Unconquered Son Page 6

  “Governor Marcusio,” suggested Councilor Juliano. “He has done well in ruling Gad, and served a while in the Nichaean Legion.”

  “I would never vote for him!” laughed Councilor Karo. “He lives in Bregantium, that backwater town, and all he’s ever known is Gad. He would not know how to rule an empire so large, and Imperial City wouldn’t take him seriously.”

  “The people of Gad are wild and rebellious. He knows how to deal with trouble,” Councilor Juliano argued back.

  “Silence!” shouted Bruesio. “We need a military leader, someone practiced with the sword, who leads charges and guides from the front… someone whom everyone knows as a great warrior, and a wise leader.”

  The doors of the Council House flew open and in their wake stood Antonio, Marshal of the Guard.

  An answer to our worries, Bruesio considered. Perhaps he is just what we are looking for.

  “Councilors,” Antonio said, “I bear bad news. A rider came from Dubaquis, the rebel city. The gates have opened and an army has poured out. He says it is like they are from Hell itself. A dark coach rides in front and destroys all in its path, just by virtue of its presence. I suggest we send the Nichaean Legion to crush them and make an example. They must be taught a lesson.”

  Bruesio turned to the twenty-nine councilors before him. “Members of the Imperial Council, Augusts all… I move that we place the Empire under martial law, with Antonio Laureana as regent for a period of six months. All against it?”

  Numerous hands went up. Bruesio counted them: fourteen.

  “All for?”

  Bruesio again counted the hands: fifteen.

  “I cast my vote for it. By a vote of sixteen to fourteen, the resolution is passed.”

  Bruesio looked at Antonio. A stunned expression had fallen over his face. “When is my coronation?”

  “There will be no coronation, nor will you wear the Imperial Circlet,” Bruesio said. “It is in our law, and shows the temporary nature of the position.” Yet Bruesio knew it was a precarious situation; under a state of martial law, much power was given to the emperor, and, therefore, the regent.

 

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  Stage Exit

  Regent Antonio Laureana

  Antonio sat down on the purple-cushioned White Throne. Never once in his life did he think this would happen. In fact, he was rather content pulling the strings of the Imperial court through his dealings with Julia Seánus. But now he was temporary ruler over the provinces, and the source of his power was the White Throne itself.

  Antonio called for a court messenger and said, “Tell Legate Arsinio to leave Nichaeus and face the rebels.”

  With that bothersome task done, he could focus on what he always wanted. Yes, he had respect for the serious, intelligent and—dare he mention it—old and infirm Emperor Julio Seánus. As much respect as was needed for the Council to like Antonio, at least. But Antonio liked Emperor Giton’s view of Imperial office; an opportunity to explore the limits of power. For lack of better terms, Antonio liked women very much, and—for all his recent aggression—the Padisha Emperor knew how a ruler should be treated.

  He would respect the Imperial Council, unlike Giton’s mother. But there would have to be certain alterations to the title of emperor. A new extension to the palace would have to be added—a southron-style harem for Antonio’s personal and exclusive enjoyment. He would stock the Imperial Palace with wines. The court would learn how to enjoy life, and Antonio would be the instructor.

  Later that afternoon, Antonio received word that legate Arsinio’s legion had, indeed, left its camp outside Nichaea and marched along the Path of Tidus—north toward Dubaquis. For an hour he argued the logistics of feeding them, with the irate messenger proclaiming several times that “You act as if they do not need to eat!” But Antonio eventually got over his reluctance to starve the populace (and more pressingly, the Imperial court) and agreed to provide the proper food. Exhausted from the argument, he realized that sitting on the White Throne as emperor was more work than play; and perhaps that Giton’s irresponsibility was the cause of his assassination.

  He had hardly ended the conversation when another bombardment of messengers arrived, asking for decisions: the Ninth Paladian Legion sought permission to winter in Bregantium—yes, Antonio told him, and thought it an unwelcome reminder of those dark, rainy, quickly-approaching days; the High Priest in Sanctum wants to resolve a theological issue—no thank you, Antonio told him; the runners of Haroon Spice are growing more aggressive, and oh, whatever shall we do?—make routine searches of every ship, and imprison any crew members indefinitely, Antonio said.

  At last the series of decisions seemed to come to an end, and then another messenger entered. This one did not come from the outer double doors, but from a side door. “Signore,” he said. “Julia Seánus wishes to have an audience with you.”

  At last, an issue about someone who knew… although, Antonio noted, someone who had recently become much less important to him.

  As Antonio expected, Julia sat in the room, a sobbing mess. Her makeup was smeared with tears and indeed she looked pitiful. Antonio almost felt sorrow for her, but sorrow was an emotion he could never quite conjure up even if he tried. She could no longer do much more for him, now that he—and not her son—sat on the throne. He walked up to the couch where she sat and looked down, then said—with a brusqueness borne of impatience—“What is it, Julia?”

  “My son is dead!” Julia cried. “What do you think is the matter?”

  “I am not a miracle worker, Julia. Do you expect me to raise him back from the dead?” Antonio sighed.

  “What am I to do now? No one seems concerned about finding the killer.”

  “They have made me emperor,” Antonio said. “It is a temporary position.”

  Julia stood up, eyes flaring. “What do you mean, they made you emperor?”

  “I mean, they made me emperor. What is hard to understand about that? For six months, I am emperor and have full powers of martial law.”

  “You didn’t set this up, did you?” Julia’s tone cemented it as an accusation rather than a true question.

  Nothing angered Antonio more than people accusing him of things, especially things he didn’t do. “No, lupa,” he growled. “And I don’t appreciate you saying that at all.”

  “I can say what I want to say.” She stood up, bared her teeth. “I am the Empress mother.”

  “You were the empress mother,” Antonio corrected her.

  She grabbed a fistful of Antonio’s cloak in both hands. “I still have allies. I could send someone to kill you.”

  Antonio furrowed his brows. “I won’t forget that comment. You’ve just threatened the emperor.”

  Julia spat in his face. Antonio wiped the unwelcome moisture from his cheek and then, grabbing the shoulder of her dress to restrain her, smeared it on her face.

  “The Empire is under martial law. I am sending you back to Algabal where you belong.” Antonio tightened his grip on her.

  Julia’s face flushed red. “I will tell the emperor that you forged the will.”

  “And I will tell them that you paid me to do it, and that your son’s reign was illegitimate,” Antonio said. “The truth paints a bad light on both of us. That’s if the people of the Empire believe the truth. Pack your things, Julia Seánus. Your role on the world stage has come to an end. I’m sure the people of Algabal will welcome you with open arms.”

  “I refuse,” Julia hissed.

  “Then tomorrow, at first light, I will bind you in chains and force you onto a ship,” Antonio said. “And if that doesn’t work, I will kill you.”

  Julia’s eyes bulged with infinite wrath. Antonio released her with perhaps more force than necessary, and she fell back onto the couch. As he left she said, “You will regret this.”

  At dinner, the cooks served roast quail smeared in hot Haroon sauce; bowls of salty, toasted walnuts; crispy sliced bread and dishes filled with
olive oil or fish sauce; a basket of green olives and a basket of black olives; pork-stuffed dormice and generous helpings of wine. It was a several-hour long ordeal and several times the other diners—Bruesio, Speaker of the Council, and his wife Flora; two other councilors whose name escaped him; and a few of his fellow Imperial Guards—asked him why he did not touch his wine or eat the food.

  “I have no appetite,” Antonio answered, but in truth he wanted to make sure everyone ate a bit of the food before he tried it, and the wine was off-limits. In the nascent days of his reign, he knew some might want to poison him.

  At the end of the feast, when everyone was stuffed, a few slaves came out of the kitchen to clean up. One girl in particular—from Gad, judging by her blonde hair and blue eyes—asked, “Domino, won’t you drink your wine?”

  I was right to be cautious. Antonio congratulated himself, then said in a firm tone, “Sit down.” He motioned the other slaves to leave.

  The girl went white as she took a seat next to Antonio.

  “I want you to drink it,” Antonio said. “The whole thing.”

  “But domino, it’s fine Korthian stuff. I—I can’t.” The girl’s hand was shaking.

  Antonio had no pity for her. “Tell me, girl,” he said, “who sent you to poison my glass. Tell me, or drink.”

  “But domino, it isn’t poisoned,” the girl said.

  “Then drink.”

  “It was Lady Julia.”

  The confession surprised Antonio, but it very much made sense. “Gordo? Marcos? Secondo?” he said to the other Imperial Guard members at the table. “Flog this slave. I will go take care of Julia.” He grabbed the wineglass and headed down the winding halls of the palace toward the women’s apartments.

  When Antonio kicked down the door, Julia’s face indicated she knew why he was there, even though her words indicated otherwise. “What did I do?” she said. “What is it? What are you doing? Stop—”

  But Antonio crossed the distance between them fast, hopping over the couch while spilling only a little of the wine. He forced her mouth open, and her attempts to bite him proved in vain. He shoved the wineglass into her mouth and forced the deadly concoction down her throat. Then he slammed the wineglass onto the floor.

  “Thus ends the life of Julia Seánus,” Antonio said with the aplomb of an actor. “Traitor to the end.”

  He held Julia down as her eyes shut, as her body convulsed, as she sank into unconsciousness and then into death.

  “Julio, Julia, and Giton all are dead,” Antonio mused. “The Line of Seáni is no more.”

 

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  The Red Hand

  Anthea Abantes

  Anthea couldn’t forget the man she met at the grand reception, after she crept into the Imperial Palace and poisoned the emperor’s wineglass. What was his name? Ah, yes. Claudio. How noble he seemed, how intelligent, how kind.

  The very antithesis of every client of hers at Lady Ciutta’s Den. The slobs with their unshorn hair and unwashed bodies, living on a steady diet of free bread. The adulterous old men, risking all for a night in the sack with Anthea. The criminals who made regular use of the Den; the murderers, the diseased, the ugly, the addicts, the creeps. Anthea couldn’t stand any of them.

  In her small private chamber, Anthea worked her light brown hair into a braid as she gazed in the mirror. She and Lady Ciutta were “going for a stroll,” as they liked to say. Lady Ciutta—the middle-aged Imperial madam—hid secrets behind her short black dress and her white-powdered face, her red lips and plaited hair. Lady Ciutta told everything to Anthea, who was second-in-charge when it came to the brothel and vested with absolute trust.

  A scent of perfume wafted into the room, and Anthea knew Lady Ciutta was behind her. Seeing her braid was done, she cast it over the front of her chest and turned to the brothel madam.

  “Ready?” Lady Ciutta said.

  Anthea nodded.

  They strolled through the dangerous streets of the west side without a worry. The women of Lady Ciutta’s Den were protected by the criminal “lords of the streets” and their assorted thugs. They headed to the notorious Paradise Park, a haven of muggers and thieves, and she and Ciutta went at night, no less. There they would discuss business, the first meeting since someone—who knows who?—had murdered the Emperor, and unexpectedly did Anthea’s deed for her.

  The Fraternal Order of the Red Hand sought, above all else, to kill whoever sat upon White Throne. If they only accomplished this task, the city’s “underbelly”—the brothel madams, the spice runners, the thieves and the crooks—would find their emancipation. The Red Lord would herald in the end of all things. The tables would turn against the self-righteous. Anthea found the theology convoluted, hard to grasp, and often contradictory, but these criminals—her employer included—had zealously devoted themselves to this cult.

  Emperor Julio Seánus, now dead, had ruled with unfortunate wisdom, and proven himself impossible to kill. The latest emperor, Giton, ruled with much less care. Anthea had gotten so close to killing him, and satisfying Lady Ciutta. But before she could kill Giton for the sake of the Red Hand, someone else did.

  At last, they reached Paradise Park. The name could not be less fitting, Anthea mused. Within the shade of the cypress trees, the low-lives of the west side consumed packet after packet of Haroon Spice, chewing the heady mixture as it took their emotions to euphoric heights even as it turned their minds to jelly, their flesh to bones, and their eyes to eerie crimson.

  Lady Ciutta led the way and within moments they reached the small clearing in the cedars. A few men gathered there: rough-looking, all, with scars on their faces and arms. Perhaps they gained them from street battles, or perhaps from a brothel-borne disease. Anthea knew which explanation “Lord” Tomo—the leader—would claim.

  “Ciutta. Anthea,” Lord Tomo said. “Now that we’re all here… the emperor’s been killed, gods damn it all. This new one is shaping up to be the worst… fitting for the Red Lord, but he’s tough. He’s a fighter, a warrior, and it’ll be damned tough.”

  “And what shall we do?” Ciutta said with her typical cool composure. “Send Anthea up again?”

  “We’ll try something different,” said Lord Tomo. “This emperor, people say, has a weakness for women. He’s a devout worshipper of Brecko, people say.” He chuckled.

  Anthea smiled. Her clients often spoke well of the god of pleasure and wine.

  “You will wait for an opportunity, Lady Ciutta,” Lord Tomo said. “And then we will send Anthea. She’d better do her job this time.”

  “She will,” Lady Ciutta said, and regarded Anthea with a fiery gaze.

  Anthea shriveled under the lady’s visage. “Of course.” She could never say no to those black eyes of abyss.

  Lady Ciutta turned back to Lord Tomo. “And your ears in the Imperial Court will tell us when an opening arises, will they not?”

  Lord Tomo nodded. The scars on his face looked black in the moonlight. “It will be done.”

  Back in her small, drab concrete room, Anthea slumped onto her mattress. She thought again about the young man at the emperor’s reception. Claudio. An upper class noble who, despite Anthea’s admittance of her true profession, had treated her well and not alarmed the other partygoers. She had been slightly drunk when she confessed. She prayed to Issa, goddess of brothels, that they would meet again.

  But then she remembered that this Claudio was a man of honor. She tried to remember which god represented honor. She remembered the province of Paladium, and the High Priest’s sermons on justice and duty and honor. She prayed to Hieronus that they would meet again.

  “Please, Hieronus, let Claudio and I meet again,” Anthea said, then blew out the candles for her night’s rest.

 

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  The Battle of Sage Valley

  Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate

  The fleet had traveled swiftly.

  Lorenus, God of
the Sea, did not curse them with choppy waters or violent storms; instead, he blessed them with smooth waters and good sailing. Thus, they passed by the Isles of Marion and, after ten days at sea, came within sight of the shore of Eloesus.

  Claudio—aboard the flagship Vanguard, largest of the war-galleys—led the fleet, heading southeast into what was known as the Thartan Inlet. At the end was the city of Imperiopoli. The two decks of oarsmen on the Vanguard began at once, propelling the great ship swiftly into calmer, more insulated waters. The inlet was deep enough for the ships to pass through.

  By midafternoon, they came in sight of the long stone walls protecting the port and leading a half-mile inland to the city proper. Soldiers stood on the docks, but these were not Imperials. They wore caps of hardened leather, and carried shields of light wood or wickerwork. The mature among them had thick dark beards. On the walls, a different flag flapped on the turrets: not the war-eagle of the Empire, but the four-pointed star of the Fharese.

  At the sight of the Imperial navy they fled, perhaps leaving to tell their superior officers. Claudio immediately ordered the ships to begin landing. Claudio cursed his misstep; he had thought that surely, the Fharese had not gotten this far. The walls of Imperiopoli were strongly built.

  Dressed in the scale armor of the Imperial Knights, Claudio formed his army within the port walls. Over a period of several hours, the Fharese did not return through the gate. When the sun was just a glimmer in the sky, Claudio took the lead and marched into the city proper, seeing the iron portcullis was open and the path to the city was clear. Claudio, marching in the front, was among the first to see the destruction.

  The city was a blackened ruin. The brightly-painted statues of the gods were bashed, their marble heads decapitated from the body. The bloodied bodies of Imperial soldiers and citizens lay in the streets as he led the march through them.