SENECA

She's dead.

Seneca stood by the boardwalk, gazing at the water.

Taeer is dead. And so are my dreams of conquest.

Ruin covered the riverbanks—the burnt relics of his ships, torched by the Zoharites under Taeer's command. Oars, charred hulls, blackened masts, scraps of sails, and burnt bones entangled with the rushes and floated on the water. The shell of a great barge rose in the middle of the river, half-sunken, holes in its hull gazing like the sockets in a skull. Nurians were wading and swimming through the water, pulling back the jetsam, trying to salvage what they could, but not much was left. His warships, the pride of Aelar, the mighty quinquereme galleys that had conquered the Encircled Sea—all lay burnt, useless, cruel reminders of Taeer's betrayal.

"I will smash the rats' homes and drive them all into the water," said Lidia. Her armor creaked as she turned from side to side, gazing at the street that sloped down to the burnt port. "This is Zoharite territory. I will fuck them until they are raw and begging to die, and the ruins of their home will rise here as a mountain."

Seneca gazed along the street—the one that, only days ago, he had tried to ride through, nearly dying. Here was the Zoharite quarter of Shenutep, this savanna city far south in Nur. A thousand Zoharites still lived here, hiding in their homes. The scum who had stoned him. Who had followed Taeer. Who had burned his fleet, shattering his dream to sail home to Aelar.

He looked at Lidia. The daughter of Remus Marcellus, the governor of Zohar slain in the uprising, she looked nothing like her father. Remus—that old bastard who had brutalized the Zoharites—had been a tall, gaunt son of a dog, skin like leather and hair like coiled tar. Lidia took after her mother, much to her fortune. Her hair was curly and blond—a rare color in Aelar. Some said that Remus had impregnated a Gaelian slave, that he had carved up the woman and kept the fair-haired babe. That babe had grown into a woman, shorter and fairer than her father, but just as fierce. As Lidia gazed upon the Zoharite street, speaking of its destruction, her eyes shone with hunger. Her grin revealed sharp teeth, a grin that tapered into points atop the gums, a grin so wide it seemed lurid, splitting too much cheek, nearly reaching the ears.

"No," Seneca said. "Let them keep their houses. Let them live."

Lidia spun toward him, hissing between her clenched teeth. Her eyes blazed, and she gripped her sword. Her pteruges flailed across her thighs, the leather straps jangling with iron studs. An eagle reared across her breastplate, a masterwork of silver, and that bird too seemed mad to Seneca, a deranged vulture of metal.

"The fucking desert cunts burned our fleet." Lidia snarled like a wild animal, drawing her gladius with a hiss of steel on leather. "They murdered my father in Zohar. They cut your cock and left you to die. I will slay them all."

Seneca sighed. "They cut my thigh, Lidia. In the groin, yes, but I assure you that Taeer would not harm my cock. She loved it too much."

Lidia snorted and looked at a circular, cobbled piazza at the intersection of two roads. "And you sure did fuck her good."

A marble statue of Cicero Octavius had once risen here on a pedestal, an idol of Aelar for the Nurians to fear. Seneca had shattered that marble, using chunks to form latrines for his troops. The stone pedestal still stood in the piazza's center, and instead of a statue, a cross now rose there. A new idol now blessed the streets, an idol of flesh and flies. Taeer's corpse hung on the cross, rotting, stinking.

Seneca looked away. He had not wanted this for Taeer. She had tried to kill him, yes. But Seneca had spent too many years loving her to gaze upon her corpse. It was Lidia who had insisted. The daughter of a famous general, she had risen high in the legions. Despite her youth, Lidia now commanded Legio XI Nuria—the only female commander in the legions. It was she who had nailed Taeer onto the cross, a warning to all other Zoharites.

"I envy Claudia," said Lidia. "I envy her that she butchers Zoharites." Her eyes widened with lust, white showing all around her irises, and she gripped Seneca's arm. "I will kill them all for you, dominus. Every last Zoharite here, I will put them to the blade. Do you fear them, or worse—pity them?"

Seneca stared into her gray-green eyes. A fucking Gaelian's eyes. Lidia stared back, head tilted, smile crooked.

She mocks me, he thought. I am her emperor, and she fucking mocks me.

"I fear none, pity fewer," said Seneca. "You may question my orders, Lidia. My father taught me to listen to his generals' concerns. But you will wipe that fucking smirk off your fucking face, or I will fucking cut your fucking smile all the way to your fucking ears. Do you understand?"

She raised her eyebrows, and her smile only grew. "I can see why Taeer took you into her bed. You talk dirty. I like that. Now let me kill them."

Seneca looked at the street. Simple clay houses. A humble domed temple. A thousand people who had stoned him, tried to kill him. But when Seneca gazed at this street, he remembered a different place. He remembered Gefen, a city in the east. A city he had invaded with Lidia's father. A city he had destroyed. A city where a man had lost his legs and run from the inferno on stumps. A city where a blazing woman had shrieked, a living torch. A city where he had nailed Jerael to the cross and fucked his daughter beneath the dying man's flesh. A city he had turned into a nightmare that would forever haunt him. No. Seneca was done with killing.

"The desert rats have suffered enough," he said. "Even as we speak, Claudia is ravaging their homeland. Let these ones live. They'll be good servants of the Empire."

"Servants who tried to stone you!" said Lidia. "Who burned your fleet!"

"Only by Taeer's orders." He forced himself to look at the crucified lumer. Taeer's skin had been flayed across the torso, and maggots had taken her eyes. Her hair still flowed, sticky with blood. "And she paid. Our vengeance is fulfilled. Ready the legion, Lidia. We march north along the river. We head to Tereen, the mouth to the Encircled Sea."

She frowned. "It's a long walk."

Seneca nodded. "But something awaits us in Tereen, dear Lidia. Something my sister left there." Now it was his turn to smile. "She attacked the province of Nur in the city of Tereen. She thought to break that port, to sail down the Majina River, and to finally claim this great city of Shenutep, with all its pyramids, its splendor, and me—lord of the Southern Empire. I smashed her ships in that port, Lidia. And they still await there. Beached, yes. Ravaged, many of them. Burnt, some. But many can be salvaged. In Tereen, we'll build a great fleet—from the remains of Porcia's armada, from merchant cogs, even from fucking fishermen's dinghies if we must. We will sail to Aelar—all ten thousand of our legionaries. We will claim the Empire."

Lidia snorted and spat. "What are ten thousand troops against Aelar? A cloud of flies stinging at a buffalo."

"That buffalo is weak with disease. Gael's assaults have weakened it. The Zoharites rebel around the Encircled Sea. Valentina is raising hell in the provinces. Porcia lies dead and Tirus has only a weak hold on the city. Aelar is ripe for the taking. Yes, we have only two legions . . . two legions who march with Emperor Seneca Octavius, true heir to Aelar. It's time to go home, Lidia." He turned to leave, then looked back. "Oh, and bury that fucking corpse."

You still deserve that, Taeer, he thought as he left Lidia behind. He stepped into his chariot, whipped the horses, and rode through Shenutep toward the towering pyramids in the city center. You still deserve peace in death. You betrayed me. His eyes stung with tears. You tried to murder me. But I loved you once, and perhaps you loved me, and you were my dearest friend. I flayed your hide and left you to rot in the sun, but I will bury you, and I will remember you as you were—a woman I loved.

The sun began to set across Shenutep, kindling the platinum tips of obelisks and temples, caressing the sandstone sphinxes, igniting the Majina River, and gilding the pyramids that rose in the city. Cranes glided, and a distant elephant trumpeted. The smells of cinnamon and nutmeg rose from taverns. Candlelight glowed in windows, and distant singing, an old tune of Nur, rose in the distance. Seneca slowed his horses to a leisurely gait. He stood in the chariot, savoring the evening. Riding here along these streets, the moon overhead, it was hard to tell that only months ago, this city had raged with war, Queen Imani rallying her rebels against Uncle Cicero.

Seneca looked up at the pyramid, which rose before him. One side shone a burnished gold as the sun sank toward the horizon. The other sides flowed toward the acacia and baobab trees, deep indigo, shimmering where they caught the moonlight. The pyramid's crest blazed, coated with platinum, a beacon seen everywhere in this city, welcoming travelers who sailed the Majina River. For three thousand years—since before there had been Aelar, even before Zohar—this pyramid had risen here. Tonight Imani waited within, his queen, his wife.

And what if I stayed here with her? Seneca thought. What if this—this quiet evening, this peaceful city, this wife whom I love—what if this is enough? What if I remain here with Imani, if we raise our child here in the south? What if Taeer had given me a blessing, burning my ambition into ash, allowing me to remain here in this city of spice and sunset, far south from the Encircled Sea?

He reached the pyramid, and for a long time, he climbed the staircase that ran along its facade. As he rose higher, he saw more and more of the land around him. The streets of Shenutep coiled into the shadows, lined with temples, homes, and statues. Acacia trees rustled around a closed marketplace. A few men and women walked the streets, holding lanterns, beads of light that hovered like fireflies. The river flowed through the city, and as the sun set, the water turned from gold into silvery moonlight. As Seneca kept climbing, the view revealed the city walls and beyond them the savanna. The stars shone.

Seneca entered the pyramid through an archway near its crest. He walked between obsidian statues of women with jackal heads, their eyes golden. He headed down a dark hallway, its obsidian tiles reflecting the light from braziers. Frescoes covered the walls, depicting scenes of reed boats along rivers, bringing spices and gemstones from distant lands as ibises and cranes flew above. Nurian guards stood in nooks, wearing simple white skirts and sandals, their chests bare, rings of gold around their arms and spears in their hands.

Past a stone door, Seneca entered the chamber he shared with Imani. Candles burned in sconces on the walls, and the mosaic animals came to life in the flickering light. Through arched windows, Seneca beheld the dark city and savanna beyond.

Imani slept in the mahogany bed. A silken sheet was pulled over her body, embroidered with silver ibises. Her curly hair spilled across the pillow, sweetly scented. Seneca removed his armor and climbed into bed with her, careful not to wake her. She mumbled but remained asleep. He gazed at her: the high cheekbones, the full lips, the long eyelashes. Gently, he placed his hand on her belly. It was still flat, but he knew that his child grew within—a son or daughter who would someday inherit all that Seneca had built, would still build.

You are the fairest of women, Imani, Seneca thought. I can think of no better mother to my child.

Yes, he had loved Taeer. And he had loved Ofeer. Both had betrayed him. But Imani had saved his life. Even knowing all that he had done, all his sins—sins that had horrified the others—Imani had seen goodness in him, had stayed with him, even as everyone else stabbed him in the back.

"I love you, my wife," he whispered, just a breath, too soft to wake her. "More than you know."

He wrapped his arms around her. She mumbled in her sleep, eyes still closed, and gave him a flutter of a kiss. Sleepily, she reached down to caress his manhood until it hardened in her grip. He made love to her gently, slowly, lying at her side. She fell asleep when he pulled out from her, and he held her close, her body warm against his.

I want to stay here forever, Seneca thought. King and Queen of Nur. Here I am happy. Here I'm at peace.

He thought of Aelar. Of the butchery in the Acropolis. Of the slaughter in the streets. Gael's forces would be pounding at the walls. Tirus would be mustering his legions, preparing for Seneca's assault. Aelar—a place of death, rivers of blood, more war, more nightmares to haunt him. A place of bad memories. A place where he had been a different man.

I can stay, he thought. I can stay here with you, Imani. We can fortify our borders. We can hold Tirus back. We can be happy. For the first time, we can be happy.

Seneca turned his head and looked out the window at the stars. And he knew that he was lying.

Because there can be no happiness for me, he thought. Not here. Not even with Imani. Not while my birthright is kept from me. My father is dead. Porcia is dead. Aelar is mine, and her siren song will forever call me.

And so he would leave this place, this oasis of peace, this paradise with the woman he loved. He would travel north and across the sea. He would return to the fire, to the blood, to the endless echoing screams.