Chapter 1296: Foolishness and Madness(1)
The soles of his leather boots rang in sharp, lonely succession against the pristine stone steps of the palace. As he walked, Tiberius let his hands lazily sweep along the walls, his fingers brushing the low-hanging hems of the heavy purple banners that fluttered down from the high cornices like a continuous, velvet carpet.
The proud eagle of the Empire, a titan that had stood at the absolute peak of the world for three hundred glorious winters, looked down at him from the archway, its sculpted gaze fixed in a permanent, metallic scowl.
By all the laws of gods and men, he had no rightful place in these halls. He was no more than a worm crawling across a marble monument. And yet, despite the cosmic absurdity of it, he sat upon the high throne all the same. He was the one who now listened to the greedy petitions of fat merchants and preening lords; he was the one forced to delicately compromise between the clashing aristocratic factions whenever an outrage arose in the capital.
They were all old houses here, unbearably old, and entirely too proud. Some of the men who sneered at him from the council tables were the direct scions of the ancient tribal chieftains who had been forced to bend their stiff knees to Vivrium the Red. That had been three centuries ago, after the legendary conqueror had smashed their ancestors at the Red Tooth and then systematically slaughtered them at Head’s Fall. Vivrium’s disciplined legions had cleaved through line after bloody line, claiming three of the five chieftains’ heads that had formed the original league to oppose the Romelian advance.
The surviving two chieftains had wisely broken their spears and bent their knees. They were welcomed into the imperial fold with open arms, the Emperor more than eager to immediately deploy their battle-hardened clansmen to further his conquests farther and farther away from the Fingers.
The conquered houses had integrated quickly enough into the old core of the southern nobility. Within a generation, every one of those ancient families had a son or a daughter married off to the conqueror’s scions or his high-ranking followers. They were exceptionally quick to grasp the romanticized codes of chivalry for themselves, eagerly fluttering away from the traditional infantry core of their ancestral armies to adopt the glittering cavalry style of the imperial elite.
One of them was now married to the Emperor. While the other fought for the honor of the next one.
Indeed, they had all grown to love their pretty flowers and their empty courtly glory. And that, Tiberius reflected bitterly, was precisely why they had lost so catastrophically against the Ghost of Arlania. They had taken their fine blades to court, preening and cutting the flowers by the stem, while Lord Julian simply poisoned the very grass and salted the water supply so that nothing could ever grow in his wake.
It was an ancient, blood-soaked history, and after a river of gore and political beddings, the Romelian eagle was now mounted firmly on the wall of the Red Rose. It looked down at this latest, trembling pretender as if Tiberius were a common field mouse that had taken a wrong turn in the dark, a creature far more fitting to be crushed beneath stone and mud than strutting about in the high marble.
And on that particular account, Tiberius had to wholeheartedly agree with the bronze bird.
I would have probably been a thousand times happier dying in the mud, he realized. Even with all the absolute, terrifying power at his fingertips, power that he knew most men would gladly butcher their own mothers to possess, he had never been more profoundly scared in his entire life. The old Ghost of Arlania was always there in the shadows, looking at him with his sharp, unblinking eyes, as if constantly seeking out the fundamental lie festering in the boy’s soul.
And then, of course, there was his wife, Eloir Vitinia.Of impeccable blood, that brought as dowry for their marriage a throne.
Her dark eyes were constantly drilling into the back of his head or the base of his neck whenever they occupied the same room. She terrified him more than anything. Tiberius had seen with his own eyes the horrific, broken state his miserable step-brother had been left in within his own tent. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with that kind of madness. He didn’t want a single thing that the crown brought with it.
Finally, the end of the long staircase appeared before him. With the last stone rung cleared and a frantic, heavy beat of his heart, Tiberius made his way forward toward the massive oak doors at the end of the hallway.
Two imperial guards stood at absolute attention on either side of the entrance, their faces completely concealed behind polished steel visors. As Tiberius approached, the two men remained perfectly rigid.
He recalled the men that had thrown him in the dungeon in the Eternal city by Valeria’s order had very similar outfit. He could still recall the cold feeling of their guantlets digging between his armpit to grasp at his arms.
Just as Tiberius crossed the threshold, one of the guards let out a low, breathy murmur that echoed faintly against the stone:
"Imperator."
Oh yes, he recalled , I am now atop them.
He crossed the threshold only to be instantly, brutally reminded of how low he really stood in the tapestry of this palace.
He had not even managed to take his first five steps into the chamber when his heart practically burst from his chest, startled by the sudden, violent crash of a heavy bronze inkpot shattering against the stone wall. It struck barely three handbreadths from where Tiberius was standing.
Thick, dark ink splattered aggressively across the wall dripping down to pool in an ugly, black stain upon the pale pavement. Tiberius’ foot moved instinctively around the mess, careful not to track the stain across the room. He came to a halt just a few paces away from his master and captor, inwardly wishing he could find a way to circle around the dangerous man just as easily as he had avoided the ink.
"Foolishness and utter madness! Those are our tidings wherever we go!" Julian laughed, though the sound was completely hollow, entirely devoid of joy. He stood by the massive oak desk, his face pale with a lethal frustration. "I gave those southern cunts their perfect chance, and the simpletons could not even find the sense to grasp it! I am surrounded by absolute fools!"
Tiberius needed very little context to understand exactly what was happening. The mountain passes of the Fingers may have been tightly closed to everyone who wished to enter or leave the imperial borders, but the eastern frontier? The principalities of Hashania and Reshania still lingered out there in the open plains.
The eastern lords had undoubtedly heard word of the spectacular Debacle of the Five Thrones just as fast as their swiftest horses could carry the news. Eager and with great numbers, they had pressed fiercely to the east and broken themselves directly against the unbreakable wall of the Bastion, leaving the Prince of Oizen to face the full, unbridled displeasure of Yarzat’s prince.
And indeed, there had been a great deal of that displeasure. The slaughter had been so absolute that the smallfolk were already singing tavern songs about it, claiming that when the prince of Yarzat died, his soul was so sour that even the five hells spat him right back out, leaving his corpse still walking with a lance still sticking directly through his skull.
The Battle of the Ford, were calling it. Still, that bloody engagement had taken place more than a month ago. Tiberius wondered what fresh catastrophe had traveled up the highway to cause this current storm.
"I gave them their perfect chance, and they still squandered it! Now it is done!" Julian howled, his rage as surprising as it was biting.
This was the very first time Tiberius had ever seen him truly lose his iron composure.
"Two years!" Julian called out, slamming a fist onto the scattered war maps. "Two years of meticulous planning down the drain because those southern armies were led by useless men who had more business cleaning horse-pie from the stables than leading thousands of soldiers into a campaign! We could have had it all over in three winters, Tiberius. We could have had the grand Empire whole once again, united under one throne, and instead... instead we will have... we will have this!"
The old general gestured wildly around him, his arms sweeping out to encompass the elegant, stifling room and the palace walls.
Tiberius watched him quietly. Would he truly be happy even if he managed to march into the Eternal City tomorrow? somehow, the boy could not see this man content even then. Tiberius knew that Julian’s grand designs for Romelia could only be put into motion once the problem of Yarzat was thoroughly solved. They had already marched south once before with magnificent numbers, only to be ruthlessly pushed back by the iron-willed southern legions.As smart, as deceitful as the Ghost of Arlania was, he could still not materialise neither coin nor soldier from his hands.
So he was planning for a campaign soon? Tiberius realised, taking what he could with the minute tool she was given. Julian may let him on that plan or another , but the real things?The old man only showed them to those he trusted, which of course meant none.
His thought circled back to that war he planned.
If they were ever to achieve a total, definitive victory in the field, Yarzat simply could not be allowed to exist on the Core’s flank.
Julian let out a long, shuddering breath, the sudden tempest of his rage finally beginning to recede. He slowly leaned back into his high leather chair, rubbing his temples as a deep, exhausted sigh escaped his lips. He looked up, his sharp, unblinking eyes settling firmly onto Tiberius.
Tiberius swallowed the lump in his throat, gathering whatever fragile courage he had left. "What... what was all that about?"
Julian stared at him for a long, heavy moment, the silence stretching until it became suffocating. When he finally spoke, his voice had returned to its terrifying, quiet calm.
"The South is lost to us, just and simply that" the Ghost murmured, leaning his head back against the leather.
He said as if that answered everything.Except that it didn’t.Not even one bit.