Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Read online

  She nodded. "Come, my prince."

  Again Ofeer dared. Heart thudding against her ribs, she took his hand. He did not pull back, and his grip tightened around her, warm and engulfing. They walked between the pines toward the cave in the hillside, the place where Maya so often came to read her scrolls.

  "Men, guard the hillside," Seneca said to his soldiers.

  The towering men nodded, laid down the game they carried, and rested their hands on the pommels of their broad, short swords. Ofeer led her prince across a patch of grass toward the cave.

  "You can't go in there!" For the first time since the dog had died, Maya spoke, not even bothering to speak in Aelarian, which Seneca would understand, but rather using the guttural, harsh language of Zohar. "Mother would want us back home quickly."

  Gods damn it! Ofeer spun around. The damn girl was ruining everything. For years, Ofeer had waited for this moment, for a prince of Aelar to come and save her, and now her simpleton of a sister would jeopardize everything Ofeer had always dreamed of.

  She glowered at the girl. Maya stared back. The wind blew back the girl's dark curls, revealing a stern face, the cheeks damp with tears, the brown eyes still watery.

  "Then go to Mother yourself," Ofeer said, speaking Aelarian, the beautiful language all Sela children learned, that someday all the world would speak. "You two can go shit in the sea for all I care."

  She spat at her sister's feet, then entered the cave with her prince.

  It was a small cave, no larger than her bedroom in the villa on Pine Hill. Long ago, Maya had placed a rug on the craggy floor and piled up parchment scrolls, a little haunt where she could read. A few candles stood in iron holders, half-melted. A string stretched across the cave's entrance, and a curtain of glass beads hung from it. When Ofeer pulled the curtain shut, the sunlight gleamed in the translucent orbs, casting dancing lights across the cave.

  Ofeer shoved her sister's scrolls aside, grabbed the hem of her cotton dress, and pulled off the garment. She stood before Seneca, naked in the mottles of sunlight, and stared into his eyes.

  "This is but a humble cave, dominus, not a fine abode of marble and gold. My dress is but coarse cotton, not fine muslin and silk. My skin and eyes are dark, and I'm no pale beauty like those of Aelar. But this body is yours."

  "You are dark and fair, daughter of Zohar," Seneca whispered.

  He removed his armor, piece by piece, remaining in a linen tunic. Ofeer helped him doff the garment and knelt before him. His manhood hardened at once, before she had even touched it, and for a moment Ofeer was taken aback, for she had never seen an uncircumcised member. But of course a man of Aelar would leave the foreskin intact, for he was no barbarian of the east. She took him into her mouth until he moaned with pleasure, and his hands clutched her hair.

  Before he could release his seed, Ofeer pulled away and lay on her back on the rug. She let her fingers trail down between her legs, then slipped them inside her.

  "Come to me, my prince."

  He lay on the rug beside her, grabbed her, and rolled her onto her stomach. Ofeer gasped and those old stories returned to her. But the men of the port had been wrong. Prince Seneca of Aelar took her from behind, like a dog takes a bitch, but not as a man takes a boy. His hands cupped her small breasts, and she moaned into the rug and finally let out a muffled cry.

  When he pulled out from her, she nestled against him. "Will you hold me, my prince?" she whispered. "For a few moments?"

  But he rose to his feet, and already he began to buckle on his armor. "Stand up. Pull your dress back on. We don't have a few moments. This kingdom is ripe for the taking, and I plan to take it." He stared down at her naked body, and his voice softened. "When Zohar is mine, perhaps I'll take you with me on my ship back to Aelar. You would warm my bed on the journey, and across the sea, I'll show you true civilization. You will see the temples of the gods, and I will fuck you in the palace of an emperor."

  As she lay on the rug below him, Ofeer suddenly felt cold, even in the heat of this southeastern land. She had lain with enough men in the port, had seen enough of them leave her to return to their gambling and booze. Strangely, more than she longed to see temples and palaces, Ofeer simply wanted her prince to lie down beside her, to hold her, to stroke her hair and whisper into her ear. And yet he stepped out of the cave, leaving her in the shadows.

  Ofeer stood up and pulled on her dress. She must remember that the ways of Aelar were foreign to her. She had been raised here in Zohar, and she mustn't be soft and weepy like Maya.

  "He's a great prince, and he'll show me an empire," she whispered, surprised to find tears in her eyes. "He will fuck me in the palace of an emperor."

  For years Ofeer had dreamed of this, yet now the words tasted sour, and pain filled her loins. She stepped out of the cave and into the sunlight, and she joined him on the winding path toward the sea.

  MARCUS

  He rode his chariot, leading the procession of marching legionaries, plundered treasure, and thousands of prisoners with crosses on their backs.

  The cobbled road coiled across the hills between cypress and olive trees. The procession spread for a mile behind Emperor Marcus Octavius, a cavalcade of triumph. From across the farmlands, the plebeians had arrived to line the roadsides and watch from the hilltops, cheering their emperor's return to Aelar.

  For a year, I fought the barbarians overseas, Marcus thought. For a year, Aelar awaited me in shadow. Now my light returns.

  He was as the sun. His chariot was gilded, and white fabrics embroidered with silver and inlaid with jewels bedecked its four horses. Marcus himself wore a splendid toga, the wool deep purple trimmed with gold, and a laurel rested on his head. He remembered traveling this very road thirty years ago, a mere legionary, a young soldier returning from his first war, following his general in their triumphant homecoming. Now Marcus rode here as an emperor, leading the march of his greatest triumph.

  Behind him, the ten thousand prisoners cried out in pain. They marched naked, the sun baking them, the whips cutting them. Chains clattered around their ankles. Marcus turned his head, stared at their suffering, and though he rarely smiled—his soldiers mocked him for his face of stone—he allowed his eyes to narrow in amusement.

  "Their suffering is too great to bear," said Mingo, the slave who shared Marcus's chariot. The man wore only a loincloth, and his body was skeletal, the ribs visible against the filthy skin. His scraggly white hair and beard hung down to his hips.

  "They will bear it for a while longer," said Marcus to his slave. "The kingdom of Leer dared to rise up against us. Dared to battle Aelar. Their suffering will be long and great."

  The old man nodded. "They wait for death's welcoming arms. As do I."

  Marcus snorted. "You will live much longer than they do."

  The bony man nodded. The slave was a memento mori, his presence a continuous reminder of Marcus's own mortality. Many years ago, Mingo had boasted another name, the name of a powerful senator, a dignitary who had fought to keep Aelar a republic. Many claimed that, in those years, Mingo had looked remarkably like Marcus—the same beak nose, thin mouth, tall and proud brow. A strong face. Noble and cruel as a vulture. Many had mistaken them for brothers, even during the war between their families.

  But those days were long gone. Mingo's true name was forgotten. His house was destroyed, his sons slain, and his youngest daughter—sweet Valentina—raised in Marcus's own house. And over the years, Mingo's face—once so noble—had withered, hiding behind a shroud of a beard. The eyes had lost their pride, now drowning between wrinkles.

  Some in Aelar scoffed at the tradition, and perhaps in hidden chambers they called Marcus a fool. And yet Marcus kept this slave with him, for he had seen too many senators, generals, and nobles fall to the oldest and greatest folly: believing themselves gods. Marcus had become emperor seventeen years ago, the very day he had defeated his rivals in the Senate. He was the first emperor of an ancient civilization, and he rode in a chariot
of gold, leading a procession of splendor, heading toward a palace in an eternal city. And so he kept his memento mori always close, always chained and naked, and whenever Marcus looked at his rival-turned-slave, he remembered: I too am but a man, slowly withering away. I am not a god.

  Marcus tugged the reins, halting his chariot.

  "Another one!" he shouted, voice rolling across the hills.

  Behind him, the march halted. The slaves moaned, drenched in sweat and blood. Behind them, farther down the road and spreading into the valley, the legionaries slammed their heels together and stood at attention, and the sunlight gleamed on their armor and crested helmets. Down that road, for many miles, the crosses rose. Every fifty paces, a prisoner languished on the cross, dying in the sunlight, food for crows.

  Marcus stared at them, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Only months ago, these wretched Leerians had worn patches of armor, had manned the walls of their city across the Encircled Sea, had burned a temple to Aelar's gods and beheaded their governor.

  "Look at them now," Marcus said to his slave. "Thus is the fate of any who rejects Aelar's light."

  "A just fate, dominus," said the withered, bearded man.

  On the roadside, his legionaries grabbed one of the prisoners, a brutish man, his skin tattered by the whip, the cross twisting his shoulders. Marcus watched from his chariot. The soldiers took the cross from the prisoner and laid it on the road. For a brief moment, the chained man seemed almost relieved, his long burden—the cross he had borne for so many miles—finally off his back. There was something sad and broken in his eyes, a weakness that Marcus had often seen in the lesser races.

  The man's brief respite ended when the legionaries shoved him against the cross. The soldiers grabbed the prisoner's arms and twisted them, dislocating bones from sockets, shoving the ribs deep into the belly. The man screamed and the hammers rose. The hammers fell and the nails drove into the twisted hands, then into the feet, and the cross rose. It loomed above the roadside, blood dripping down its cedar beam, and the plebeians across the hills cheered.

  With the first few crosses Marcus's men had raised, now twenty leagues south from here, the crows had hesitated, sometimes waiting until the procession had traveled by to feast, sometimes not feeding at all, perhaps waiting for the prisoners on the crosses to die. By now, the crows had learned that they were welcomed to these meals. Marcus had no sooner whipped his horses than the crows dived in, squawked, and began to devour the crucified man. Clever birds. Not as noble as the eagle that appeared on Marcus's standards, but quick-witted and dear to him.

  The procession moved onward, displaying both the prisoners and the spoils of war to the plebeians. The legionaries marching behind Marcus had fought with him in Leer, and they now held their trophies high. In the sunlight gleamed silver vases, candelabra the size of men, marble statues, chests of jewels, sacks of coins, and wild animals in cages. The treasures of a fallen kingdom gleamed along the road, a serpent of precious metals and gemstones.

  They stopped again, fifty paces along. Another cross rose. Another captive screamed. The crows fed and the procession moved onward.

  They had begun the triumphant march seven days ago with ten thousand captives of war, marching down the road from Polonia toward the city of Aelar. Five thousand captives now remained, most of them—the strong and obedient ones—to be sold in the slave markets. The frail, the sick, the recalcitrant all lined the road behind them, five thousand crosses spreading across the leagues. Finally now, with the last few Leerians crucified on the hills, the procession saw the city of Aelar—namesake of the Empire—in the north.

  The city sprawled across the hilltops, the largest city in the world, home to a million souls, heart of the Aelarian Empire which surrounded the Encircled Sea. The walls of Aelar soared, topped with banners displaying a golden eagle, wings spread, upon a crimson field. The Gate of Triumph rose before Marcus, the grandest among the city's eight gates. The archway loomed nearly the full height of the walls, so large palaces could be constructed within it. Statues of the gods stood atop the arch, gilded and gleaming, raising their blades to the sky. Words were engraved into the stone, each letter large as a man:

  The Aelarian Senate and people dedicate these glorious gates to the divine Marcus Octavius, Eternal Emperor, Defeater of Cassius, Lord of the Encircled Sea.

  Those words stung Marcus whenever he rode toward these gates. Sitting in his chariot at the head of his hosts, he frowned at them.

  "The words mock you, dominus," said Mingo, once named Cassius. The greybeard shifted his weight in the chariot, his chains clattering. "Perhaps you think them carved prematurely."

  Marcus scowled at the slave. "Do you doubt my divinity?"

  The slave pursed his lips. "You defeated the Leerians, these wretches who hang from crosses behind us, whose women will be sold in our slave markets, their flesh to warm the beds of heroic Aelarians. You claimed a great port in the Encircled Sea, one of many your empire rules. This is true, dominus. And yet there are those who still defy you. The port of Gefen, in the kingdom of Zohar, is still the bastion of the bearded heathens who chop off the tips of their cocks and piss blood on eagles."

  "You're one to speak of beards," Marcus said, staring at the slave's scraggly white hairs.

  Mingo cackled. There was still a glimmer of light in those eyes, the old defiance that had once driven the man to lead armies against Marcus, a doomed attempt to shatter his throne.

  You sought to destroy me, Marcus thought, staring at the slave. You butchered thousands of my men. You murdered my pregnant wife. So I carved a daughter out from your own wife's womb. And now I slowly, year by year, carve your own life away.

  "My beard is long," said Mingo, "my body frail, and I am but a wretch, dominus. Yet I grow my beard in chains. The Zoharites grow theirs sitting comfortably in their cities, spitting in your eye, all while that eye gazes upon words that deem you their lord!"

  Marcus clenched his fists. It was a terrible sin to strike a memento mori. The aging, withered slave existed to remind Marcus of his own mortality; to strike him would be like striking himself. He forced himself to loosen his fists.

  "Silence your tongue, Mingo," Marcus said. "I do not keep you here to speak."

  "Only to remind you of certain truths." Mingo nodded. "The truth of bodies that decay. Of words that deceive. Of a certain kingdom that still stands."

  Marcus clutched his whip as the chariot rode toward the gates. His lip gave a single twitch. "My children advance toward Zohar, Prince Seneca from the sea, Princess Porcia from the northern hills, and each commands three legions. The kingdom will crumble between them. The lume of Zohar will be ours."

  But Mingo only thrust out his lips and raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps, dominus. Yet even the offspring of mighty eagles are often but weak hatchlings, unable to fly on their own, crashing down to their deaths as soon as their mother shoves them from the nest."

  Now Marcus's lips peeled back in a snarl. "You speak to me of children? You forget that another's eaglet still hides in my nest. Valentina Octavius, once known as Valentina Cassius." He sneered at his slave. "A child who was once dear to you, I believe. A child you once called Daughter. Pray to the gods, Mingo who once had another name. Pray that your words are wrong, that your fellow bearded louts fall before the eagles. For if Aelar ever burns, Valentina will be first to burn with it, and you will hear her scream."

  They entered the city. Past the Gate of Triumph spread a cobbled boulevard, wide enough for five horses to walk abreast, leading through the city. People lined the roadsides, cheering for their emperor. Girls in white linen ran ahead, tossing apple blossoms onto the road. Musicians blew trumpets and beat drums. All the city praised the heroes returning home with their spoils of war.

  Marcus rode his chariot down the boulevard, displaying those spoils for the people—the gold, the jewels, the rich animal pelts, the women who walked collared and nude. Colonnades lined the roadsides, the marble pillars soaring, supporting gil
ded statues of the gods. Temples rose on hills, dwarfing the cypress trees, their porticos sporting columns with capitals engraved as eagles. Villas crested other hills, and side roads revealed apartment buildings built of limestone, seven stories tall.

  They marched for hours, moving through the city. At every block, the commoners cried out for their emperor, leered at the marching captives, and raised their fists in salute to the brave soldiers returning home. The musicians played, and slaves across the city brought forth platters of cakes, bowls of fruit, and jugs of wine. A million souls feasted and drank and danced, and still the procession moved onward.

  Finally Marcus reached the Aelarian Acropolis, the heart of this city, indeed the heart of the empire. Here was a city within a city, the center of his power.

  A wide dirt road encircled the Acropolis, lined with tiers of stone seats—the field where chariots would race for the pleasure of both lords and commoners. Beyond towered great walls topped with battlements, and behind them rose hills. On those hills shone the monuments of the Empire—temples to the gods, a palace of marble, an amphitheater that could seat myriads, and the domed Senate whence the Republic had once ruled, where now the senators bent the knee to their emperor.

  Many of Marcus's generals—and his own children—believed him a fool for allowing the Senate to remain standing, the senators to continue their work. Porcia often demanded to burn the great domed building to the ground, to slay the senators within, to efface all memory of the fallen Republic. Marcus had always refused.

  The senators managed the trade, the tax collection, the farmlands, the census, the laws and courts, entertainment, art. Without them, Marcus knew, he was nothing but a man with a palace. Without them the Empire would fall. And so he kept the senators fat, wealthy, and subservient. Pets on his leash. Senator Cassius had risen against him. Senator Cassius now rode at his side, a wretched slave, a sniveling fool named Mingo.