Morgan Rice - An Oath of Brothers

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.”

Godfrey reclined in a luxurious silk armchair, on a balcony made of gold, being fanned and fed grapes by a host of servants, and he marveled at how much his station had changed. But a few hours before he’d been locked in a stinking cell, on a floor of mud, surrounded by people who would all just as happily kill him as look at him. There had been no way out, no proposition before him but death and torture—death, if he was lucky, and torture if he was not. It seemed he would never rise again.

And yet now here he was, in a shining seaside villa made of marble and gold, on a luxurious balcony perched at the water’s edge, overlooking one of the most spectacular vistas he’d ever seen. Before him lay a glistening harbor filled with shining ships, and at his feet, the ocean waves crashed beneath them. Godfrey was being fed one fine delicacy after the next, and he and Akorth, Fulton, Merek, and Ario were gorging themselves.

Godfrey sat back and belched as he finished his first sack of wine, washing down a meal of venison, caviar and exotic fruits. Beside him Akorth smeared yet another piece of bread with the softest butter Godfrey had ever tasted, and he wolfed down an entire loaf by himself. Godfrey had forgotten how hungry he was—he had not had a good meal in days. And this was the finest food he’d ever eaten.

Godfrey sat back in his silk chair, resting his arms on the golden, intricately carved arms, and he looked up at his captors, curious. Seated facing him, smiling, on the other side of the balcony, sat a half dozen Finians, seated in equally luxurious chairs, observing them. None of them ate or drank. None of them needed to: they had this bounty of food, Godfrey was certain, every day of their lives, and for them, this buffet of delicacies was routine. Instead, they sat back calmly, a smile on their faces, and studied Godfrey and his friends, seeming amused.

Godfrey wondered what they thought of them. They must’ve seemed a sorry sight, he realized. Godfrey was hardly the model of a shining warrior, and Akorth and Fulton were in far worse shape than he, both overweight, eating enough to satisfy a horse, and drinking twice as much. Merek, with his pockmarked face and darting eyes, clearly seemed a criminal, eyes always shifting, looking as if he would steal the silver out from underneath the table. And Ario looked like a boy who’d wandered off from his grandfather’s house and got lost somewhere.

“I must say, you are the sorriest bunch of heroes I’ve ever met,” said their leader, smiling. This man, who’d introduced himself as Fitus, sat in their center, and they all clearly deferred to him. Godfrey wondered what to make of these Finians; he had never encountered anyone quite like them. They sat there, perfectly at ease, with large, twinkling hazel eyes, bright red hair, too pale skin and pale freckles. Their hair was the most distracting of all. It was so bright, and sat so high on their heads, Godfrey found it hard to concentrate on anything else. They wore bright red robes and their long, skinny pale fingers stuck out at the end, as if the robes were too long for them, the fingertips barely touching.

Most of all, Godfrey could see in their faces that these men were rich. Pampered. He had never met anyone—not even kings—who came off as richer. There was something about their presence, an entitled feeling, that left him no doubt that these men were spectacularly rich. And, more ominously, that they always got what they wanted.