Chapter 6
The Ikarian Empire had seen its share of violence and bloody conquest, and the scrolls of history contained the accounts of at least one emperor who had been crowned while still bloody from battle. But never before had a man gone from condemned prisoner to emperor-to-be in the space of a few short hours.
A part of Josan was convinced that this was a dream—a fevered fantasy created by a mind intent on escaping the horrors inflicted upon his flesh. But as each hour passed without his awaking, he was forced to concede that this was no dream.
After accepting Proconsul Zuberi’s bizarre proposition, Josan was handed over to the care of one of the imperial functionaries, who led him to the suite of rooms that had once belonged to Prince Nestor. There, body servants helped strip off the garb he had only recently donned, and Josan gave himself over to their ministrations. He had a proper bath for the first time since the assassinations. His beard was shaved off, his hair trimmed, and the servants brought him new clothes to wear—a knee-length tunic of white silk, banded in the shade of purple reserved for the imperial family. From the size of it, the tunic had once belonged to Prince Anthor, and it hung loosely on Josan’s emaciated body, as if he were a child wearing his father’s robes.
Which, he supposed, was a fair analogy. The functionary, who refused to give his personal name, treated Josan as if he were a child, even as he helped him don the garb of an emperor-to-be. Each carefully phrased request was in truth a command.
Lest he forget his new status, he had only to glance at the entrance to his suite, where Farris stood at attention. Farris, who had once been assigned by Empress Nerissa to watch over Prince Lucius, with orders to kill him at the first sign of treachery. He wondered if Zuberi had given Farris similar orders, to ensure that the new emperor remain firmly under his control.
All that Josan knew was that his coronation would occur tomorrow, and that only a handful of court members had been informed of the identity of the next emperor. Nikos had suggested this, stating that it was better to present the nobles with a fait accompli than give them a chance to unite behind another candidate. To Josan, this seemed a spectacularly poor idea. Surprising the courtiers with such unpalatable news was inviting trouble.
But Josan’s words were not heeded. Instead he was sent off to his rooms like a child, so Zuberi and Nikos could plan out his life. Though to be fair, his new cell was an improvement over the last.
The functionary waited until he had finished his breakfast before suggesting that he adjourn to the dressing chamber, where a waiting tailor took his measurements, muttering under his breath all the while. A purple robe was draped over Josan’s tunic, but it was obvious at a glance that it had been made for a man both shorter and broader than he.
“Too tall,” the tailor muttered as he knelt next to Josan, measuring the distance between the hem of the robe and the floor. “Too tall, and there’s no time.”
“Too tall?” Josan repeated.
The tailor ignored him, his eyes still focused on his work. “I don’t know what Zuberi is thinking,” he muttered. “He should have consulted with me weeks ago. Creating ordinary court robes in this short time would be a miracle, but an emperor’s robes…”
Laughter welled up inside Josan at the absurdity of it all. The tailor’s dilemma was real enough, but he was merely the first of those whose plans were to be thrown into disarray by the realization that Zuberi was not the man who would be crowned tomorrow. A few yards of silk tacked to the hem of the robe would serve to lengthen it, but the other challenges Josan faced would be far harder to solve.
Grasping the fabric of the robe in his hands, Josan tugged the garment until the tailor looked upwards.
“You are done here. Unless you intend to sew the robe while I am wearing it—”
“No, no, you are right, I am finished,” the tailor stammered, scrambling hastily to his feet, as he suddenly realized that he was complaining to the future emperor himself. “There’s no one your size among my assistants, but I have the measurements I need, and I’m sure I can find someone to stand in for the future.”
“Yes. Fine. Go,” Josan said, as he pulled the robe up over his head and handed it to the startled man.
The tailor, clutching the robe to his chest, backed out of the dressing room, with promises that he would work all day and night.
Josan’s next visitor was the healer Galen.
“Prince Lucius, I have come to offer my services,” Galen said.
It was the first time Galen had called him by name.
“I do not need a healer.”
“Because of your recent ordeal, Proconsul Zuberi thought—”
“Proconsul Zuberi should concern himself with the empire,” Josan snapped. “If Prince Lucius needs a healer, he will send for one.”
He held his breath, wondering if the hovering functionary would choose this moment to override his wishes. But instead the man merely nodded, then escorted Galen outside.
His ordeal. A polite way of saying that Josan had been repeatedly tortured in the bowels of this very palace, brought to the brink of death again and again, but never permitted to cross over. Galen had seen him at his worst, treating his injuries with competence but without compassion, as if Josan were a broken object that needed mending rather than a man of flesh and blood.
Even if he were still suffering from the effects of his imprisonment, he would not turn to Galen for help.
He wondered what Galen had been told. Had he merely been told that the prince had been declared innocent and set free? Surely he must have wondered why the former prisoner was now to be found in the rooms once occupied by Nerissa’s eldest son and heir.
First the tailor, and now Galen. Along with the servants who had attended his bath and fetched his meal. The functionaries and the guard Farris could be trusted to hold their tongues, at least for the span of a day, but surely it was too much to expect that the others would stay silent. Brother Nikos was a fool to think that such an explosive secret could be kept for long.
Then, again, even if they did talk, who would believe them? Perhaps it was the very absurdity of the news that Nikos was counting on.
After the tailor left, the functionary politely suggested that the prince should rest. It was a sensible suggestion. Lucius’s magic might have healed their shared body, but Josan was still weakened from his long imprisonment. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in one of the many mirrors that adorned Prince Nestor’s chambers, Josan saw the face of a man stretched to his limits—exhausted and confused by the abrupt change in his circumstances.
The bed he had glimpsed earlier called out to him, with the promised luxury of a soft mattress and clean linens, but Josan resisted its temptations. The proconsul had said that he would speak with him later, but if Zuberi came and found Josan asleep, the proconsul might well decide not to awaken him, leaving Josan in ignorance.
He ignored the functionary’s increasingly firm suggestions, pleased to win a minor victory when the official finally relented. As dusk fell, another meal was brought. The first functionary was replaced by another—an older man who also refused to give his name. Their identical tattoos gave them a similar appearance, but after careful observation Josan noticed that the second functionary had darker eyes than the first, and his ears protruded slightly from his head, as if to catch the faintest sound. In his head he decided to call this man Two, to differentiate him from the first.
Farris was replaced by Balasi, who had last seen Josan as he was dragged away by Zuberi’s men. Balasi showed no sign of surprise at the change in his charge’s circumstances and resolutely refused Josan’s attempts to draw him into conversation.
The oil lamps had burned low when a grim-faced Zuberi finally sought him out. Zuberi scowled at Josan’s attendants, who quickly removed themselves to the outer chamber, leaving Josan and Zuberi alone.
Josan braced himself for the news that Zuberi had changed his mind—that he would once again be condemned to death. Or worse.
“Hector’s dead,” Zuberi said. “Poisoned, we think.”
This was not the news he had been expecting, and it took a moment for Zuberi’s words to sink in.
“Count Hector?”
“He was already dead when Nizam’s men found him, or so I am told,” Zuberi elaborated.
“But I thought he was to be arrested after the coronation—” Josan’s voice trailed off as Zuberi gave him a contemptuous glance.
“And have him disrupt the ceremony? The plan was for him to be taken into custody today, quietly. Then once you were crowned, we would announce his arrest and set a date for his judgment and execution.”
These plans had obviously been made after Josan had been dismissed from Zuberi’s presence, but he would not remind Zuberi of that fact. He wanted to see what other information Zuberi would let slip in his distraction.
“Did he take the poison himself? Or was there another hand in his death?”
Zuberi shrugged. “It seems unlikely he would kill himself—”
“If he knew you had evidence of his role in Nerissa’s murder…”
“Perhaps,” Zuberi said, though from his tone it was clear that he was skeptical. “Or perhaps there is a second conspirator. If Hector had lived, he would have told us what we needed to know to prove his guilt. Now there will be those who see him as a martyr.”
“And they will place the blame for his death on my shoulders,” Josan said.
Would Hector’s supporters unite to bring down the new emperor? Or would they obey him, at least publicly, out of fear for their own lives?
Josan drummed his fingers on the side of the couch, impatient with his own ignorance of court politics. His studies had done little to prepare him for the role he must play, and there was no time to remedy his deficiencies. Only experience would aid him—if he survived long enough to be schooled.
“We will worry about them when the time comes,” Zuberi said.
“The list of our worries grows longer by each hour,” Josan pointed out.
“You need only concern yourself with doing as you are told. Leave the empire in my hands.”
“And what orders do you have for me?” Josan asked, frustration lending a sarcastic edge to his words.
“You will be crowned tomorrow at noon, in the great chamber. Brother Nikos will place the lizard crown on your head, and accept your pledge to serve Ikaria faithfully. I will be first to swear my allegiance, followed by Demetrios and Simon the Bald. The rest will fall in line.”
“I admire your confidence.”
Zuberi snorted. “Petrelis will have his men inside the chamber to quell the dissenters.”
“Then what happens?”
“Demetrios will retire to the senate, where the senators will unanimously vote to confirm you.”
“Surely there will be some who object. Hector’s supporters will want to avenge his death, and there are others who will wish to support their own claimants to the throne.”
“Demetrios assures me that the majority will follow his lead. As for the rest, regardless of their personal opinions, no one will want to be seen taking the losing side. Not publicly.”
It seemed Zuberi had matters well in hand. Which only made Josan wonder, once again, why Zuberi wasn’t taking the crown for himself. Surely it would be far easier for him to rule directly rather than through a proxy.
Unless, of course, Josan was not a proxy but a target. A distraction, meant to draw the eyes of whatever conspirators still lurked. If Count Hector had indeed been murdered, then Zuberi’s caution was well-founded. He knew that Zuberi would cheerfully sacrifice the puppet emperor if it meant drawing his enemies out into the open where they could be dealt with.
“My clerk is drafting a series of orders for your signature. Once you are crowned you will sign all of them, without question,” Zuberi added.
“Understood.” This, after all, was the bargain he had made in exchange for his life.
“Among them is an order for compensation for the men who were executed today.”
“Which men?”
“The guards who arrested you,” Zuberi said.
“But those were your men, obeying your orders—”
“They laid hands upon you, and then boasted of what they had done.” Zuberi shrugged, then spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. “Letting them live would make you appear weak.”
“So you had them killed. Your own men.” After the tumultuous events of this day, Josan had thought that there was nothing left that could shock him, but Zuberi had just proven him wrong.
He had underestimated Zuberi’s ruthlessness and the depths to which he would sink to gain his own ends. If the proconsul could so casually speak of killing his own men, then what else he was capable of?
A new thought occurred to Josan. “So I may expect to see an order for Nizam’s death?”
He objected to murder, but that was one decree that he would sign with a clear conscience. Surely if anyone deserved to die for his crimes, it was Nizam.
“Nizam is too useful. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut, as do his men,” Zuberi said.
Pity. Josan would have enjoyed watching Nizam die.
“Your freakish powers protect him,” Zuberi said, with a malicious grin. “If he had left you visibly scarred or maimed…”
In that moment Josan knew that Zuberi didn’t merely despise him. Zuberi hated him, as evidenced by the pleasure he took in reminding Josan of his torments, and that he was powerless to take revenge upon those who had injured him.
He did not understand why Zuberi would scheme to put a man whom he hated on the throne of Ikaria; but it did not matter, for Zuberi had unwittingly given Josan a new goal. He wanted to do more than survive. Instead he would strive to gather enough power that he was able to act on his own, free of Zuberi’s restraint.
And when that day came, Nizam would do well to fear him. And to fear what Josan had learned in these past weeks.
His feet were numb. Josan tried to wriggle his toes within their too-small boots, but he could not tell if his efforts had been successful. The boots, which had belonged to one of the late princes, were made of dark purple leather that had been elaborately decorated, and were intended for occasions of state. They were also intended for a man with smaller feet.
“I don’t see why I couldn’t have worn sandals,” he complained. “I will make a poor impression if I stumble in front of the court because I cannot feel my feet.”
Proconsul Zuberi turned to glare at him. “You will look the part of an emperor. Any discomfort you feel is a small price to pay.”
Indeed, his cramped feet were a mere trifle compared to what he had endured in the past weeks. But it gave Josan’s mind something to focus on as he and Zuberi waited in the antechamber behind the main audience hall.
A heavy brocaded curtain separated the chamber from the hall, muffling the sounds of the crowd gathered on the other side. From time to time, Zuberi drew back a corner of the curtain to peer through, but he had firmly rebuked Josan when he tried to do the same. Josan had time for no more than a quick glance before the curtain was pulled from his grasp.
At last the functionary whom Josan had named One entered the room. Bowing low, he said, “All is in readiness, your graciousness.”
His words were addressed to Josan, as the emperor-to-be, but the functionary waited for Zuberi’s dismissal before bowing a second time and backing out of the room.
Josan’s stomach clenched in anticipation of what was to come.
“Wait twelve heartbeats, then follow,” Zuberi reminded him, his hand poised to pull the curtain back.
“I know what I have to do,” Josan snapped.
Zuberi turned to scowl at Josan. “Remember that neither purple robes nor that ancient crown gives you any power. You live or die as I command, Lucius.”
Apparently satisfied that he had put the upstart prince in his place, Zuberi drew back the curtain and stepped through onto the dais at the head of the audience chamber.
Josan could hear the rising hum of voices as the crowd realized that Zuberi was dressed in the white silk of a minister of state rather than the robes of an emperor. Squaring his shoulders, he counted off twelve heartbeats, then stepped through the curtains.
The murmuring voices fell silent as Josan advanced across the dais and took his place in front of the throne. To his left stood Proconsul Zuberi, in his role as the chief minister of state, while to his right stood Brother Nikos, accompanied by an acolyte who held an open case containing the lizard crown.
His eyes swept the assembled gathering, noting that armed guards with naked swords lined the three walls of the audience chamber. An ordinary ceremony would have arrayed the witnesses by rank, but today the front row contained only those whom Zuberi had enlisted in support of this farce—Simon the Bald, Chancellor of the Exchequer; Demetrios, the leader of the senate; Duke Seneca, a cousin by marriage of the late empress; Aristid, arguably the richest merchant in Ikaria; and several others whose rank would not have ordinarily entitled them to a place in the front row, including Petrelis, whose guards ensured that there would be no disruption.
Josan waited, expecting angry shouts and demands for his death, but there was only a low murmur.
Zuberi turned to address the assembled crowd. “An evil plot took from us our beloved empress, and struck down her sons before they had time to fulfill their promise. We will never forget their loss, but today we look to the future. Our next emperor is a man who has given ample evidence of his devotion to Ikaria and his personal loyalty to Empress Nerissa.”
Josan marveled as Zuberi continued to praise him, showing none of the contempt that he displayed in private. Surely the courtiers knew that these words were exaggerations at best, if not outright lies? At any moment he expected someone to call out a challenge; instead he saw only the nodding of Zuberi’s allies.
He forced his wandering mind to pay attention as Zuberi continued, “This was not an honor that he sought, but in all humility Prince Lucius has accepted our plea to devote himself to the service of the empire. I can think of no worthier candidate, and thus we are honored to bear witness as he accepts the crown of Ikaria and the steward-ship of the empire.”
Zuberi turned back to face him once more, and at his signal Josan knelt, presumably for the last time in his life.
Brother Nikos came to stand beside his shoulder, ensuring that all present had a clear view of their future emperor. As Brother Nikos prayed to the twin gods, Josan’s attention was caught by the acolyte who stood at his side. He looked familiar, though from his age he would have been a boy when Josan was last in the temple. Minsah was his name, or perhaps Mensah. The acolyte’s shifting gaze and the faint tremors that ran through his outstretched arms indicated that he was overwhelmed by the occasion, and Josan felt a twinge of sympathy.
Then his gaze drifted upwards to the burnished crown, wondering where they had found it. Called the lizard crown because of the lizards that lurked among the twined olive leaves, it was the traditional crown of Lucius’s forebears. Scurrilous legend had it that the crown had bitten the usurper, Aitor the Great, at his coronation, though it was likely that the ancient crown had merely scratched him. Whatever the reason, Aitor had had a new crown made—a wide band of gold heavily encrusted with costly gems—that had been worn by his son and his granddaughter.
That crown was presumably held in safekeeping, meant for the next true emperor. Prince Lucius was deemed only worthy of the lesser crown, a sign that he had not truly taken Nerissa’s place.
“Do you swear to carry out the legacy of Empress Nerissa, to safeguard and protect her people, and to give your life in service of the empire?” Brother Nikos asked.
Giving his life in service of the empire—or in service of Nikos and Zuberi’s schemes—was exactly what he had promised, so his voice was steady as he gave the reply that they had drilled into him. “I swear to honor the memory of Empress Nerissa, to rule as she would have done, with mercy and compassion, guided by the wisdom of those around me.” Thus he proclaimed himself a mere puppet for those who had not the wit to see this on their own. “I swear to devote my life to the service of the empire, and to safeguarding her people.”
Brother Nikos reached into the case and lifted the crown high, so that all could see.
“Accept the crown of Ikaria and the devotion of your people.”
Josan had a brief moment of panic. What if the crown did not fit? What if it was like the boots, so small that it appeared a jest?
But Brother Nikos did not appear concerned as he raised the crown one final time, then lowered it onto Josan’s head. The delicate filigree fooled him, for it was heavier than he had expected, and he braced himself at the unaccustomed weight.
As Brother Nikos removed his hands and stepped back, Josan felt a flash of warmth where the metal touched his skin. The acolyte gasped, and Brother Nikos’s eyes widened. A few in the crowd cried out in amazement, though he didn’t know why.
Proconsul Zuberi, his face now pale with anger, gestured for him to rise.
Surprise welled up inside him, then triumphant glee. At last. In his mind he heard a voice that had been silent for nearly a year. The scene before him blurred, as if he were seeing it through another’s eyes. For an instant he lost all sensation in his limbs, as he heard Prince Lucius’s voice ask, What dream is this?
Josan stumbled as he tried to rise to his feet, and only Nikos’s quick grasp of his arm kept him from falling.
He knew he should be pleased that Prince Lucius’s soul had survived, but the prince could not have chosen a worse time to make his presence known. Please, Josan thought furiously, I will explain everything. But we must do nothing to rouse their suspicions.
As sensation returned, he slowly seated himself on the backless ivory throne, wishing for an ordinary chair with a back that he could lean against. He took his time arranging his robes around him as he fought for composure. He could feel Lucius trying to take control of his body but he could not let that happen. Not when one false word could result in their deaths.
This is no dream? They have crowned me emperor?
Yes, but in name only. Zuberi holds the chain around our neck, and we must do nothing to rouse his suspicions.
Josan tasted fear, but it was quelled beneath Prince Lucius’s pleasure.
Lucius, who had been spared the past twelve months and knew nothing of what Josan had endured to preserve their lives.
Lucius, who had always wanted to be emperor, and only in the final days of his existence had learned to reckon the cost of his ambitions.
I can wait, Lucius said. For now, let us enjoy the sight of Zuberi on his knees.
Josan shivered. Lucius had only reluctantly come to terms with the invader who had taken possession of his body—a truce forced upon them by circumstances that had demanded their cooperation. He had no reason to welcome Josan’s presence, and indeed many reasons why he would seek to banish him. And while Zuberi had the power to confine Josan’s body, Lucius had a far more insidious power. He could banish Josan’s soul, locking his intellect away in a kind of endless sleep, denied even the relief of dreams—a prison from which there would be no escape.
Josan had as much to fear from Lucius as he did from his enemies—and Lucius was the one person from whom he could never escape.