Empire of Dust (6 page)

“What news from the east?” asks one, smooth-faced and hardly more than a boy. “You come from Persepolis, don't you?”

An older man with gray-streaked hair smiles broadly. “Good news and bad news,” he replies.

“Tell us the good news first,” the teenaged rider says.

“Our Great King Artaxerxes has another son at the age of eighty-five! The mother is twenty-five. Such vigor at his age!”

“Or her eunuch is not really a eunuch,” says a third, stroking his pointed chin thoughtfully as the entire group guffaws. “Well, Kurush, what is the bad news?”

Kurush leans in as if telling a secret, and Zo strains to hear above the buzz of conversation, Ochus's questions about how the meat is cooked, and the clanking of mugs.

“Entire villages have been reduced to ashes and bone,” the man says. “Peasants are panicking and wandering the roads with all their possessions in carts or on their backs. I have spoken with some. They told me when they went to visit the next village no one was there. Just a heap of bones. Even couriers have gone missing. Horses have disappeared out of paddocks, their bones discovered later, chewed and drained of marrow.”

Zo shudders. Kurush's report echoes what the stable master said. Will it be dangerous for them to continue? Though when she thinks how Ochus killed the mountain lion early in their journey, she would put her money on him rather than whatever is killing villagers and horses.

The man with the pointed chin laughs and slaps the table. “A wonderful ghost story, Kurush!” he says, raising his mug. “I will be awake all night, shaking with fear. You, Davood,” he says to a good-looking one with a trim black beard, “you rode in from the west, didn't you? What news there? Skeletons walking the road, perhaps? The dead climbing out of graves to eat babies?”

“Ah,” says Davood, “nothing quite so dramatic. But Prince Alexander has won a great battle in his father's absence.”

Zo stiffens. Alexander. The boy she would have married if she hadn't run away from the palace.

“How old is the prince now? Eighteen? Twenty?” the older man asks.

“Only sixteen,” the one called Davood responds.

“Any word of his upcoming nuptials?” asks the gray-haired courier. “Who has Philip decided will be his bride?”

Davood waves his hand dismissively. “There are many rumors that Philip chose a bride for his son. Some say she's from Samos, and some say Crete...but I know for a fact they are both wrong.”

The youngest leans forward, “How do you know?”

“I know that the prince was set to marry a princess of Sardis, but that she mysteriously disappeared days before she was supposed to leave.”

The jokester with the pointed chin nods. “More likely she was poisoned by a rival princess.”

The waitress has bustled off, and now Ochus's head twists in Zo's direction and his golden eyes gleam. He, too, is listening.

“Who knows? Either way, the lost princess is probably dead.” The gray-haired man nods knowingly. “That's what everyone's saying. But other princesses must be lining up. Alexander might just be a boy—and there's something wrong with his leg, isn't there?—but Macedon is a prize.”

Zo sits back. She can't listen anymore.

Dead.
Everyone in Sardis thinks she's dead. Is her mother sorry for trying to force her to marry Alexander instead of the man she loved? Perhaps Attoosheh is finally remorseful for ignoring her all these years. And her uncle? King Shershah was always kind to her in a distant, brisk way. Will he grieve for her? No, she decides. He will see it as an irritating strategic setback, preventing a Sardisian alliance with Macedon. The only one who will truly mourn is Mandana, who always did everything in her power to make Zo happy, including helping her leave the palace to join Cosmas.

Then a terrible thought makes panic rise in her chest. Has
Cosmas
heard she's dead, too? What would he do? Would he risk his life foolishly in battle in a noble and desperate effort to join her in death? Or worse, would he soothe his grief in the arms of another girl?

She must let him know that she's alive and that he must wait for her—especially now that she's carrying his child, and he doesn't even know. He needs to know. But how can she reach him, hundreds of miles from his barracks and under the constant watch of Ochus? Unless... Couriers are allowed to deliver the letters of Persian subjects if they are inclined to take on extra jobs. But this is the last posting house she and Ochus will visit. Tonight is her last chance to find an imperial courier.

Zo stares listlessly at the steaming bowl of goat stew the waitress places in front of her and answers Ochus's questions mechanically. Yes, she's tired. No, she's not really hungry. Yes, the beer is fine.

Her mind is whirling. Because even if she could sneak away to find a courier, she has nothing to write Cosmas a message
on
. At the palace, she used wax tablets to write notes to her friends. They would read her message, rub it off, and write their response. Royal archives are written on clay tablets. Couriers usually carry letters on papyrus. Though terribly expensive, it's light in their saddlebags.

And then there's the issue of her shackles. No courier would accept a message from a chained slave. A horrible thought nibbles at the back of her mind, but she pushes it away. She's not that desperate, is she? But as the meal progresses and she sees the couriers retire one by one, her sense of despair rises until she's left with only one thought: yes, she is.

She doesn't touch the rest of her meal. Ochus doesn't comment, but she can feel his eyes on her, and she supposes she should be grateful when he settles their payment quickly and announces they shall retire early tonight, but Zo isn't. Gods help her, she isn't.

In their small room, Ochus locks the door and slips the key into his coin pouch, which he places on the scarred wooden table with a little clink. Two basins of water are set out. Without a word, she takes one of them and heads to the corner for a bit of privacy.

With a clinking of chains, Zo splashes water on her face and arms, rinsing away the dust from the road. For a moment, her resolve weakens—her skin, once white from baths of milk, is now brown as a nut. And though she hasn't seen a mirror since she left the palace, she can only assume she has dark roots above her carefully hennaed auburn hair. If only she had some perfume. Some kohl eyeliner. A sheer, spangled veil to hide behind.

Her hand trembles as she rubs her arm with the towel, and she steals a glance at Ochus, who has removed his tunic and stands in his baggy checkered trousers and boots. He has an incredible physique. His shoulders are broad, his biceps enormous, his stomach flat as an anvil and chiseled like a temple statue. If he wasn't so obnoxious, and if she didn't love Cosmas, maybe she wouldn't feel so revolted.

She swallows hard. She has to do this as she is. Now.
For Cosmas
.

“Ochus,” she says, approaching him. But she's chosen the wrong moment; he ducks his head into the basin, and then resurfaces, water droplets dripping down his face. He reaches for a towel.

“Ochus,” she says again, trying to keep her voice low and throaty.

“Uh-huh,” he grunts, the sound muffled by the towel.

She stands and puts her hand gently on his arm. He stops drying and looks at her in expectation. “Well, what is it?” he asks.

“So...so many nights we have spent together on this long journey...” She falters, not knowing what to say next as he tosses the towel, crosses his arms, and looks at her. It's not coming out right. She sounds stupid.

Cosmas always told her that her lashes, thick and long and black, were extremely beautiful against her dark blue eyes, and now she tries to peer up at him through them, blinking slowly.

“Do you have dust in your eyes?”

“I feel fine,” she snaps back. By all the gods, why did she think it would be a good idea to try to seduce this impossible man?

“I...I just wanted to—to—” What should she do next? Panicking, she reaches out to try to flirtatiously touch him. Her hand now on his shoulder, she doesn't know what to do with it, and so she just stares at her small and helpless hand against the audacious curve of his bicep. One second drags on. Then two.

Suddenly, she realizes his shoulder is shaking, and she looks up to find Ochus laughing silently. As soon as he sees her looking, his laughter bursts out like an ox's bellow.

“You are amazingly awkward at seduction, Zotasha,” he says, using the fake name she gave him. “But then, I suppose all virgins are.”

Flushing, Zo looks down at the floor, caught off guard by the word
virgin.
What will he do if they are together long enough that he realizes she's with child? But they'll never be together that long. It is so early that Zo wouldn't be sure of it herself if the soothsayer in the cage next to hers on the slave cart hadn't told her.

He hasn't even seemed to notice she hasn't bled over the weeks they've been together. But then again, men usually don't want to know such things, Mandana told her. They are more afraid of a woman's monthly blood than seeing their own gushing out on the battlefield.

As Ochus's laughter continues, she grinds the knuckles of her right hand into the palm of her left, wishing she could just disappear. She's never been so mortified in her life. She's too embarrassed to even yell at him. Finally the laughter stops, but Zo keeps her eyes on the floor. She can't look at him.

“No reply, little temptress?” Ochus says. When she's silent, he sighs. “It's no fun if you don't rise to the bait.” Zo hears him walk across the room. Then he's back in front of her.

“Since I can't believe you really want to seduce me, I can only assume you want me to take off your chains,” Ochus says, his voice kinder. “All you need do is ask. Hold out your hands.”

Startled, Zo obeys. She looks up to see him pull the key from his pocket, unlock the shackles, and remove them. She has a sudden image of a sweating, trembling ox when its owner removes the heavy yoke from its shoulders. This must be what it feels like. Lightness. Freedom. Kindness.

He takes her hands in his and turns them upside down, examining the pink marks on her wrists. His hands are calloused and hard, and a ragged purple scar runs across his left hand from the base of his thumb to his pinky. Yet these strong warrior's fingers are gentle now, and she can feel their heat as he enfolds her small ones.

“Perhaps we won't need those chains anymore,” he says, pulling away from her. “It would be nice to sleep without hearing you clink as you toss and turn.”

Zo still holds her hands out in front of her, palms up, and they feel awkward, cold, exposed. She hastily pulls them back and follows him into bed.

He turns away from her, blows out the lamp, and falls asleep.

She wishes he hadn't been so nice to her. It's much easier to plot against him when he's being obnoxious...but, she has to admit to herself that his action was kind. For a captor, anyway.

After waiting what seems like an eternity, she slowly gets out of bed, hoping the ropes below the mattress don't creak with the shift in weight. They do, but his heavy breathing doesn't change. Then, like the comic pantomime actors who performed at the Sardis palace, she pads in slow motion across the tiny room to the table where she feels around for the pouch, opens it, and removes the room key and one of the big coins.

Unlocking the door is the tricky thing. She feels for the keyhole, turns the key, and stifles a gasp as the rusty lock screeches in protest, but Ochus remains sound asleep.

Zo doesn't dare take a lamp, and walking down the corridor she feels drowned in darkness. She runs her hand along the wall to find the opening for the stairs and walks down the twisting staircase until finally, in the courtyard, she sees some light—sputtering torches on the buildings, lanterns held by guards watching the merchants' wagons, and gold light spilling from the window slats of the tavern.

Goddess Anahita
, she pleads,
let there still be an imperial courier inside.

Three merchants are playing knucklebones. One of them has scattered the four bones across the table and laughs at his successful throw as the others groan and push coins his way.

A weary waitress stacks chairs on a table and sweeps beneath. And in the corner, two imperial couriers sit quietly, hands clasped around their mugs and heads bowed, almost as if in prayer. She recognizes them from dinner.

Zo marches up to them, her heart pounding. “I beg your pardon, sir, but are you headed east or west?” she asks the handsome bearded one called Davood.

He raises dark eyes that look at her appraisingly, and she wishes she had thrown her cloak over her tunic and trousers before she left the room.

“Why do you ask?” he says, his slow grin revealing white teeth. “Would you like to join me? We ride fast, you know. I doubt you could keep up.”

“I... My master wants me to send an important message west.”

The grin fades. “I am headed east. To Persepolis.”

Zo can't help but groan. “No,” she says. “I'm afraid that won't do.”

The other one, the older man with gray hair and a gentle face, says, “I'm headed west, girl. All the way to Sardis. I have dispatches for the royal garrisons there.”

Relief floods her. “Can you take a letter to the Ninth Regiment outside Sardis?” she asks.

He nods. “For a gold daric,” he says.

“And...” she shuffles her feet, embarrassed to ask the next question. But after her humiliation earlier this evening, this feels like such a small task. “Do you have anything I can write on?” she asks.

Both men laugh. The older one raises a bushy gray eyebrow and asks, “You know how to write?”

Zo pulls herself up to her full height and says, “I was trained to keep my master's household accounts.”