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This is why I could not look Kalindora in the eye. I knew I would remember how she brought me the Praetorians in the desert. How she helped me when my face was a tattered ruin. But as she left me to the storm to save herself, so I must leave her behind.
“Two can be a very awkward number,” Atalantia says carefully.
“Not so long as all know who kneels.”
“What a matchmaker you’ve become. Rim and Core. Lune and Grimmus.” She ponders the idea. “When the old milkbat sets the crown on your head, don’t take my hand.”
That’s my answer, and her signal to whatever sniper lurks in the buildings. Whether it is death or life, I will not know until it has happened.
There are cheers of relief as we turn together toward the crowd, but the cheers are far too premature. Neither Ajax nor Atlas know what has happened, but down below, Rhone and Glirastes wait for the answer.
The White steps forward, her dark face as ancient as her tattered robes. Milky eyes watch me with inhuman distance. Her hands hold a green laurel crown. My heart thuds in my chest, forcing my vision into a tunnel.
“Son of Luna.” I barely hear her voice for the blood in my ears. “Today you wear purple, as did the Etruscan kings of old. You join them in history. You join the men who broke the Empire of the Rising Sun. The women who dashed the Atlantic Alliance into the sea. You are a Conqueror. Accept this laurel as our proclamation of your glory.”
She sets the laurel on my head. Atalantia smiles beside me. I lift my right hand, open as is the way, to grip invisible destiny. Atalantia does not seize it.
“Per Aspera…” I say.
“…ad Astra!” roars the human sea of Heliopolis.
No bullet finds me. “Celebrate, my love,” Atalantia whispers. “For you have lived before death. In the immortal words of Plautus: ‘Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words.’?”
The Triumph festivities extend well into the evening. The sound of rooftop parties and the debauched celebrations of the Core Golds within the Mound itself lap at me as I stand with a cup of wine atop the stairs and watch the Brown and Red crews sweep the flowers from the Via Triumphia.
I smell roses as Atalantia joins me from behind. Her gold gauntlet squeezes my shoulder. “Bored of the sycophants already, my love?” she asks. On her neck, Hypatia stirs to eye me before returning to her slumber. My Gray Praetorians in the shadows watch her Obsidian Ash Guard with their hands on their rifles.
We have not yet shared news of our pending union. Considering how much wine Ajax has downed, it would be violent timing. “As a boy, I always wondered how you put up with them,” I say.
“And as a man?”
“I wonder how you put up with them.”
“You would do wise to make friends. Many have spent their years climbing the ladders to heights upon which they might share wine with a man like the Heir of Silenius. If you spurn them, they will hate you.”
“Let them hate me, provided they respect my conduct.”
“I want to show you something.” She extends a hand. I glance at my Praetorians. “I’ve held your life in my palm before. I haven’t squeezed yet.” She smiles innocently. “Don’t you trust me, my love?”
I nod to my guards. “Tell Rhone to enjoy himself. I am with the Dictator.”
Atalantia’s shuttle flies us over the desert. As we ascend, I catch sight of two lines of impaled bodies that lead out of the city and into the desert.
“Reds and Golds,” Atalantia says. “It stretches to the sea they stirred. The others can work, or join the line.”
To react would be to lose respect in her eyes. To contradict would be to make her doubt my acceptance of her supremacy. So I remain silent.
Her shuttle takes us to the Annihilo. The Triumph has spread to its halls. Soldiers toast one another in mess halls, and give proclamations that soon the legion eagles will fly over Luna again. Atalantia leads me along by my hand.
Her meditation chamber has changed since my arrival. Gone is the garden, replaced by sleek black walls and a white floor. The mural of our family still hangs on the wall. The viewport looks down on drowned Tyche. The waters have receded, but the city is in ruins. Only the Water Colossus stands equal to its former glory.
Atalantia brings me before the viewport. “This is our victory,” she says. “Three days from now, I would like for you to break ground and lead the restoration of Tyche personally. Glirastes will be your Master Maker. You will not want for funds. I intend to deliver most of your inheritance from my own coffers.” Her largesse surprises me. “All the worlds will see that what the Slave King destroys, the Heir of Silenius will rebuild greater than before.”
I examine her face for some sign of deception and find none. Just a deep, feline satisfaction. “Why?” I ask.
“Because my husband must be loved.” She turns her body to me.
Her gold gauntlet strokes my burn and slides to cup my head. Her eyes flutter. Her tongue wets her lips as she pulls my mouth to hers. Her teeth glide along my bottom lip, nipping tenderly. She pulls back, sees something in my eyes to her satisfaction and then crushes my mouth against hers in hunger. Her tongue probes mine, and the heat of her body presses against me as a gauntlet strokes my groin. My blood quickens in guilt. I feel light and heavy as my hands explore the taut muscles of her back, sliding down and down, and down.
