An Oath of Brothers

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Luptius sat at the head of the Grand Council table, in the center of the Empire Capital’s High Chambers, an immense, circular marble building built of shining, black granite, framed by a hundred columns, and he stared back at the Councilmen, all young, stupid men, with disgust. This was the not the Grand Council he once knew, the one that had consolidated the Empire to power and ruthlessness, the one that would never have allowed the conflicts that had erupted within the Empire these past moons. He was in a bitter mood, and ready to let it out on someone.

He sat in this building, meant to inspire fear, and looked around the table at the representatives from the Six Horns of the Empire, formidable men of nearly every Empire race. There were governors of regions, commanders of armies, all of them collectively representing the tens of millions of Empire citizens and countless provinces. Luptius studied the faces one at a time, pondering all their words and their opinions, which had gone on for hours in this endless meeting. They brought in reports from every corner of the Empire. The ripple effect from Andronicus’s death, then Romulus’s death, was still spreading to the provinces; power grabs and internal conflicts were never ending. This is what it meant to have an Empire, he knew, without a living supreme leader.

There came reports of Romulus’s million men, still occupying the Ring, now leaderless, purposeless, causing havoc; there came reports of the assassination of Romulus at Volusia’s hand; there came reports of Volusia’s new army, of her attempted coup. It all fell into bickering, none of these men agreeing on a course of action, and all of them vying for power. All of them, Luptius knew, wanted to succeed Romulus. This meeting was as much an audition for power as a report of the state of the Empire.

Arguments continued over whether elections should be held, whether military commanders should rule, over which province should have greater power—even over whether the capital should be moved.

Luptius listened patiently to it all; there had been a much more democratic feeling in the air, and he had fostered it. After all, Andronicus and Romulus had been tyrants, and this Grand Council had had to bow to them and grant their every wish. Now, with them dead, Luptius relished the freedom, relished not having a single overbearing leader. It was more of a controlled chaos.

Yet they all at least looked Luptius to preside over them. As the oldest of the group, nearly eighty, with the fading yellow bald head indicative of his age, he aspired to be no commander. He preferred to pull the strings behind the scenes, as he had his entire life. There was an old Empire saying, which he lived by: Supreme Commanders come and go—but Council chairs rule forever.

Luptius waited for all the bickering to die down, letting these young stupid men argue until they were blue in the face, all of their arguing focusing on what to do about Volusia. He waited, until finally they all, with no resolution, turned to him.

When he was ready, he cleared his throat, and looked them all evenly in the eye. There was no aggression, he knew, like silence; his calm demeanor was more disconcerting to all of them than the commands of the fiercest general. When he finally spoke, it was with the voice of authority.

“This young girl who thinks she’s a goddess,” he said, “Volusia. Killing a few men does not make her a threat to the Empire. You forget we have millions of men at our disposal.”

“And yet we have no one to lead them,” answered one of the councilmen ominously. “More dangerous, I should think, to have thousands of men behind a strong leader than millions of men without one.”

Luptius shook his head.

“The Empire soldiers will follow and execute the command of the Supreme Council as they always have,” he said, shrugging it off. “We shall meet her out in the field, stop her foolish advance before she gets any closer.”

The men looked back at him, concern in their eyes.

“Do you think that wise?” a councilman asked. “Why not force her to march on the capital? Here we have the fortifications of the city, and a million men strong to guard it. Out there, we meet her on her own terms.”

“That is precisely what we shall do, because that is what she shall not expect. Nor shall she expect our convoy’s offer of peace.”

The room fell silent as all the men looked to him in shock.

“Peace!?” one of them asked, outraged. “We offer her, a usurper, peace!?”

“You just said we had nothing to fear of her,” another said. “Then why would we offer her peace?”

Luptius smiled, annoyed and impatient with the stupidity of all these men.

“I said we shall offer her peace,” he explained. “I did not say we shall give it.”

They all looked back at him, baffled. Luptius took a deep breath, annoyed. He was always one step ahead of this council—which was why none of them were fit to be Supreme Commander.

“We shall meet Volusia in the field and send a convoy to offer her a truce. I myself will lead it. When she arrives to talk terms, she will be surrounded and killed.”

“And how will you manage that?” one of them asked.

“The commander of her army has been bought. He will betray her. I have paid him too well not to.”

A thick silence fell over the room, and he could sense the others were impressed. They all looked to him now, hanging on his every word.

“Before tomorrow is through,” Luptius concluded, smiling at the thought, “this young girl’s head will be on a pike.”