Unconquered Son Read online

  “No,” Tivera said with startling clarity. “I worship Mira, the Trifold Mother.”

  The whom? Marcus never heard of such a deity.

  “It is no matter,” the augur said. “We will accept her.”

  Marcus wasn’t sure he liked the look in the augur’s eyes, but he knew intellectually that Tivera would fare better here than in the streets.

  “Come with me, Tivera.”

  She looked at Marcus like a sad dog abandoned by her master. As Marcus left the Augur Collegium, he—for a reason he did not know—fought guilt.

 

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Slaves Reborn

  Silvestro Matteus, Legate

  The mission verged on suicide: succeed where the Seventh Anthanian Legion failed. Conquer the rebel stronghold of Dubaquis, where the best of the legions had perished. Yet Silvestro would not enter with the same bravado that proved to be the Seventh Anthanian’s doom. He would use actual strategy when he attempted it.

  Three thousand soldiers marched in Silvestro’s legion: two thousand, five-hundred common legionaries; three-hundred Imperial Knights; and a two-hundred strong auxiliary force of archers from Eloesus.

  A fearsome force, one that could conquer and people the whole world; and yet, the Seventh Anthanian—almost twice as strong—had broken upon this rebel stronghold like water crashing against rocks.

  As Silvestro rode with the Knights, he surveyed the region. This was Anthanian central valley, on the edge of the imposing Iron Mountains. Here, the sun baked the uncultivated yellow grass, and the rarer, arid fields of wheat. It was hot like southern Anthania, perhaps hotter, but without the respite of the sea. You could not strip your clothes and cool off in the water. Water, here, was a precious commodity.

  The weather had been sunny and blue-skied, but now—the last leg of the journey—a dark spot hung in the distance, and just looking at it sent a shiver up Silvestro’s spine. Perhaps it was a cloud, but if it was a cloud it was an evil one. A man practiced in the art of divination may tell Silvestro more; but until recently—until just a few days ago, when the rumors started to reach him—he had not believed in that art or in underworldly powers.

  A rider appeared in the distance. The black, hooded cloak he wore flapped in the wind. He held the reins with black gloves, and wore black boots over his feet. His horse was gray and sparse of hair, sickly and—if the showing ribs were any evidence—malnourished. Around the man’s left sleeve was a red band.

  Silvestro halted and signaled the people behind him to stop. He hollered, “What do you want?”

  “My name is Achaeus,” a voice rasped from behind the hood. “Once I was an Eloesian slave, mistreated by my domino. Now I have been reborn as a Son of the Underworld.”

  It took monumental effort for Silvestro to speak firmly. “Achaeus, you are an Eloesian slave. If you feel you have been mistreated by your master, could you not have taken it up in court, rather than joining a cult? It is illegal to badly mistreat a slave.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?” the voice rasped. “There is no hope for slaves in the Empire; there is no justice. Only in Yblis, God of the Underworld, will we find our justice. And then, in Him, it is the rich and the powerful that will have no hope.”

  “Show your face!” Silvestro roared and swept his standard-issue Imperial sword out of its sheath.

  To his great surprise, he removed his hood to reveal a bloody face, scarred beyond human recognition. “In Yblis there is no ugly or beautiful. There is only Him.”

  “Soldiers?” Silvestro roared. “Javelins!”

  “I came here to help you,” Achaeus said. “I came to warn you, because if you go any further, you march to your doom.”

  “Launch!”

  A dozen javelins soared through the air. Most hit the ground around Achaeus and bent over. The last of them sank into Achaeus’ chest and out the other side. His horse bucked onto her hind legs and whinnied, then turned around and galloped back toward Dubaquis, off-road toward the black cloud. The limp body of Achaeus did not fall from the saddle.

  As they continued down the road it became clear to Silvestro that strategy—and perhaps, a strange strategy—was necessary. His wife, on the rare weeks he spent at their small home in the foothills, told him of her great faith in Luos, god of light. That he protected the weary and the lost against the evils of darkness and shadow.

  Perhaps, even if it were not to Luos, they might make an offering to a god. Perhaps, to all gods; and perhaps that would break some of the underworld lord’s power.

  At the next open field Silvestro ordered the legion to make camp. He would have to make preparations. He would have to plan, to understand the enemy, and to sacrifice.

  He sent two legionaries, Donato and Piero, to go spy. He sent one cohort to go seek out a cow for sacrifice. Then, watching the legion set up their tents along the field, he paced the grounds nervously. The words of Achaeus hung over him like a raincloud. I walk to my doom, he thought. Yet if the rebellion was not decimated, the whole Empire would grow unstable. It was his duty as a citizen, and if he died in the attempt then it would be an honorable death.

  Soon enough the cohort returned, wrangling a steer by its horns after retrieving it from a nearby ranch. Yet before Silvestro could turn his mind to sacrifice, Donato came sprinting back to camp, screaming, “Piero’s been captured! Piero’s been captured! We have to go save him.”

  “Calm yourself!” shouted a centurion named Horatio. “We will do no such thing.”

  But Silvestro could see the desperation in Donato’s eyes. Piero had apparently been his good friend. “Don’t give orders for me!” Silvestro snapped at him. “I will take a century. In fact, I will take your century, Horatio. You will come with me, and we will find Piero.”

  “Thank you! Thank you, signore!” Donato looked uncharacteristically bare of armor; only a linen undershirt and breeches for sneaking. In his effort to move quietly, he had discarded his standard-issue helmet and hauberk.

  Horatio and Silvestro exchanged glances. Horatio’s eyes held a trace of a glare, but even he was too honorable to argue with his commander.

  Silvestro led the century on foot. The journey to the black cloud took a long half hour off-road through fields of dry, golden wheat. The farmers dared not complain; they feared the legion. But even they had to worry about the black cloud and the bad tidings from Dubaquis.

  In time, they reached the area underneath the black cloud. The twilight turned to night. The rolling wheat was gray, and all color was a pale shadow of what it once had been. It seemed they entered into a world of the dead. A chill breeze blew in from the dark gray, now-visible Iron Mountains, turning everything in its path cold.

  It was silent here, yet not silent. Despite the lack of spoken word, it seemed that underneath the pervasive quiet, a low moaning arose: a strained sob of the restless dead.

  Silvestro broke the silence. “Follow me!” he said with a firmness and command that surprised him. He moved forward, sword extended, walking quietly.

  At last, through the tomb-gray fields of wheat, the black walls of Dubaquis appeared. Silvestro had no doubt that the stone structures were once light gray underneath a sunny sky. Now they formed a black shape over the horizon.

  Silvestro marched forward, and his soldiers followed a few steps behind. He made it halfway through the wheat fields leading up to the black wall, and then stopped. He turned around, looked into Donato’s eyes, and asked, “Where did he go missing? Was it beyond the wall?”

  Donato shook his head. “It was near the gate,” he whispered. “A man in a black hood ran after him and I ran back to camp.”

  Coward. Silvestro did not say the word, but it was true. “Take me to where you last saw him,” he said.

  Donato nodded and gulped. Then he took the lead.

  They were perhaps a hundred yards from the gate. The low, constant moaning of the dead grew clear, so that Silvestro knew the noise was not just in his head. Above the c
ity and below the dark steely skies, disembodied white ghosts flew this way and that. Perhaps they were the source of this strained, painful cry. It dawned on Silvestro as he crept through the wheat fields that his skepticism was no longer valid; with his own eyes, he saw the spirits of those long-dead. People did not just perish and turn to worms like the Thenoan School of philosophy taught; they lived on in agony in the underworld, under a constant mournful sky.

  Silvestro looked around him. A figure appeared in the distance. A man in a black hood stood there with a red band wrapped around his sleeves; yet this was not Achaeus. This man was a bit shorter and thinner.

  “Stop!” Silvestro hissed. “Javelins.”

  The clanking of metal echoed through the air.

  “See that man?”

  A few murmurs of assent.

  “Launch!”

  The javelins went flying. Almost instantaneously, the figure drew a shield from his back and crouched, blocking the projectiles like a turtle-shell. One javelin glanced off the shield; another stuck into it and bent over, rending the thing useless in close combat.

  “Charge!” Silvestro roared.

  The soldiers ran at the hooded man, but the hooded man did not give chase. He remained perfectly still and as they grew closer it became apparent he was unarmed.

  They were almost within range of cutting him down when he shouted, “I can give you Piero.” But the voice did not sound like a man’s.

  “Halt!” Silvestro snapped, and the soldiers stopped immediately. “Surround him so that he may not escape.”

  The man lowered his hood, and they realized it was not a man at all. A woman stood before them with a thin, pale face and long brown hair tied into a ponytail. “I can bring your friend back to you. And if you strike me down, you will only have yourselves to blame for your doom.”

  “Weapons down,” Silvestro snapped. He peered at her, observing her sickly pallor. “You are a woman.”

  “In the eyes of Yblis there is no man or woman, rich or poor, August or common.”

  “A philosophy many would take to, and even I—admittedly—can see the attraction in,” Silvestro said. “But it is clear, judging from the darkness you spread and the atrocities you’ve committed, that your message is demonic in nature.”

  “To call Yblis a demon is the ultimate blasphemy,” the woman said. “He is a god, and an angry god that lives beneath the others’ feet… but he is nevertheless a god.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Kyra,” she said. “Once I was an Eloesian slave, serving a cruel master that beat me every night. Now I have been reborn in Yblis.”

  “You poor thing,” Silvestro said. “It is illegal in the Empire for a master to mistreat his—”

  “Ah, yes.” Kyra cut him short. “You told that to Achaeus too. Quaint.” She looked into his eyes. “The Empire will fall. The rebels will take Imperial City, and a hell-mouth will swallow it. The emperors have committed crimes against nature.”

  That, Silvestro said, is both untrue and treasonous. The Empire had created long-lasting peace through the region. Peace through strength, as King Peregothius said.

  “Do you want your friend?” Kyra said. “You will have to enter the City of the Dead alone. Only Silvestro the Imperial-blooded. Even the children of Yblis take oaths seriously, and I hereby make an oath not to harm you. By coming here you have shown your mettle. Come with me, Lord Silvestro; I know your name, for my god has told me.”

  “Very well.” Silvestro looked back at the hundred-and-one men behind him. “Wait for me.”

  Heads stuck to the black gate, impaled on spikes. Silvestro shivered. Slowly it cranked open. He had hardly taken one step when Kyra thrust a foul-smelling cloth over his mouth. He slipped into unconsciousness before he could catch a glimpse of the city.

 

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  The White Throne

  Julia Seánus Algabal, Empress mother

  “You aren’t even an Imperial!” the traitor said as the Imperial Guard grabbed him by the arms.

  It was half-true, Julia knew, but it didn’t matter. The former emperor, Julio Seánus, was her uncle, and she, his last remaining relative. Her son, Giton, was now emperor. Her ex-husband, Urunam Algabal—dead for many years—would have been proud. Giton’s position was mostly due to her; but Urunam still would have been proud of the child.

  And thus, in the spacious circular meeting-room of the Council House, she sat in the Yellow Seat. Giton sat in the White Seat right next to her, elevated high above everyone else. Twice in this long day of meetings, Giton had fallen asleep and only his dear mother dared wake him.

  The traitor screamed as the guards dragged him off. A councilor named Galvano stood up and unraveled a scroll, reading the next matter of business on this very long meeting-day.

  “A letter from the governor of Eloesus,” the councilor said. “A number of my people have begun setting up shrines to living emperors. I find this unsettling, as the emperor is said to be first among equals, and I seek your permission to ban this new ‘Imperial cult’…”

  “Ban it,” Julia said. “The emperor is not a god. My son is not a god, and there are to be no temples to him.”

  Bruesio, an old councilor, stood up. “My good emperor, I suggest that you bash all the temples down and flog any members of this new ‘cult.’ Put it on the list of proscribed cults, and arrest those responsible. We cannot have our Empire tainted with these southron ideas of emperors being gods.”

  “It could instill respect,” argued Karo, a younger councilor in his thirties.

  “No!” Bruesio hissed. “He is wrong. Surely you agree, emperor. What do you think, emperor?”

  In the ensuing silence, a snoring became evident. Julia looked up, peering high into the White Seat, and saw that her son had once again fallen asleep. She flushed with embarrassment and poked him repeatedly until he awakened.

  “What? What is it?” Giton grumbled.

  “Do you think living emperors should be worshipped as gods?” asked Councilor Galvano.

  “Oh, well… I don’t know.” Giton wiped his eyes. “Is it dinnertime yet?”

  A few frustrated sighs echoed through the room.

  “I think you had best get some sleep,” Councilor Bruesio said with a hint of a sneer. “Then we will reconvene when you are awake and fit to give commands.”

  That is not the way to speak to an emperor, Julia thought. Or the son of a bel, though they do not respect that title here. She stood up. “I am sorry, councilors.” She jerked Giton’s purple gem-encrusted robe, and growled, “Come with me.”

  In their private room, the anger developing in Julia finally released itself. “How dare you, boy! Sleeping during a meeting with the councilors… you’re embarrassing me, and you’re making these stodgy Imperials think you’re incompetent.”

  “If they think that, I’ll just have them killed. It’s nothing,” Giton said.

  She looked into her son’s brown eyes. She could see a little of her uncle in him, the fiery emperor who inspired the council. She needed to awaken that very fire in her son. She needed to turn him from this slothful, negligent teen into a powerful and determined Commander of the Empire. “Listen to me,” she said. “You must stay awake in these meetings… you must inspire people. The emperor is not a god. He is not immune to swords and poison. You must project strength, and wisdom, and command.”

  “Easier said than done,” Giton said.

  “No,” Julia said. “Every talent is a skill that can be learned; it comes easier to some than others, but it can be learned. I must get you a teacher in oratory…”

  Someone knocked on the door and Giton leapt to his feet. He ran to the door and opened it, revealing a young woman in the clothing of a Khazidean belly-dancer: a skirt that went far above the knee, a bare waist and a paper-thin midriff. Giton embraced her. “Sabin!” he said.

  Julia fumed silently as Giton ran away with her through the door. You can teach oratory, she reflec
ted. But you can’t teach determination. And without determination he will never learn. She shrieked quietly. If only she had borne Urunam another son… one that had cares beyond bedding girls and guzzling wine to the point of drunkenness.

  She stood up. “Why?” She wrung her hands. She felt like throwing something.

  A figure appeared at the door. It was Antonio, Marshal of the Imperial Guard. He was trustworthy and indeed had been very helpful to Julia. He was the one who forged the emperor’s will, and now received a secret monthly sum from the Empire’s coffers.

  “Antonio!” she said. “I am so glad to see your face.”

  Antonio’s return smile was grim. “And I am glad to see yours, signora. But I have ill tidings.”

  Julia’s heart sank in anticipation of the disappointment. She imagined the worst thing that could happen in the world… Giton dying. She braced herself for that, and now, she supposed, she could not be disappointed.

  “The councilors will take a vote next week. Councilor Bruesio has accused Giton of incompetence.”

  Julia sighed, and it seemed her whole soul—all her energy—left her. She fell back onto the couch and began crying. “The damned bastard Bruesio… I hate him. He must die. In the south no one can disrespect a king. And in the Eloesian kingdoms of old, before the Imperial pigs invaded, a group of pathetic old men couldn’t depose the sovereign. What a backward land this is!”

  “I advise you not to speak like that, signora.” Antonio crossed the room and sat down next to her. “It is indeed grave tidings, but we must not act rashly.”

  “I want to kill Bruesio.”

  “That would alert suspicion, and you would be the only suspect.”

  Julia glared at Antonio and noticed—in his steel breastplate, his chainmail skirt and thin blackish hair—how wise and commanding he looked, in such complete opposition to her son. “Perhaps I should arrest the whole council.”

  “Better yet,” Antonio said, and brushed Julia’s long hair, “you could pay him to cancel the vote.”