Chapter 8
The monk who shared his flesh had promised to explain all, but the story he told was so fantastic that a part of Lucius was convinced that he must be dreaming.
Nerissa dead, and her sons as well. It hardly seemed possible. She had sat on the throne since before he was born, a commanding figure whose decrees had ruled every moment of his existence. He had hated and resented her in life, and even in death he felt no pity for her. But it seemed somehow wrong that she had been struck down while he was unaware. A great ruler—for such she had been, usurper though she was—a great ruler should meet defeat on the field of battle—not at the hands of a cowardly assassin.
He was still shocked to find himself among the living. The last time he had been conscious, he had fully expected that the empress would have him killed. He did not understand why she had chosen to spare his life. There was no one left who could be trusted to tell him her thoughts, just as there was no trace of her left in the place that had once been her inner sanctum. The rooms were spotless, but there were neither tapestries nor paintings to brighten the walls nor carpets to soften the floors. As he wandered through the smaller of the two sitting rooms, his fingers ran idly along the back of one of the half dozen bamboo chairs grouped around a low table. As a boy, he had been summoned to this room from time to time, his mother’s warnings reminding him to display his best manners in front of the empress and her sons. In those days, the room had been filled with couches decorated with ivory and piled with silken cushions, and he wondered when Nerissa had decided they no longer suited her.
Perhaps the servants had been ordered to remove her things, replacing them with the furnishings he saw. A subtle insult, implying that Lucius was not worthy to touch the late empress’s possessions.
Or perhaps the rooms had simply been changed to ready them for the presence of an emperor, for all must have assumed that Nerissa’s successor would be a man. The furnishings he saw did not seem to be in Zuberi’s taste, which he would have guessed ran to the classic styles. Instead the disparate styles hinted at furnishings hastily assembled, or a widely traveled man with eclectic tastes.
Belatedly, it occurred to him that the servants might have readied this room for Count Hector. They would not be the only ones shocked by the sudden reversal in Hector’s fortunes.
Hector’s guilt is certain? Lucius formed the question in his thoughts, but dared not speak aloud. He had dismissed the hovering servants, and the functionary whom the monk, for some reason, referred to as One. But the servants had not gone far, merely to an outer room. An emperor was never truly alone.
Brother Nikos and Zuberi told me of Hector’s guilt. He heard the monk’s voice in his mind, as clearly as if he were speaking aloud. But merely because they say it does not mean that it is true.
Then why did Zuberi put me on the throne? Why not take it for himself?
Lucius felt his body shrug. The monk had no answer. For all that the monk had spent the past year living in the palace, it seemed he had learned nothing.
Lucius’s anger grew. This was his body, by right. His name. His lineage that had earned him the crown. Yet he had spent the last year exiled to dreamland while the monk had played his part. It was unseemly that he had to rely upon whatever scraps of information the monk deigned to share with him. Who knew what the monk had done in his name? What promises had he made, what alliances had he forged?
How could he trust that the monk was telling the truth? Josan’s words might be nothing more than lies meant to deceive so that Lucius would allow the monk to remain in control. The monk had already shown that he could tap in to Lucius’s knowledge, but Lucius could not return the favor. He could feel the monk’s emotions but knew only what the monk chose to tell him.
It was time to remind the monk how it felt to be powerless. Lucius gathered his thoughts, preparing to cast the invader into unknowingness, but before he could do so, Proconsul Zuberi strode into his chambers as if he owned them, followed by the attendants Lucius had previously dismissed.
“I suppose you think yourself clever, with that little display,” Zuberi growled. His face was flushed with anger, and his hand was raised.
For a moment, Lucius feared that the proconsul would strike him, heedless of the servants who would bear witness. But at the last moment Zuberi relented, lowering his hand.
“We—that is I—did as you instructed,” Lucius replied. “Nothing more.”
Zuberi’s lips twisted in derision. “We? Giving ourselves airs already?”
He did not need the monk’s whispers to know that he had made a dangerous mistake. It was time to soothe Zuberi’s ire and ensure that he did not dwell upon that slip of the tongue. “Whatever I have done to offend, tell me so that I may make it right.”
“Do not pretend to innocence. A few fools may have been impressed when you made that bauble glow, but your trickery will gain you no friends.”
“Glow?”
Zuberi spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. “The crown glowed when it touched your brow. As you well know.”
Lucius shook his head firmly. “How could I? There were no mirrors for me to see myself.” Then, prompted by the monk, he added, “The choice of the lizard crown was yours, not mine. I could hardly have anticipated this.”
Though it was satisfying to know that the crown of his ancestors had recognized him. It had acknowledged him, at the very moment when his consciousness had returned to his body. Or perhaps it was the crown that had summoned him, like calling unto like.
The crown had been given to One for safekeeping, but now he wished to hold it for himself, see what other secrets it might hold.
“You will perform no more such trickery,” Zuberi said. “You will keep your magic to yourself. You will remember that your every moment is watched. The next time you disobey me, it will be your last.”
Zuberi glared at him until Lucius dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I understand,” he said.
The reckless prince he had once been would have argued, but Lucius had changed. He would obey, for the moment.
Zuberi spun on his heel and left, in violation of protocol. So great was his scorn that he could not be bothered to keep up the pretense in front of the servants.
It seemed the monk had told the truth when he said that Zuberi hated Lucius. Which made it all the more strange that he had put Lucius on the throne. Was this a bizarre form of punishment, to give Lucius the title he had longed for but not the power that went with it? Or was it merely the first move in some complex scheme that would ultimately destroy him?
He stilled his thoughts, ready to listen to whatever advice the monk could share, but the monk’s voice was silent. For all that he had lived in the palace for the past year, the monk knew nothing of Zuberi’s motivations or the political climate.
I could not afford to ask those questions, Josan’s voice sounded in his head. Any hint that I was gathering information would have been seen as a threat, and the empress would have acted accordingly.
So what did you do with yourself for the year that I slept?
I did everything that Nerissa requested of me. When I was allowed to, I read. Books of the early years of the empire, and children’s tales mostly.
A waste of time.
He felt Josan’s impatience. I could hardly ask for books on magic, the monk thought. Not with Brother Nikos inspecting each request I made, and Nerissa’s men reading every scroll looking for hidden messages.
And did you learn anything?
I learned that your forebears had powers similar to yours—the ability to call fire, and to heal. Some scrolls implied that they could control the weather, others that they were merely able to predict the weather to come. But nothing that would help undo what Nikos has done to us.
He felt disappointment echoing across both halves of his soul.
There are more scrolls in the collegium, ones I did not have access to. Brother Nikos will not want to share them, but in time we can force his hand.
Why not now?
Brother Nikos is the one who urged the council to put you on the throne. Do you think you can survive if he turns against you?
It seemed the monk had some political instincts after all. Patience was not one of Lucius’s strengths, but he recognized that he needed to gather power to himself before he could challenge Brother Nikos.
Sunset brought a change of servants. The new functionary referred to himself as keeper of the emperor’s chambers, as had his predecessor, but the monk called him Five. Giving a functionary an individual name was against all custom, but the monk’s conceit appealed to Lucius’s sense of humor.
Not to mention that knowing the functionaries as individuals might well have saved Nerissa’s life—a lesson not lost on either Lucius or the monk.
A short time later, Five informed him that supper had been laid out in his private dining room. He dined lightly on grilled fish and summer vegetables dressed with vinegar, musing that this was a very odd way for an emperor to celebrate his coronation. A public celebration would have been fitting, or at the very least a private dinner surrounded by friends and trusted allies.
But he had no friends. Only those who had agreed not to harm him out of political expediency. He could not think of a single person that he would want to share bread and oil with.
What little appetite he’d had fled with this realization. Pushing the dishes away, he rose from the table. He could feel that the monk wanted to say something to the hovering server—an apology for the wasted food, perhaps—but Lucius easily overrode him. He would never win the respect of the servants by stooping to their level.
The monk’s presence remained a subtle pressure in his mind, but his mental voice fell silent, granting Lucius the illusion of control. But he knew it for just that, an illusion. He did not command the monk any more than he commanded these servants. The servants took their orders from Zuberi, and as for the monk…Well, as much as the monk claimed to regret this spell, for him this shared existence was better than the finality of the grave.
Five followed him from the dining room, reciting a list of the appointments for the next day. The imperial tailor had sent word that the first garments in Lucius’s new wardrobe were ready to be fitted. In the afternoon, Proconsul Zuberi and Demetrios would accompany him to the senate for his first public appearance. Lucius let the words wash over him, knowing that it was not up to him to approve the arrangements that had been made on his behalf.
Not yet. The time would come when he had true power. But until that day he would play Zuberi’s games, lulling his enemies into a false sense of security.
The functionary broke off his recitation as Lucius yawned once, then twice. It was still early, but Lucius could feel the bone-deep tiredness within him. He dismissed the functionary and retired to his bedchamber.
There the servants had lit oil lamps, which provided a soft glow as he stripped off his tunic, leaving it crumpled on the floor by his wardrobe. Crossing to his bed, where nightclothes had been laid out, he glanced down at his own body, needing reassurance that nothing had changed. He was far thinner than he remembered, his sunken belly flanked by jutting hipbones. He was not yet thirty, but hardship had given him the body of a man a decade older. As he cupped his belly with his right hand, he felt a sharp ridge on his skin. Questing fingers revealed three long parallel lines.
What is this?
There was no answer. The soft light hid more than it revealed, so he picked up the lamp from his bedside, and brought it close. The flickering light revealed three white scars, which appeared to be several months old.
He stared, seeing a faint shadow that might have been another scar, this one leading down toward his groin.
What happened?
Still the monk remained silent. Replacing the lamp, Lucius made his way to the adjacent bathing chamber. A surge of anger and the lamps within the bathing chamber blazed to life, filling the room with their radiance.
Here he studied his body with the dispassionate gaze of a stranger. The three raised ridges on his belly were the most prominent, but the mirrors revealed that his body was covered in faint scars, from his neck down to his thighs.
Were these the marks of a lash? A knife? What had happened? And why?
He was outraged. Here was the evidence that his body had been violated, not once, but repeatedly.
Who did this to us? Whoever it was, he deserved death.
He could taste the monk’s anger as if it were his own.
After Nerissa was assassinated, we were Nizam’s special guest for thirty-eight days, the monk said. We were only released from his charge two days ago.
The monk was lying. Nizam did not do this. These scars are too old.
You healed this body. Each time Nizam brought it near death, your magic brought it back.
Lucius shivered, wishing suddenly for a robe to cover himself.
What did he do to us? I have a right to know.
You have no rights, the monk lashed out, in a rare display of temper. You abandoned us to Nerissa, left me to die for your sins while you chose the peace of oblivion. Now you must live with the choices you made, as must I.
With that the monk’s presence disappeared, leaving Lucius alone to endure his guilt.
And his shame. Shame not just for abandoning Josan last year, but for that moment of relief he had felt when he realized that he had been spared torture.
Caught up in the heady pleasure of his coronation, it had been easy to forget just how much he owed the monk. Easier to dwell on the lost months than to admit that the monk had not chosen his fate.
Surrendering to Empress Nerissa had been Lucius’s decision, not Josan’s, though in the end they had both agreed that it was the only way to end the senseless slaughter being committed in his name. That final night, as they faced the prospect of torture and an agonizing death, Lucius had sworn that he would not leave the monk alone to face what was to come. But he had broken that promise.
It had been his decision to leave. The monk had not forced him into oblivion. Instead, Lucius had fled headlong, so terrified by what was to come that he had broken his word.
It was no wonder the monk was angry. Lucius had shown himself a coward, while this monk, the bastard son of a nameless peasant, had proved the stronger man.
The irony was that his fears had been for naught. Nerissa had not tortured him, after all. Whatever the monk had said to her had convinced her to spare his life. Lucius’s cowardice had served only to rob him of nearly a year of his life.
Though from the evidence of his body, the last month had been every bit as horrific as he could have imagined.
Thirty-eight days. Dry-mouthed, he turned his back on the mirrors. His hands shook as he extinguished the lamps one by one, concentrating on the task so that he would not have to think about what Nizam had done to him. To them.
When he woke the next morning, he could feel the monk’s presence again, though Josan was silent. In the quiet darkness of the night before Lucius had rehearsed his apologies, but now the words seemed inadequate or self-serving. And the growing discomfort he felt from the monk made him suspect that the monk was not interested in his apologies, nor indeed in anything that would force him to recall his trials.
Lucius let the moment for explanations pass in silence, not knowing whether he had chosen this path out of wisdom or cowardice.
The tailor arrived soon thereafter—an unprepossessing man trailed by three lackeys carrying garments in various stages of completion. Conscious of his scarred body, Lucius insisted on wearing his undertunic throughout the fittings. The tailor appeared ready to object, but a raised eyebrow was all it took to quell his mutterings.
It had been far too long since he had worn decent garb, but though the tailor was anxious to hear his preferences, Lucius could find no pleasure in discussing fabrics or styles. Instead, after confirming that the completed garments fit well enough, Lucius dismissed the tailor with instructions to make whatever he saw fit.
The half dozen outfits delivered included a set of court robes, nearly as fine as those he had worn to his coronation. After lunch a servant helped Lucius dress, and the functionary One brought Lucius the lizard crown. He’d half hoped it would glow or show some other sign of magic, but to his disappointment it did not react to him, instead resting quietly on his brow, the heavy weight an unsubtle reminder of the weight of his responsibilities.
Proconsul Zuberi and a dozen of the household guard escorted him from the palace to the senate. A stranger glancing at their grim expressions might have assumed that they were escorting a prisoner rather than acting as an honor guard. Demetrios met them at the steps of the senate hall, offering his official welcome as he led the procession into the hall. The hall consisted of a semicircle of thirteen courses, which descended to a speaker’s platform, where orators would stand in debate when the senate was meeting. At the rear of the dais was the emperor’s chair, a marble throne used only for occasions of state. Today a purple drape softened the cold stone, but as Lucius took his seat he realized that it was a damn uncomfortable piece of furniture. Perhaps deliberately so, as a means of encouraging the emperor not to spend too much time interfering with the workings of the senate.
Proconsul Zuberi, who was not a member of the senate, took a seat at the left end of the bottom course while four of the honor guard arranged themselves at the corners of the dais. The assembled senators had risen to their feet when Lucius entered, and remained standing as Demetrios repeated his oath of fealty.
The senators turned and formed into a line that snaked along the courses. One by one they approached the throne to pledge their allegiance to their new emperor, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. As Lucius accepted their oaths, he was surprised by how few faces he recognized. Some of their names were familiar, likely cadet members of powerful families, or sons who had taken their fathers’ places. Others were newly come to power, as Nerissa cleansed her government of those suspected of being sympathetic to the rebellion. These men, brought to power because of their personal loyalty to Nerissa, would have no reason to look favorably on their new emperor. Lucius would need to look elsewhere for allies, if he was to challenge Zuberi.
Demetrios is an unknown, the monk thought. Zuberi could not have done this without his support, but I do not know how he convinced him to set aside his own ambitions. If Zuberi did not want to pursue his own claim, it seems likely that Demetrios would have been the next strongest candidate.
Demetrios has an older brother, Lucius replied, absurdly pleased to have knowledge that the monk did not. Though I would not want to wager on Prokopios’s continued good health.
The monk made no reply, but Lucius could feel his shock at the implication. It amused him to realize that, despite everything he had witnessed, the monk could still be shocked. His expression must have revealed something of his thoughts, for the councilor in front of him blanched and lost his place, stammering as he began reciting his oath anew.
He schooled his face to a neutral expression, knowing that he could not afford to indulge his boredom. He would never earn the respect of the councilors if he did not at least appear to respect them in return. Still, patience had never come easily to him, and thus when he felt his grasp upon consciousness slipping, he did not fight it. He would save his strength for another day, confident that the monk would do nothing that might imperil them.
As he let control of his body slip from his grasp, a brief flare of panic engulfed him as he remembered how long he had slept the last time. What if he did not awaken for days? Or months, or even years? He strained toward the light, but he was too weak, and his thoughts dissolved until all that remained was an echo of his fear.
Josan felt the moment when the prince’s consciousness drifted away. He shifted uneasily on the marble seat as he again grew accustomed to the sensations of this body. He tasted the copper taste of fear, and in his mind he called out: Lucius? Prince?
But there was no answer. Nothing to tell him what or whom the prince had feared.
At last the final senator had sworn his allegiance and returned to his place, his name and features carefully memorized. Josan had spent the ceremony observing the senators, noting who had kept their eyes fixed on the dais, refusing to acknowledge their neighbors, and which ones had gossiped among themselves when they thought his attention elsewhere.
Josan rose and thanked the senators for their confidence, and pledged to work with them to fulfill Nerissa’s legacy. Zuberi, who had spent much of the ceremony hunched forward, his arms crossed on his chest, unbent enough to nod with grudging approval. It seemed his master was pleased with the performance of his lackey.
Returning to the palace, Josan handed the crown and the court robes over to the functionaries, who carried them away for safekeeping. For a moment, he fancied that they would carry him off as well, relegating him to a musty storeroom until the next time Zuberi needed to display his pet emperor.
But even Zuberi did not dare go that far, however much he might have wanted to. Instead the new emperor was treated with seeming respect, though his new life was as circumscribed as it had been when he was Nerissa’s honored prisoner.
His chambers might be larger, but there were guards at every door, and he could not leave his rooms without an escort. His guards had orders from Zuberi that the new emperor was not to leave the palace grounds—for his own safety, of course. In the days that followed his coronation, his only visitors were the tailor and Zuberi’s former clerk Ferenc, who had been assigned as the emperor’s personal secretary. Ferenc kept him busy signing official decrees that had been drafted by Zuberi and his cronies, as well as responding to the formal messages of congratulations that had started to arrive.
Council meetings were held, but the emperor’s presence was requested only after the council had reached agreement among themselves. The emperor was kept informed of the policies of his new government, but powerless to effect them. It was enough to frustrate even the calmest of men, which was perhaps the reason why Lucius remained a faint presence at the edges of his mind rather than coming to the forefront.
He was surprised that no one sought him out to request favors, or to try to discover for themselves what strange alliance had brought Lucius to the throne. But as the days passed, he realized that the functionaries, with Ferenc’s help, must be discouraging all such requests.
A month after his coronation, he emerged from the bathing chamber to find his court robes laid out, and in this manner he discovered that today he was expected to hold his first court session. His skin crawled as he remembered Nerissa’s twice-monthly gatherings, when he had been ordered to present himself. He had been the only member of her court required to perform a formal obeisance, demonstrating his complete subjugation. A petty humiliation that had saved his life even as it chafed his pride.
The audience hall was crowded, as those who had come to the capital for Nerissa’s funeral had stayed, lest they and their interests be overlooked as new alliances were formed. There were only two petitioners, both minor nobles requesting that the emperor confirm their inheritance. In both cases, Josan asked the ritual question: “Is there any here who would deny this man’s claim?” giving Zuberi a chance to object. But there were no objections, and so he confirmed them in their new status.
The two men were both newcomers, giving credence to his suspicions that Zuberi had deliberately chosen them so that Lucius could play the part of emperor while reassuring the courtiers that the newcomers had nothing to fear.
At least from him. Wild rumors came even to his ears—some claimed gangs roamed the streets of Karystos, murdering any who dared cross their paths. Others said the legions were in open revolt, their commanders battling each other to determine who would rule as emperor. Even if he believed only a fraction of what he heard, these were perilous times indeed.
And he was powerless to act—he could no more protect his people than he could himself.
Demetrios had invited Zuberi to join him at the senatorial baths, but Zuberi had insisted on meeting Demetrios at his offices in the senate instead. A meeting at the baths would have provided the illusion that theirs was a casual encounter between friends, but it would have also required Zuberi to disrobe, something that he was loath to do. Artfully draped tunics and the heavy silk robes of state concealed his illness, but stripped of these and all would see his swollen belly and know his deadly secret.
If his enemies even suspected his weakness, they would not hesitate to strike. It was only their fear of him—and of his influence over the new emperor—that kept them in check.
When he reached Demetrios’s offices, he found Demetrios deep in conversation with several senators, all wearing the banded tunics of office indicating that they were performing their official duties.
Interesting. Demetrios had not mentioned that the senate would be in session today.
“I understand your concerns,” he heard Demetrios say. “But now is not the time to debate such matters.”
“If not now, then when?” The speaker’s back was to Zuberi, but the accent was unmistakable. Senator Columba, who represented the far western provinces.
“Allowing the regional governors more control—” chimed in another senator.
Demetrios nodded as he caught sight of Zuberi. “And the senate will consider your suggestions, at the proper time,” he said. “Now, if you will forgive me, I believe the proconsul and I have matters to discuss.”
“Honored senators,” Zuberi said, as he reached them.
Senator Columba nodded curtly, then stalked off. His supporters mumbled what might have been greetings before scurrying after their leader.
Demetrios led him into his office, where open shutters offered a fresh breeze as well as a clear view of the imperial palace. Zuberi settled himself into a straight-backed chair, disdaining the couches, and Demetrios settled himself in another chair.
“Columba must be watched,” Zuberi said. “He will not be content until he elevates the governors at the expense of the empire.”
Demetrios shrugged. “Columba has little support for his views. As you see, only four senators joined with him—not enough to call for a debate, let alone have any chance of passing their legislation.”
“In Nerissa’s day he would not have dared even mention such a proposal. Today he has four other senators who are willing to lend him their support publicly, and who knows how many privately agree with him? Left unchecked, he could win others to his cause.”
“Of course,” Demetrios said. “I did not mean to make light of your concerns. I merely meant that Columba’s ambitions are not our most pressing problem.”
It was as much of an apology as he could expect, but it did little to assuage him.
“Your brother, he continues to recover?” Zuberi asked.
“So he tells me,” Demetrios said. “I have not seen him since he left for the family estate, but naturally I receive reports each day.”
“It is the gods’ own luck that he was spared,” Zuberi said.
That, or incompetence. Prokopios’s litter had been attacked as he was returning from a banquet—his bearers killed, and Prokopios himself stabbed in the abdomen. A passing patrol had chased off the attackers before they could finish the deed.
Such attacks against the wealthy were increasingly frequent in Karystos, straining Petrelis’s city watch to the breaking point. It was possible that Prokopios was just another victim of thieves, or of rebels taking advantage of the increasing lawlessness to settle old grudges against the newcomers.
But it was equally likely that the attack had been a clumsy attempt at assassination. With Prokopios dead, there would be nothing to prevent his younger brother from becoming the next emperor—once the upstart Lucius was disposed of.
It was a move that Zuberi had been prepared to support. In the weeks since Lucius’s coronation he had been unable to find a better candidate. But the bungled assassination, if that was what it was, troubled him. Nerissa would never have allowed such incompetents to serve her.
Then, too, Demetrios seemed oblivious to the danger that Columba represented. Either his political skills were far less than Zuberi had previously believed—or he was forming his own alliance with the provincial governors and did not want Zuberi to know.
Zuberi frowned. He wished it were possible to question Demetrios openly about his brother’s attack but knew such was folly. Demetrios would never admit to planning fratricide, even if Zuberi offered his tacit approval.
“Markos and his legions are far more of a threat to our control of the provinces than any schemes of Senator Columba,” Demetrios said, returning to their earlier topic.
“Commander Kiril should arrive within the week, and the other commanders will follow,” Zuberi said. If they obeyed their orders. And if they were willing to fight for Emperor Lucius.
Lucius. Emperor. The very thought enraged him, for all that he had agreed to this farce. Nizam might have declared Lucius innocent in the deaths of Empress Nerissa and her sons, but Zuberi knew better. Lucius’s rebellion had been crushed, but not before exposing the empress’s weaknesses and inspiring others to try where he had failed.
Belying the frailties of her sex, Nerissa had been a cunning politician who had led her people wisely. A true empress, and worthy successor to her illustrious ancestors. She had elevated Zuberi from obscurity to a position of power second only to her own, and thus commanded his absolute loyalty. Even after her death, he continued to serve her.
Compared to her, Lucius was nothing. A worm who did not deserve to live. He had cheated death again and again—first spared by the empress’s mercy, then spared by the perverted magic that flowed through his veins. For a man facing the prospect of his own impending death, this was an insult that could not be borne.
Lucius would remain emperor only as long as he was of use to Zuberi. Then he would be killed—his death as agonizing as Zuberi could contrive. He currently favored poison—it gave him satisfaction to think of Lucius writhing and twisting in pain as the poison destroyed his organs. And if Lucius’s powers spared him from poison—well, not even a sorcerer could survive decapitation.
“Kiril will want something in return for his support,” Demetrios said. “And as for the senate, our alliance is fragile as well. We need a list of favors that the emperor can dispense to his loyal supporters to keep the factions in line.”
“Agreed,” Zuberi said.
And they needed a new emperor. Once Markos was dealt with, and order restored, it would be time for Lucius to name his heir—before his tragic death.
He listened as Demetrios outlined which imperial ministries had vacancies, and which officials could be persuaded to retire so that their lucrative posts could be offered to others. But even as he nodded his agreement, his mind returned back to the problem of who would succeed Emperor Lucius. Demetrios had disappointed him, but he would give the senator a chance to prove himself worthy of the honor. If he could keep the senate under control, and if he managed to dispose of his brother without being implicated in scandal, Zuberi would throw his considerable influence behind Demetrios and convince others to do the same.
And then Zuberi would have the dual satisfaction of knowing that he had secured the future of the empire, and seen the last of Nerissa’s enemies destroyed.
Josan’s days continued to pass quietly, with no official engagements that required his presence. But he was well aware that it was the quiet before a storm. Despite Proconsul Zuberi’s best efforts, it was doubtful that the new emperor’s reign stretched any farther than the city walls. Josan could feel Prince Lucius’s presence in his own growing frustration, though for now the prince remained in the background. He suspected that the prince’s reticence was his way of avoiding the tedium, using Josan as a servant to endure what the prince chose not to.
It would not be the first time.
He shook his head, knowing that such thoughts were dangerous. No good could come of recriminations, nor of fighting among his selves.
Rising swiftly to his feet, he left his inner chamber. He did not pause as he swept by his startled clerk, merely calling over his shoulder, “We will visit the gardens.”
His steps were swift, fueled by an anger that he dared not acknowledge. Two of the guards fell in behind him, hurrying to keep up. Servants scurried to open doors before him so the emperor did not have to sully his hands.
Even the brutal heat of the late-afternoon sun was not enough to slow his progress. He was sweating freely by the time he had crossed the courtyard and passed through the ornamental pillars that marked the edge of the imperial gardens. Behind him, the guards were red-faced with exertion.
There was no one else to be seen on the tree-lined paths. The rest of the palace’s residents were either busy with their duties or too sensible to take their exercise in the heat of the day. Everyone had an assigned task—everyone except the emperor, that is. He was of no more use than the statues surrounded by their carefully tended greenery.
But his anger could not be sustained. Gradually as he walked, his thoughts calmed. If the past year had taught him anything, it was that his circumstances could change in an instant. Already he had gone from reluctant guest to condemned prisoner to emperor in name, if not in fact. Time was his ally. Time and the patience to build a base of power for himself, free from those who sought to control him.
Josan had no wish to rule, but neither was he content to let others rule in his name. Here, his and Lucius’s goals were the same.
Leaving the pathways, he entered the first of the inner gardens, where late-season roses bloomed alongside beds of violets, acanthus, and fragrant jasmine. A gardener knelt by a topiary dragon, apparently pruning it, though the bush seemed flawless to Josan’s eyes.
Hearing footsteps behind him, the gardener turned his head, then scrambled to his feet and hastily bowed, gaze fixed on the ground so he did not commit the impertinence of staring at his emperor.
On his own, Josan would have turned to leave the garden rather than disturb the servant at his work, but he knew Lucius would never have done so. Such petty matters were of no concern to one who would style himself prince. Or emperor.
Josan kept walking, choosing a curved path that would take him into the next garden. As he passed the servant, he was surprised to see the man raise his head.
“Emperor Lucius, if you please,” he called out.
Josan stopped.
The gardener, seemingly emboldened by such notice, took a few steps closer so he would not have to shout.
Josan’s gaze fell on the garden shears that he carried. It was less than a year ago that another man had tried to kill him in this very garden.
“Hold. Approach no farther,” one of the guards ordered.
For the first time since his coronation Josan was grateful for their presence.
The servant flushed, and as he realized the direction of Josan’s gaze, he hastily dropped the shears on the ground.
“Most Gracious Emperor, I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but we—that is, those of us who tend your gardens—would know your will.”
“My will?”
The man nodded. “Yes. Ordinarily I would have asked for instruction from the Master of the Gardens, but since you are here…”
Josan felt his eyebrows rise, and the gardener’s voice trailed into silence as he realized the enormity of his error. A mere servant did not stop the emperor to ask a question. Ever.
Nerissa would have had this man flogged.
Then again, this was the first time anyone had sought out the new emperor for advice. Only moments before he had been bitter because he was ignored. It seemed the fates had a malicious sense of humor.
“What is it that you want?”
“Lizards,” the gardener said. “There’s a new nest in the east garden, where the flowering cacti are. Empress Nerissa would have had us destroy them, but I thought that you, well, you might wish differently.”
Josan gave a grim laugh. “Lizards,” he repeated.
“Yes,” the gardener said, frantically bobbing his head in agreement. “The small spotted ones, not the royal lizards, but still…”
The symbol of his house. By Emperor Aitor’s decree, lizards had been banished from the imperial gardens for a century, and the nobles in Ikaria had followed suit. He knew that there would be some who took this as a sign—that Emperor Lucius had somehow drawn them here by his very presence.
But Josan would not play such games. Instead he shrugged.
“The lizards mean nothing to me,” he said, gaining petty pleasure from the puzzled look on the servant’s face. “Do what you will, for the good of the garden.”
He turned and left, the gardener’s stammered thanks trailing after him like the perfumes of the gardens.
He chuckled softly as he realized that Emperor Lucius had just made his first independent decree, free from those who controlled him.
His first, but not his last, he vowed, and he heard Prince Lucius’s voice echo in agreement.