forced Seneca's jaws shut. Seneca tried to spit out the liquid, could not. The hands worked at his throat, forcing him to swallow.
"I'm going to fucking rip out your guts," Seneca said, the hand on his throat letting him speak with but a whisper. "I'm going to . . ."
He coughed. His words died. When he tried to speak, only a hoarse wheeze left his throat. He realized that the hand no longer constricted him. That no hands even grabbed him anymore. He tried to rise but faltered. He tried to speak again, but no voice emerged. He gasped for air. He reached for his fallen sword, but Caelius kicked it away.
"You'll feel no pain," Caelius said, looking down at him. "That's the beauty of this poison. No taste. No odor. No sensation at all. The breath merely . . . stops. And you fall asleep. And never wake up."
Seneca stuck fingers down his throat, forcing himself to vomit. The sparse contents of his stomach emerged from him with a shuddering, heaving, burning mess. He still couldn't rise to his feet. He trembled. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.
"Oh, I assure you, it's quite too late for purging," Caelius said. "The poison is already in your bloodstream, no longer in your gut. By the time I finish this sentence, you might already be dead." He pulled another vial from his toga. "Unless, of course, you drink this antidote."
Seneca made a grab for it. He fell. Caelius stepped back, and Seneca tried to rise, to tackle the man, but trembled on his hands and knees. His head spun. Only thin wisps of air now entered his windpipe, and still his throat constricted, narrowing, narrowing still, vanishing. He saw stars.
"Oh, are you trying to beg for it?" Caelius said. "You know what you must do." He stepped closer. "Kiss my feet. Kiss them and vow to always serve me. To be my puppet. Do this, and I'll let you live."
Seneca wanted to spit at the man. Wanted to die before serving him.
Darkness spread before him.
In the shadows, he saw Imani smile, her eyes alight.
He saw Ofeer in a rare moment of joy, laughing, the wind in her hair.
He saw Valentina running through the gardens.
He saw himself as a boy—just a boy with dreams, running along the beach, building empires in the sand.
For them I must live, he thought. For everything that I did. For all the lives I took. For all the horror I unleashed. For this world that I shattered, this world I must rebuild. For all those I hurt. All those I can still heal. I must live.
Caelius stood above him, nodding, smiling—smiling with kindness, Seneca thought.
Seneca crawled toward him, and he kissed one foot after another, and he raised a hand in supplication.
"You're mine now," Caelius said. "As the emperors before you were mine. The hole I put in your hand? That is where I insert my string. That hand will be mine. I will place you on the throne, Seneca Octavius, for your family has grieved me, and I will derive great pleasure from seeing you serve me. You will not pass a single decree without my approval. You will not so much as piss in the imperial chamber pot before first asking for my blessing. You will be nothing but a performer in the arena that is Aelar. You are my creature now, and rest assured, I will always be watching. Any time you dare defy me, poison will find its way into your wine, onto your pillow, onto the lips of your wife. Emperors don't last very long in Aelar. You will last so long as you serve me. Do you agree?"
Seneca tried to speak. He tried to nod. He fell.
His cheek hit the dirt, and again he was lying in bed in Zohar, in the villa on Pine Hill, while Ofeer lay at his side. Outside, Jerael had finally died, finally lay underground, and the soft light of dawn fell upon him, upon Ofeer's long dark hair that flowed between his fingers, and the sound of the sea called him. Forever had those waters called him home. He could taste the sea, salty against his lips, and rose in the sand.
He rose in a garden of cypress trees.
He rose, the antidote in his mouth, and swallowed.
For a moment Seneca's head still spun, and he could barely see, barely remember where he was. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took a step.
Caelius and his men were gone.
"Seneca!" The voice rose from haze. "Seneca, gods!"
He turned to see a figure running through shadows. He couldn't focus. It took all his energy just to remain standing.
"Imani?" he whispered.
