some invisible point in the distance, a solid row of weapon-heavy soldiers as unnecessary to their lord and master’s continued health as snowshoes in the tropics.
Caesar added with languid ill humor, “And when I say someone, I mean everyone .”
The guards—knowing all too well this wasn’t an idle threat—shifted their weight from foot to foot, and sent each another quick, anxious glances.
One of them stepped forward. Larger than the rest, he was a cool, efficient killer with a withering stare and the impressive musculature of an elite athlete. Like the others, born and bred in darkness in the catacombs below Rome, he had eyes the color of polished obsidian, but unlike the others, he didn’t tremble when he addressed their leader.
He was, however, smart enough to keep his gaze lowered deferentially to Caesar’s bare, tanned feet. Before speaking, he bowed.
“I took the liberty of ordering a diesel-powered generator, Sire, the day we arrived. It’s being delivered soon to the market at Jamaa el Fna. With your permission, I’ll take Nico with me to pick it up when it arrives.”
Marcell waited patiently for Caesar to assess this and pass judgment. This kind of independent thinking was not something Caesar normally appreciated, but knowing their luxury-loving leader as Marcell did, he’d taken the risk with full confidence of reward.
A reward that was ensured when Caesar replied, “Thank Horus one of you has a brain.”
Careful to keep the self-satisfied smirk from his face, Marcell bowed a little lower, then returned to his place at the wall.
The kasbah in Morocco that Caesar and his followers had settled in after their abrupt departure from Spain was vast and crumbling and echoing empty, one of the hundreds of abandoned sandcastle palaces left to bake in the sun by a clan of long-ago Berber warriors. Situated in an unexpected oasis along the former route of the caravans over the Atlas mountains to Marrakech, the stronghold built of earth was isolated from any human settlements, and steadily collapsing.
In spite of its decay, it was spectacular.
An austere, sprawling maze of red clay and stone, it still held the echoes of its former glory and conspicuous wealth. Elaborate stucco pillars, brilliant mosaics, soaring Moorish doorways, and intricately carved woodwork had survived the harsh desert climate, as had a store of handwoven wool rugs, stashed in rolls of dust-covered canvas in the dungeon below. Along with a few pieces of mismatched furniture bought from a local bazaar, the rugs were now scattered about Caesar’s rooms on the uppermost floor of the palace.
The view from Caesar’s bed chamber revealed an abandoned cobweb village below, surrounded by multilevel towers and a series of crooked, interlinked alleyways. When he had looked down on the deserted dwellings for the first time, Caesar had felt a thrill of delight as he imagined all the generations of humans who had died within those walls.
Because the only good human was a dead one.
The kasbah’s dusty beauty was matched by its eerie stillness. An incessant hot breeze was the only thing that stirred in the smothering heat of the day. The only thing that broke the yawning silence was the occasional flapping of a vulture’s wings as it peered from the tower ramparts with avid black eyes for anything freshly dead.
More often than not, the vulture found what it was looking for. Caesar tired quickly of the playthings he kept chained to the dark dungeon wall.
“All right.” Caesar pulled himself to an upright position in the chair. “What’s the current count?”
Again it was Marcell who spoke. “Eight hundred sixty-two, Sire.”
Caesar was pleased. Their little colony was growing quickly.
After a brief pause, Marcell added, “Not including the females, of course.”
Caesar waved a hand dismissively. Naturally the females wouldn’t be counted—unless they were pregnant, that is. Then they actually had value. Speaking of
Caesar added with languid ill humor, “And when I say someone, I mean everyone .”
The guards—knowing all too well this wasn’t an idle threat—shifted their weight from foot to foot, and sent each another quick, anxious glances.
One of them stepped forward. Larger than the rest, he was a cool, efficient killer with a withering stare and the impressive musculature of an elite athlete. Like the others, born and bred in darkness in the catacombs below Rome, he had eyes the color of polished obsidian, but unlike the others, he didn’t tremble when he addressed their leader.
He was, however, smart enough to keep his gaze lowered deferentially to Caesar’s bare, tanned feet. Before speaking, he bowed.
“I took the liberty of ordering a diesel-powered generator, Sire, the day we arrived. It’s being delivered soon to the market at Jamaa el Fna. With your permission, I’ll take Nico with me to pick it up when it arrives.”
Marcell waited patiently for Caesar to assess this and pass judgment. This kind of independent thinking was not something Caesar normally appreciated, but knowing their luxury-loving leader as Marcell did, he’d taken the risk with full confidence of reward.
A reward that was ensured when Caesar replied, “Thank Horus one of you has a brain.”
Careful to keep the self-satisfied smirk from his face, Marcell bowed a little lower, then returned to his place at the wall.
The kasbah in Morocco that Caesar and his followers had settled in after their abrupt departure from Spain was vast and crumbling and echoing empty, one of the hundreds of abandoned sandcastle palaces left to bake in the sun by a clan of long-ago Berber warriors. Situated in an unexpected oasis along the former route of the caravans over the Atlas mountains to Marrakech, the stronghold built of earth was isolated from any human settlements, and steadily collapsing.
In spite of its decay, it was spectacular.
An austere, sprawling maze of red clay and stone, it still held the echoes of its former glory and conspicuous wealth. Elaborate stucco pillars, brilliant mosaics, soaring Moorish doorways, and intricately carved woodwork had survived the harsh desert climate, as had a store of handwoven wool rugs, stashed in rolls of dust-covered canvas in the dungeon below. Along with a few pieces of mismatched furniture bought from a local bazaar, the rugs were now scattered about Caesar’s rooms on the uppermost floor of the palace.
The view from Caesar’s bed chamber revealed an abandoned cobweb village below, surrounded by multilevel towers and a series of crooked, interlinked alleyways. When he had looked down on the deserted dwellings for the first time, Caesar had felt a thrill of delight as he imagined all the generations of humans who had died within those walls.
Because the only good human was a dead one.
The kasbah’s dusty beauty was matched by its eerie stillness. An incessant hot breeze was the only thing that stirred in the smothering heat of the day. The only thing that broke the yawning silence was the occasional flapping of a vulture’s wings as it peered from the tower ramparts with avid black eyes for anything freshly dead.
More often than not, the vulture found what it was looking for. Caesar tired quickly of the playthings he kept chained to the dark dungeon wall.
“All right.” Caesar pulled himself to an upright position in the chair. “What’s the current count?”
Again it was Marcell who spoke. “Eight hundred sixty-two, Sire.”
Caesar was pleased. Their little colony was growing quickly.
After a brief pause, Marcell added, “Not including the females, of course.”
Caesar waved a hand dismissively. Naturally the females wouldn’t be counted—unless they were pregnant, that is. Then they actually had value. Speaking of
Similar Books
