Karchedon
It was a prison. A luxurious prison, to be sure, furnished
in royal style and adorned with every comfort a king's son
might wish. Quintus had not seen its like since he was a
young boy, not even in Danae's opulent quarters.
He thought it must be a jest, a condemned man's last view
of a life he would never have. A life he had never wanted.
Quintus sat in an ivory-inlaid chair, exhausted from a
long night's pacing. No one had come to see him since his
transfer to Nikodemos's custody. He had expected far less
pleasant accommodations, where he could remind himself
with every clank of chains and breath of stale air that he
was Tiberian.
But he'd been spared a painful and inevitable death at the
High Priest Baalshillek's hands only to face a prospect as
bitter as it was unthinkable.
He was the half-brother of Nikodemos, ruler of the
Arrhidaean Empire, nephew of Alexandros the Mad. How the
absent gods must be laughing.
I am Tiberian.
He slammed his twisted left hand on the chair, relishing
the pain. Why had his father not told him? Why had he been
allowed to grow to manhood believing that he was a true-
born son of Tiberia, of the Horatii, ancient in loyalty
and honor? Why had the family of Horatius Corvinus taken
the terrible risk of raising the emperor's condemned
bastard son?
Quintus stared at his crippled hand. Philokrates had
known. Had he been the emperor's agent from the moment he
had come to the Corvinus household until he had revealed
himself as Talos and fled to the palace? Had he bribed
Quintus's adoptive father, or threatened him with a fate
worse than mere conquest?
No. No bribe, for Quintus's family had not been saved. And
Nikodemos hadn't known his half-brother lived. The only
man who could answer Quintus's questions was the one he
had loved most and never dared trust again — Philokrates
himself.
Quintus jumped up from the chair and resumed his fruitless
pacing. It didn't matter how he had come to be here. His
future was dubious, at best. He was caught in a war
between emperor and High Priest, between his two deadliest
enemies. Nikodemos might exploit or discard him, depending
on his usefulness — welcome him as long-lost kin or throw
him into the sacrificial flames.
But that would be the high priest's Baalshillek's desire.
No, if Quintus was to die, it would be by more common and
secretive means. And if he were permitted to live...
I will never be a tool. Not his nor the rebels', not even
for my own people.
No common tool could turn in the hand of its master. But
Quintus bore in his own flesh a weapon that Baalshillek
greatly feared. Boldness and courage would count with
Nikodemos, but Quintus must be cunning, as well, if he
were to survive Baalshillek's machinations. He couldn't
afford a moment of weakness.
His thoughts flew to Danae and the last time he'd seen
her, playing the part of his hostage. She must have
convinced Nikodemos of her innocence; if Quintus saw her
again, it must be as if they were truly enemies.
But she might know what had become of his friends, the
companions who had earned his respect and loyalty in the
fight against the Stone. Rhenna of the Free People; Tahvo,
shaman and healer of the far North; Cian, the shapeshifter
who was neither wholly man nor beast but something of
both.
Were they still in the city? Had they, too, been captured?
Or were they dead by sword or evil Stonefire?
No. I will not believe it....
The door to his chambers swung open. A pair of grim young
palace guards snapped to attention, spear-butts hammering
the tiled floor. Two more soldiers stood behind them.
"You are to come with us," one of the guards said.
"Where?"
"To the emperor."
The time of judgment was here. Quintus straightened the
simple chiton they had given him, adjusted the himation to
cover his left arm and joined the guards. They were well
disciplined, Nikodemos's men, but they had none of the too-
perfect bearing that marked the Temple Guard. They were
human, unbound by the Stone. But they would kill him just
as swiftly if the emperor so commanded.
The guards marched their prisoner down stone corridors
decorated with frescoes of victorious battle, through
several doorways and into a wide, columned anteroom. A
bust of Arrhidaeos, Nikodemos's father — and Quintus's —
stood watch at the golden double doors at the end of the
antechamber. "The emperor holds court," the guard captain
said. "You will bow and hold your tongue until he
addresses you."
Quintus stared straight ahead as the doors swung open. A
vast space lay ahead, echoing with whispers and the
shuffling of sandaled feet. War banners hung on the walls,
and gold glittered on slender necks and bare arms.
Braziers lit the windowless room, carrying the fragrance
of rare incense. The voices of flute and lyre mingled in
sensual flirtation.
Nikodemos sat on his golden throne like the king he was,
thickly muscled arms draped on the lion-faced arm-rests.
Tumbled hair almost covered the plain circlet on his brow.
He needed no elaborate headdress to proclaim his position.
His most trusted advisers, a dozen older men and officers
near his own age — commanders who had led Nikodemos's
troops to victory again and again — stood at the foot of
the dais. Danae sat on a stool at his knee. She wore a
sheer chiton that left her right shoulder bare, and a fall
of delicate golden bells spilled from her neck into the
shadow between her breasts. Her hair was arranged in
delicate flaxen ringlets. Her gaze was cool, sweeping over
Quintus as if he didn't exist.
The other courtiers — the remainder of Nikodemos's favored
Hetairoi, or Companions — followed her example. They
laughed and posed as if they expected to be judged on the
grace of an offhand gesture or the curve of a well-plucked
brow. A few armored men stood among them, stolid warriors
who bore the look of seasoned veterans. Quintus had no
love of their breed, but at least they would weigh a man's
worth by the strength of his sword arm and not the cut of
his tunic.
With the lift of one finger, Nikodemos silenced the
musicians, and all eyes turned from his face to the door.
The escort started forward. Quintus matched his steps to
theirs, maintaining a soldier's bearing. He would show
these effete courtiers that a Tiberian faced his fate with
impeccable honor and courage. If these were to be his last
moments on earth, he would not disgrace himself in the
eyes of the empire's champions.
He stopped of his own accord before the guards could bar
his way closer to the throne. He bowed his head the merest
fraction, acknowledgment and no more. The courtiers
murmured. Danae hid a yawn with slender fingers.
"Quintus Horatius Corvinus," Nikodemos said, drawling each
syllable. A cupbearer obeyed his negligent summons and
offered a bejewelled chalice on a chased silver platter.
The emperor drank, wiped his fingers on a cloth of white
linen and waved the servant aside.
"Son of Arrhidaeos," Quintus said.
Murmurs grew to soft cries of outrage. Quintus stood
unmoved, legs braced apart, hands at his sides. This was
not his emperor, nor his lord. He would not call
Nikodemos "brother."
"Son of Arrhidaeos," Nikodemos repeated. "As you are." The
hall fell silent. The courtiers looked from their emperor
to Quintus. An older man, standing near the foot of the
dais, muffled a cough behind his hand.
Suddenly Nikodemos laughed. He slapped the fanged lion's
head under his palm, shaking his head.
"It is polite of my Hetairoi to pretend they know
nothing," Nikodemos said, "but I doubt a single one of
them is unaware of yesterday's events. Is that not so,
Danae?"
She smiled at him, turning Quintus's blood hot and cold by
turns. "It is, my lord."
"No one knows quite what to make of it," the emperor said.
"Do you, Iphikles?"
The old man of the muffled cough bowed and met his
master's eyes. "Such things do not happen without purpose,
Lord Emperor," he said. "But I cannot tell what that
purpose may be."
"A wise answer." Nikodemos leaned back, stretching his
legs. "Who could have predicted the appearance of a royal
son believed long dead? Certainly not Baalshillek."
Courtiers tittered. Quintus noted which men kept straight
faces, finding it less than prudent to mock the High
Priest even in the emperor's stronghold.
"My brother," Nikodemos said. "Such a strange twist the
Fates have brought me. And now I must judge what is to be
done with him — a boy raised among my enemies. Raised to
defy his own father's empire."
Quintus felt heat rise under his skin. Nikodemos was
baiting him, hoping for some betrayal of untoward emotion.
Waiting for a vehement denial...or capitulation.
He would get neither. Quintus held his brother's gaze and
said nothing. "Alexandros," someone whispered. "Is it
truly possible...?"
"Do some of you still doubt?" Nikodemos said in the same
tone of lazy amusement. "Uncover your arm, brother. Let my
people see how the Stone God left his mark upon you."
Quintus didn't move. One of his guards reached for the
himation. Quintus raised a clenched right fist, slowly
unfolded his fingers and drew the cloth away from his left
arm.
Gasps sighed through the room like a rushing wave. Quintus
let them look their fill and then readjusted the fabric.
"You see why my father sent young Alexandros away as a
babe, to be raised in safety," Nikodemos said. "Or so he
believed." He nodded to his right. A guard brought another
man forward — Philokrates, blinking in the dim light, his
hair a wild, white halo about his head. "I owe this
reunion to Talos, who served Arrhidaeos so ably."
Talos, builder of war machines. Quintus hadn't met his
former teacher since he'd learned the ugly fact of
Philokrates's true identity, but he detected no change in
the old Hellene. If anything, the inventor seemed more
confused and uncertain than Quintus had ever seen him.
"Tell me again, old man," Nikodemos said. "Is this my
brother?"
Philokrates turned his head slowly and gazed at Quintus.
His brown eyes held no expression. "It is, my lord."
"And my father gave him into your care, to instruct while
he lived with his adoptive Tiberian family?"
"Yes."
"You told me of his presence in Karchedon so that he could
be of service to me, did you not?"
"Yes, my lord Emperor."
"And because you hoped to save his life from the High
Priest, believing that I would show mercy."
Philokrates bowed his head. Nikodemos stroked his freshly
shaven chin and half smiled at Quintus. "What would you do
in my place, brother?" he asked. "If I were the rebel who
had killed your men, threatened your chattel, defied your
authority — would you show mercy, or risk my continued
treason?"
Quintus returned the emperor's smile. "I would never be in
your position."
"Such humility," Nikodemos said. "Such foolish courage.
But you expect to die, do you not?"
"I expect the same fate as any of my countrymen."
"You refer, of course, to the rebel Tiberians." Nikodemos
addressed his Hetairoi. "Should we admire his loyalty?
Iphikles? Hylas?"
A beautiful young man stepped from the ranks of Hetairoi
and flashed kohl-lined eyes at Quintus. "Perhaps he may be
given a chance to prove himself, my lord."
"Indeed. But can the loyalty of such a man be altered?"
"Only if that man is wise enough to recognize his error."
"That may take some time, Hylas. Would my brother prefer
imprisonment or death?"
Quintus opened his mouth to answer, but Hylas spoke over
him. "He need not be lonely in his captivity," he said
slyly.
Nikodemos laughed. "Not if you have your will." He looked
sideways at Danae. "Perhaps he prefers other company, my
dear."
"I prefer no company in this hall, Nikodemos," Quintus
said. The emperor sat up and frowned. "I think my noble
brother would choose death," he said. "Do you have a last
request of me, Corvinus?"
The Tiberian name was like the whisper of a cold blade
against Quintus's neck. The decision had been made, and
there was nothing left to be lost.
"Withdraw from Tiberia," Quintus said. "Set my people
free."
"I am much too fond of your country for such a sacrifice,"
Nikodemos said. "What do you wish for yourself?"
"An honorable death."
"Honorable. If by that you mean on a sword and not in the
Stone God's fire..." He gestured to one of the officers.
The man saluted smartly and bowed to his emperor. His face
was seamed with old scars, and he clutched a battered
plumed helmet to his cuirass. "I can think of no better
man than the commander of my Persian mercenaries to
perform such a task. Vanko?"
The soldier moved to stand beside Quintus and drew his
curved sword. Quintus looked at Danae without turning his
head. Her lips were parted, her eyes glazed with sudden
fear. She believed Quintus was about to die.
Quintus had sworn to her that his life wouldn't end in
Karchedon. He'd been so certain. He had achieved
nothing...nothing to make this death worthwhile.
"My lord," Danae said, her voice slightly hoarse. "I beg
leave to retire."