SENECA

"A month," Seneca muttered. "We've been on the road for a goddamn month, and we're only now arriving at Tereen. Fuck, Nur is a big province."

He rode in his chariot, leading his ragtag army. When he looked behind him, Seneca saw them spreading along the bank of the Majina River, marching and riding after his banners. The legionaries took the vanguard, five thousand men, half his original force—the other half had fallen to Porcia's fleet and Tirus's elephants. Behind the legionaries spread the Nurian warriors, lightly armored, their chests bare, headdresses draping across their shoulders. Most of them walked, armed with curved khopesh swords and spears, but hundreds rode war horses or chariots with scythed wheels. The Phedian host took up the rear, the barbarians that had once served Tirus, that had joined Seneca after he'd worn the face of their fallen king. Among this last army walked the most formidable weapon Seneca possessed: eighty war elephants, beasts he would send rampaging through the streets of Aelar.

When I finally capture Tirus, Seneca decided, I'll have an elephant crush his lumpy bald head.

Imani smiled, standing at his side in the chariot. The Queen of Nur was resplendent in her muslin kalasiri, the traditional dress of this southern realm. A tiara shaped as a serpent held back her mane of black curls. Her skin was dark brown and smooth, and her eyes shone. Seneca had married Queen Imani Koteeka to form an alliance with Nur, this southern province he had found rising in rebellion against his family. But he had come to love her—truly, fully. This past month, marching across Nur from the southern pyramids of Shenutep toward the northern coast, had been among the sweetest months of his life. Because he was with her.

"Nur is the largest province in the Empire, my dear." Imani patted his arm. "Without ships to sail on the Majina River, it takes a while to get anywhere."

"We'll have our ships soon enough," Seneca said.

He turned back forward in his chariot, staring north. A couple of weeks ago, the savanna had given way to desert. While the riverbanks remained lush with life, beyond the farmlands and groves rolled rocky hills and dunes. Finally, ahead of them, the Majina River split into a delta of a hundred smaller streams, forming a lush landscape. On the horizon rose the towers of Tereen, the port city of Nur, the gateway to the Encircled Sea.

Last year, Porcia had invaded that port, had smashed Seneca's fleet, had slaughtered thousands of his soldiers. He had survived the battle, yet had been driven south to lick his wounds, to recruit more troops, and to build more ships—only to lose his second fleet when the Zoharites had rebelled.

But the port ahead would still have hundreds of other ships: cargo cogs, merchant barges, fishermen's rowboats, and pleasure pontoons. Probably wrecked ships from that old battle too, maybe in good enough condition to salvage.

"Anything that can float," Seneca said, "will become part of our new fleet. Even if it's a fucking raft."

Imani's smile grew. "It'll be the most ridiculous flotilla the world has ever seen."

Seneca nodded. "But it'll take us home. It'll win us Aelar."

"Just don't put the elephants on the rafts," Imani said.

"The fuckers can swim for all I care," Seneca said. "So long as they smash through the gates of Aelar and make me emperor."

Hooves thundered. Adai, Imani's younger brother, galloped toward them astride a black stallion. The Prince of Nur gazed down from the saddle. Like the warriors he led, he wore only a skirt of white linen, sandals, and a headdress. His armor was formed of but vambraces and greaves, and he held a drawn khopesh. The Nurian prince had always unnerved Seneca. When speaking with his sister and people, Adai was all smiles, a gentle spirit, yet whenever he looked at Seneca, the prince's eyes darkened.

"This army does not follow you for your vainglory, Seneca." Adai must have enjoyed towering over the chariot from horseback, judging by his haughty stare. "We fight for our homeland, for blessed Nur. We fight for the freedom we'll have once we return you to your city. This is not about your ass on a fancy northern seat of ivory."

"Adai!" Imani's eyes flashed. "Enough."

Seneca's hand strayed toward his gladius. He clenched his jaw, had to force air between his teeth. How dare the Nurian speak to him so impudently? Seneca should have him crucified! He would hammer in the nails himself. He would laugh as Adai wept on the cross, pleading for forgiveness, and Seneca would laugh too—laugh as the crows feasted, as all feared his wrath, as his own fear faded under his glory, and—

No.

Seneca swallowed the angry lump in his throat. Shaking, he forced himself to release his gladius.

No. That's no longer me. That cannot be me anymore.

He inhaled deeply, then lowered his head.

"I promise you, Adai. This is not just about my ass on an ivory seat, as comfortable and glorious as that seat might be." He looked into Adai's eyes. "You're my brother-in-law. You'll be uncle to my child. I promise you: Nur and Aelar will exist as allies, not masters and slaves."

Adai grunted, then kneed his horse and galloped ahead of the camp, racing toward the distant port.

Seneca sighed. "I think there might be a very small chance that he doesn't trust me."

"I don't trust you," said Imani. "And I'm your wife."

He clutched his heart. "Your words hurt more than spears. Forget trust then. Fight for vengeance if not trust. The Empire ravaged Nur. It's time for Nur to strike back."

They kept riding, the chariot rolling across the grassy riverbanks. Seneca kept watching the river, waiting to see the sailing merchant ships and the reed boats of fishermen, vessels he'd use for his armada. Yet the river was empty but for several hippopotamuses. He grew impatient to reach the port where he had battled Porcia. There she had struck him, had sought to kill him. From there his conquest of the sea would begin.

"The farms," Imani whispered, pointing.

"What about them?" Seneca asked, not turning to look. He kept staring ahead at Tereen's distant towers.

"They're . . . gone," Imani whispered.

"What?" He turned to look. "I see nothing. Just . . ." He sucked in a breath. "Fuck me."

To the east, where farms had once sprawled, he saw nothing but blackened earth overgrown with rough brush. He met Imani's eyes, and he saw her fear. Standing together in their chariot, they both turned to face the northern city, and Seneca whipped his horses.

The beasts galloped, and the chariot roared forward. Behind them, his fellow charioteers followed, raising a storm of dust. They reached a cobbled road that stretched toward the city. As Seneca rode along the cobblestones, he grimaced. Crosses rose on the roadsides, hundreds of them, each bearing a corpse. The dead looked a week old, maybe fresher, rancid flesh still clinging to the bones.

"No," Imani whispered, looking around with damp eyes. "Oh gods, no. Seneca." She gripped his hand.

They kept charging forward. Their army raced behind them, chariots, horsemen, infantrymen. The walls of Tereen rose ahead. The gates were open, and gibbets hung from the archway, corpses dangling within.

The chariot burst into the city, racing along the boulevard. Seneca's heart sank.

"Oh fuck," he whispered. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck."

At his side, Imani grabbed the reins and gave them a mighty tug. The horses halted in a plaza. Tears on her cheeks, the Queen of Nur leaped from the chariot and stood on the road. She looked around, trembling. Then she fell to her knees and gave a great howl that scattered the feasting crows.

Seneca knelt beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Imani."

He looked around him. The bastards had done a good job. Nearly every building in Tereen had been knocked down. The crosses rose from the rubble like a forest, bearing the dead—men, women, children. A single tower still rose from the rubble—it was the same tower where Seneca had first made love to Imani, placing his child in her belly as below Porcia's fleet burned. Upon the tower hung a banner displaying a bull.

"Sigil of House Valerius," Seneca muttered. "Tirus got here first." He rose to his feet. He winced, the fear growing in him. "Imani, come with me."

He had to pull her to her feet. She was trembling, heaving, shocked. They returned to the chariot and continued through the city, passing by more and more ruin, until they reached the sea.

The port—the port where he had defeated his sister—was gone. Not just ruined or burnt. Gone. The breakwaters, the piers, the boardwalk, and more importantly—the ships—all gone. He saw nothing but ruins along the beach.

"Why?" Imani whispered. "Why did Tirus do this? If he wanted to kill you, why not wait here for you, ambush you with his army? Why just . . . just slaughter and destroy and leave?"

"Because it's easier," Seneca said softly. "The bulk of our forces were in the south. Why battle us when he can just shatter our doorway to the sea?"

He left the chariot and walked along the ruins on the coast. Bones rose from the wreckage. Imani joined him, and their soldiers filled the city behind them, silent.

"I used to visit this city every year," Imani whispered, looking at the fallen houses along the boardwalk. "Tens of thousands lived here. My friends. My people. Oh, Seneca . . ."

He embraced her, and they stood together on the beach, silent. As she wept, his own eyes stung with tears. He stroked her hair, not knowing what to say, how to comfort her. He thought back to Gefen, the city he himself had destroyed. How many of its survivors had stood along its coast, weeping for the loss? How many hearts—as pure as Imani's—had he himself broken? How could he hate Tirus when he himself had been—perhaps still was—just as monstrous?

Thus is played the game of nations, he thought. The cruel play it. The meek weep in the wreckage we leave.

"It's over," he whispered, holding Imani against him, stroking her black curls over and over. "We'll return south to Shenutep, far from the Encircled Sea and the monsters who fight for it. We'll raise our child among the pyramids, deep in the savanna. We'll forget about this war."

She looked at him, her arms still around him. The waves whispered against the ruins. "What of your empire? All our dreams?"

He gazed east along the coast. "Without ships, we'd have to walk around the Encircled Sea. Traveling east, it would take us to Zohar, where Claudia's forces wait—Claudia Valerius, daughter of Tirus, the last person we want to meet. And even if we can march past her unscathed, what waits after that? We'd have to travel north and west again along the northern coast. Province after province, Kalintia and fucking Gael and gods know what other backwaters, each swarming with legions. It would take a year, maybe two, and every league, another enemy would bite at us until nothing is left." He shook his head. "No. Without a port, without ships, it cannot be done."

Imani turned to look west. The coast spread there into the sunset. "But if we go west, we'll reach Phedia. Within six weeks, maybe five if we travel hard and fast, we can be there. They still have a port. They'll have ships. And from Phedia, it'll be only a few days at sea. We can be in Aelar within six weeks."

"Phedia," Seneca whispered. "That's still Tirus's province. He still commands their forces, the . . ." He turned around to see the elephants walking through the town, the bald, tattooed barbarians in their howdahs. "The forces that now follow us. Of course." He pulled back from Imani and pounded the air with his fist. "Of course! Phedia! Fucking Phedia! And if Tirus still has troops there, we'll recruit or kill them. We'll take their ships—real ships, galleys of war, not fucking reed boats and rafts. We'll sail into Aelar as true conquerors! We'll . . ." He released his breath slowly, and he held Imani's hands. "I'm sorry, Imani. You grieve for the loss of your people, and I speak only of my own conquests. Enough have died. If you wish it . . . I will abandon this war. We can still return home to Shenutep, still live there in peace."

Imani looked at the ruins. She looked at the sea. Then she looked into Seneca's eyes.

"Peace?" she said. "Peace lies in ruins on this beach. That is the only peace Tirus Valerius understands. We will go to Phedia and from there to Aelar. To Tirus himself. And we will kill him. And we will kill anyone who stands in our way."

The hosts of the Southern Empire left the ruins behind. They traveled west through darkness along the sea. For long hours, Imani stood silently beside him in the chariot, fists tight around the reins, chin raised, jaw tight. But that night, as they camped on the beach, she lay in his arms and wept. He held her close until the dawn.