INTERLUDE ONE
Screams shattered the morning silence of Kisra’s Imperial Palace, reverberating down the hallways.
Grumbling under his breath, Caius slid from his lover’s grasp and out of bed. The last cool breeze of spring wafted through his balcony doors, and the Rasennan Emperor took a moment to savour it. Soon, the stifling heat of summer would transform the capital city into an oppressive furnace.
More screams rang out beyond the chamber. Velthur stirred in the spacious bed, his crop of midnight hair fanned out across the smooth pillow.
Caius ground his teeth, a simmering impatience igniting within him, ready to be unleashed on the useless slaves who couldn’t keep the Empress under control. Ever since his wife had returned to Kisra, her daily antics had become a constant thorn in his side.
Throwing on a silk tunic, he stormed out of his quarters and headed for her chamber. Slaves scattered before him like rodents as he strode past the water garden colonnade.
The Imperial Palace was covered in bright frescoes, each depicting the previous emperors’ victories. It had been built in the heart of the capital, on the highest hill, back when Rasenna was still a puny kingdom.
Caius Tarquinius’ own military battles were featured in the Great Hall, with the Battle of Kendrisia as the centrepiece. It was a constant reminder of the power he held through his fourteen army legions as well as his devotion to Laran, the god of war.
As Emperor, few dared to defy him.
Those who tried often found themselves sent to faraway provinces filled with hostile inhabitants or had the misfortune of encountering a cut-throat late at night.
The screams grew louder, interspersed with shouting and the occasional groan.
Frowning, Caius pressed on.
“My lord.” Plecu, his trusted master of the house, lowered his gaze and fell in step behind him. “The Empress is… suffering this morning.”
Caius scoffed. She was always suffering. That was no excuse to scream like a Gorgon at daybreak, waking up the whole damn palace.
He approached, and the handmaidens lingering around the Empress’ quarters parted. Only Avidia, the eldest, stepped before him.
“She does not like the capital.” Although the slave’s disdain for him was evident from the scowl on her lined face, she knew better than to meet his eye or raise her voice.
As the sole handmaiden capable of soothing the Empress, he’d begrudgingly entrusted her with his wife’s care. He also approved many of her requests, no matter how ridiculous or trivial they appeared.
When the Empress had requested to eat fish and oysters, he had brought them to her by the platter.
When the Empress had requested to look upon the sea from her bedroom window, Caius had requisitioned one of his legates’ villas on the eastern coast and had sent her there every summer.
The Empress’ enduring influence over him meant he acquiesced to her every demand.
Years ago, her beauty and power had bewitched him from the moment he’d glimpsed her across the battlefield. And he’d known, there and then, that he had to possess her.
Except that she’d already seduced another. One far more powerful and dangerous than Caius himself, who ensured her safety, regardless of her state of mind.
Caius’ jaw tightened. “Vanth be damned, she arrived not even a fortnight ago. Surely, she can bear it a little longer.”
Avidia’s lips thinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Another round of shouts filled the room, and the handmaidens rushed inside, but their attempts to soothe the Empress were futile.
A headache took hold in his temple. “Give her hellebore.”
Plecu exchanged a glance with Avidia. “But, my lord, the healers cautioned us to use it sparingly—”
If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was disobedience. “And who do you serve, Plecu? The healers or your Emperor?”
The master of the house paled and then fell to his knees. “You, my lord.”
“Do not make me come back.”
The weight of his threat was enough to disperse the slaves in all directions to fulfil his orders. They knew the consequences should they ever displease him—the wild beasts of Laran’s arena were always in need of fresh meat.
With a final glance at the soft yellow fresco walls beyond the doorway, Caius turned away. He barked orders for a bath to be drawn and breakfast to be served, pushing all thoughts of the Empress aside.
“But—but, Tarquinius!”
Caius inwardly groaned at the heavy-set, balding man standing before him in the open courtyard. Stuffed in the folds of an immaculate white tebenna, Perperna looked more like a sacrificial pig ready for slaughter than a Rasennan senator.
In such moments, Caius regretted bestowing the rank of senator upon him. At least the paunchy man was one of the wealthiest in the Empire.
“Ten days of festivities and games?” Sanquinius, the other senator, glanced once more over the scroll Caius wished them to share with the Senate during their next meeting.
In contrast to Perperna, Sanquinius was the tall, strong-jawed, and blue-eyed heir of the oldest family of Volterra, who’d received an extensive education in the arts of philosophy, politics, and diplomacy. It was Velthur, Caius’ lover, who’d first noticed the young heir’s potential, and, after careful consideration, Caius had plucked Sanquinius out of the army and made him the youngest senator ever. The young heir had served him well in return.
“The Senate will never approve.” Perperna wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief, failing to gather his composure. “Three additional days of food, wine, and games for the people? We had not planned for this!”
The Senate was another one of Caius’ regrettable ideas. He had hoped to please the people by giving them the illusion of power, but instead, the bunch of senile men got in the way of his plans more often than not.
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, longing for some peace and quiet. “Then cancel other festivities. Laran is our patron god. We must do everything in our power to satisfy his desires.”
Perperna’s jaw fell open. Even Sanquinius seemed at a loss for words.
“Which festivities do you suggest we cancel?” the latter asked. “Whichever ones we choose, we risk the wrath of that deity.”
“Nonsense.” Caius signalled a slave for wine, ready to end the intolerable meeting. “We can cancel Turan’s festival. Since the attack on Velch and the destruction of her temples, there have been no signs of her. Turan’s magic is gone, and the amount of coins the Senate spends each year on white doves and swans is ludicrous. The money can be put to better use.”
“Cancel— But—” Perperna stuttered, but Sanquinius tugged him back.
“Excellent idea,” the younger senator said. “We’ll reallocate Turan’s funds to Kisra’s festivities and demand the provinces send us extra warriors and prisoners for the games.”
Caius sipped on his wine, pleased the two men would support his ideas and help influence the vote.
He closed his eyes, appreciating the cool air his slaves fanned over him. The palace, built atop the hill, captured what little breeze blew in from the sea, but the same couldn’t be said of the city below. Kisra simmered in the summer heat, spreading its foul smell from the docks, through the bustling paved streets, and right to the city gates.
The new sewage system Caius had ordered in a grand effort to increase his popularity was progressing at full pace, but no one had anticipated the heat arriving so soon. With some convincing, Perperna had agreed to finance the entire project, and, in return, his eldest daughter had made a favourable match despite her numerous dalliances.
“One more thing, Tarquinius.” Sanquinius peered over his cup. “There is still the matter of your son and heir.”
Caius sighed, feeling another headache approach.
Sanquinius had the infuriating talent of addressing the most intolerable matters at the most inopportune time. It was a trait Caius had much admired during Senate meetings but found rather distasteful within his own palace.
He glared at the young senator. “My son is in training at the summer villa. I very much doubt he’ll return in time for the festivities.”
Sanquinius did not back down. “The people of Kisra, even the Senate, have not seen your son in several years, Tarquinius. Nor the Empress, for that matter. I understand she’s a frail woman who can not withstand public life, but the same cannot be said of your son. If you wish to ensure his place as your heir, it would be best he attend the celebrations next month.”
“Oh?” Caius cocked an eyebrow. “And who among the Senate dares to make such demands of their Emperor? Cilnius, perhaps? Your rivals from Volterra, the Caecina brothers? Or even the quiet Herminius?”
Perperna’s wide gaze darted from one to the other as he hid behind his empty cup.
“All of them.” Sanquinius had no talent for sweetening the truth. “They intend to travel to the imperial summer villa themselves if you do not bring him.”
A laugh bubbled in Caius’ throat. The entire Senate, travelling across Rasenna to fetch the Emperor’s son? How ridiculous!
Not to mention that the Senate would be sorely disappointed upon its arrival to discover that there was no son. The babe he’d shown off during his military triumph following the Battle of Kendrisia had been fake, stolen from a brothel in the dead of night. Caius’ first wife hadn’t died in childbirth as everyone believed. Sagar had sacrificed her on Laran’s altar the morning of the battle to ensure victory.
“An emperor needs heirs, Tarquinius,” Sanquinius went on, “and you are still young. Only a few years past forty. Might I suggest—?”
Caius held up his hand, and the senator fell silent. As much as he despised the idea, Sanquinius did have a point. The prospect of a strong heir comforted the people. If Cilnius and his Senate friends were so desperate for one, then perhaps it was time to give them a son.
Parading his heir before the crowds during the upcoming festivities could help increase his image as a fatherly figure among the people and appease their curiosity.
With that in mind, he sprang to his feet. “Tell the Senate I will send for my son. But I expect my request for Laran’s celebrations to be approved. Until next time.”
The senators bowed their heads, and Caius stormed out, eager to locate Velthur and formulate a plan.
He needed to find himself a son.
The clacking wooden blades resonated through the barracks nestled at the bottom of the hill. In the open courtyard, a handful of Tarquinian guards, armed with swords and shields, circled Velthur, who stood poised for attack. Only twenty-five years of age, the commander of the guards had discarded his purple cloak and armour in favour of a simple, sand-coloured tunic revealing his muscled frame.
One of the newer recruits, Lecne, holding a shimmering blade, lunged forward. Velthur knocked the sword away with his shield before striking the younger man’s ribs. Lecne grunted, and the two circled each other. Another guard joined the fight, closing in from the left.
Velthur dodged his opponents’ attacks with an agility and grace Caius had rarely seen in his life. The commander’s skills weren’t a Gift but came from a lifetime of dedication to honing his body into the perfect weapon. As a child, the gods hadn’t deemed him worthy enough to be Gifted. A slight Velthur’s family had never let him forget, and so he’d sacrificed everything to become the best and prove himself to Laran.
Standing in the shaded colonnade, Caius crossed his arms as his lover made quick work of his opponents. When they were finished, Velthur’s gaze slid to Caius, and he discarded his weapons, letting the training continue without him.
“How’s the new recruit?” Caius asked in greeting.
Strands of midnight hair stuck to Velthur’s forehead making him appear younger than his twenty-five years. Chest heaving, he knelt over a marble fountain, gulped cold water, and then splashed his face.
“Rash, but a skilled fighter. He’ll improve even more with training.” High praise indeed from the commander of the guards, who was usually sparing with his compliments. “Dalmatius chose well.”
Caius could always count on the Illyrian praefect, his protégé, to send him Gifted fighters. Not that he ever feared for his life, but it was expected of the Rasennan Emperor to always be surrounded by the best guards.
Velthur wiped away beads of water dripping from his chin. “Something troubling you?”
Caius glanced at the courtyard, where a few curious stares turned their way. “Not here.”
Together, they walked back up the hill onto a path lined with fig and mulberry trees. Rumours of the Tarquinian commander being the Emperor’s lover circulated among the palace, but Caius cared not for such gossip as long as no one ever discovered his real secrets.
“The Senate is requesting to see my son,” he announced once they were safely back in his private chambers.
Velthur pulled his sweat-drenched tunic over his head in one fluid movement. Caius admired the cut of his naked body as his lover strode to the freshwater basin filled with rose petals and pomegranates.
“It makes sense, what with next month’s festival approaching.”
Caius raised a brow. “That’s all you have to say?”
Velthur washed the grime from his arms, water glistening off his golden skin. “I have no doubt Sagar will find someone suitable. Laran will guide him.”
The god of war hadn’t approached Caius in months. Ever since the attack on Velch and his sister’s disappearance, he’d made himself scarce. “Perhaps, but I don’t like the Senate interfering with my plans.”
Wiping his chest down with linen, Velthur moved closer. “If you shared them with me, I could help you achieve them.” He reached out to Caius, his fingers trailing down his neck and then tracing over his collarbone.
A familiar heat curled in Caius’ gut, mirroring the look in Velthur’s dark eyes. Tossing the linen aside, his lover unclasped the three fibulae holding Caius’ purple and gold mantle.
While Velthur’s deft fingers made quick work of the heavy folds wrapped around his broad body, Caius pondered his words. The young commander was already privy to many of his plans, but none except Sagar knew the whole truth.
It had been this way for years. Decades.
Caius had experienced too many disappointments, betrayals, and attacks to freely bestow his trust upon a young soldier who’d forsaken his family in exchange for power. He understood better than most the heavy price of ambition and what it did to men who forfeited love in its pursuit.
Their craving for power could never be satisfied.
Caius’ regal tebenna fell to the mosaic floor, and Velthur stepped closer, his golden-brown skin radiant like the sun. His lover’s long fingers traced the hard planes of his chest, and he sucked in a breath.
Grabbing Velthur’s chin, Caius forced his head back. “You will know of my plans when the time is right.”
His lover’s mouth curled into a smile. “Then shall I distract you from the thoughts plaguing your mind instead, Imperator?”
Caius’ lips drifted over the rose-scented skin of Velthur’s jaw before reaching his ear. “You shall.”
Lust darkened Velthur’s gaze, and he dug his fingers into Caius’ shoulders, pulling him to the bed.
Laran’s temple shone like a beacon in the moon’s silver light.
It sat at the very top of the hill, close enough to the palace for Caius to visit both in broad daylight and in the dead of night. Avoiding the main entrance under the portico, he circled the temple and headed for the priests’ quarters—an adjacent smaller marble building.
White pebbles crunched beneath his sandals, echoing through the oppressive silence that surrounded the temple, closed for the night. He knocked twice on a wooden side door, and a slave opened before leading him down to the damp rooms below, hewn from solid rock.
The slave pulled a dark curtain aside, and Caius slipped inside the private room. Dressed in deep red robes, Sagar, Laran’s chief priest, was facing a slab of black marble—a sacrificial altar. The gold necklace around his throat and the wreath of olive leaves in his greying hair singled him out as the god’s closest confidant.
A handful of torches and candles lit up the dark space, illuminating bundles of herbs and empty cages. Sagar peered into a polished bowl, a single finger swirling the contents inside. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air.
“Why have you come tonight?”
The old priest was never one for small pleasantries. Unlike Caius’ other subjects, Sagar was neither reverent nor courteous towards him. He answered to Laran and Laran alone.
“I require your help.”
In the dim candlelight, a slick trail of blood gleamed on the slab of marble leading to a crumpled body on the ground. A slave, no doubt.
“The Senate requests that my son attend the festivities next month.” Caius paused to admire the spread of bronze sacrificial knives displayed on a low table. “I need you to find a suitable boy.”
Sagar’s gaze remained fixed on the bowl, the finger inside coated in dark blood. “He would be almost a man by now.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Almost a man. You must make haste. The resemblance must be striking, and there’s little time.”
The priest glanced up, frowning. “Have I ever failed you before?” He wiped the bloody finger on his robes and stepped into the light of Caius’ torch. “Tomorrow I will sacrifice a white bull to Laran’s greatness and the entrails will guide me to your son.”
How the bleeding guts of a dead animal provided a map to finding an adequate young man, Caius couldn’t say. But Sagar had learned the art of haruspicy from his father and his father before him, the great prophet Tarkis. Whether it be animal entrails, the flight of birds, or the shape of lightning; he could interpret them all.
The priest examined the bowl again, and his frown deepened. “It is good that you have come.”
Caius tensed at the foreboding undertone in his voice.
“I spent the night watching the thunderstorm rolling across the eastern hills. What I saw was a warning.”
“There are thunderstorms almost every night at the end of spring. Why should this one be any different?”
Sagar made an impatient sound. “I was right to sacrifice one of your own. Laran rewarded me with the answers to my troubles.”
The priest’s words brought Caius to a halt. Then, in three quick strides, he crossed the distance to the altar and raised his torch to illuminate the body crumpled on the bedrock. A purple cloak covered the man’s back.
Air stalled in his lungs at the sight of the dead Tarquinian guard lying in a pool of his own blood. The torchlight revealed short, brown hair instead of midnight black, and he exhaled a long breath.
“I wish you’d stop killing my guards. They’re hard to replace.”
“Do not waste time with inconsequential matters.” The priest’s sharp tone commanded his full attention. Whatever he’d seen within the bowl troubled him. “Yours is counted, Caius. She will come for you.”
With a swish of red robes, Sagar threw the bowl’s liquid across the sleek marble altar. The dark blood hissed like oil on a fire, shaping itself into the single circular pattern that had haunted Caius his entire life.
“The Omega has returned.”