Chapter 1268: Eagle’s matter(1)
Chapter 1268: Eagle’s matter(1)
Wide of shoulder, with a strong, sculpted chin and luscious black curls that glistened faintly with scented oils, Marcellus of House Thalassos was everything a man could aspire to be, and everything a woman could reasonably ruin herself for.
Even a empress seemed was no better.
It came as absolutely no surprise to the court that the Emperor’s mother had once shared a scandalous, highly public fling with him. The man was a profound comfort to the eye and possessed the effortless, chivalric grace of a true high-born knight.
And now, he was also a well-renowned warlord.
The young Emperor’s eyes clouded with a sudden, icy shadow as he thought of his mother, Valeria. Mesha did not harbor many fond memories of the woman. The last he had been told by the imperial magistrates, she had successfully evaded imperial justice, escaping the city to remain on the run for many long years. Mesha would have lied if he claimed that particular fact did not thoroughly unsettle him. Either his mother was rotting quietly in a shallow ditch somewhere in the provinces, or she had found herself a remarkably comfortable, well-guarded seat in hiding.
"You may rise, my lord," Mesha spoke, his crisp, youthful voice echoing cleanly off the soaring, gilded roof of the great Imperial Hall.
Marcellus did exactly as the Emperor bade, the fine, polished plates of his armor clinking as he straightened to his full height.
For some time, back when Mesha’s grandfather still held the heavy iron reins of the empire’s regency, he had fiercely suspected that it was this very lord, her former paramour, who had smuggled the disgraced Empress out of the capital. But Marcellus was also the newly crowned patriarch of House Thalassos, one of the wealthiest naval dynasties in the realm. Unless the young Emperor desired to start his reign by violently fracturing one of the ancient pillars of the empire, all he could do was swallow his suspicions and hold his tongue.
Thus, the late Regent Marthio, and consequently Mesha after him, had both chosen to let the ugly matter sleep beneath the water, unstirred. By herself, Valeria posed no real danger to the crown; whatever fleeting power she had once wielded had been entirely derived from her father’s offices. Now, however, with the heavy mantle of the patriarch resting firmly on her uncle’s broader shoulders, the exiled Empress was effectively a ship without a mast, drifting helplessly in the dark.
Technically speaking, she was a condemned criminal of the state. Harboring her would have spelled immediate, catastrophic ruin for Marcellus and his entire bloodline. Yet, she was still Mesha’s mother. So, the young Emperor simply continued his grandfather’s quiet, cautious policy: keeping half an eye fixed firmly on Marcellus’s borders, but otherwise leaving the great lord be.
It was a delicate, silent truce that the Lord of Thalassos seemed exceptionally eager to uphold. He had even willingly relinquished his powerful position as the court’s Spymaster upon his return, allowing the vacancy to be filled by Keval without a single word of protest. it was good to have someone he could trust be the one holding the dagger.
Eight long winters had passed since Marcellus last laid his polished leather boots upon the pristine marble floor of the Eternal City. And today, he did so with the heavy, glittering honors of a victorious campaign pinned firmly to his velvet cloak.
To their greatest shame of course.
"Great honor you have brought into this hall, my lord," Mesha intoned, his voice a perfectly measured blend of imperial gravity and public praise. As expected of an emperor. "Word has reached our ears that you personally slew the Outlaw Lord himself."
Marcellus merely bowed his head, showing the gleaming, oiled crown of his dark hair in a flawless display of courtly deference. "He may have been an outlaw, Your Imperial Majesty, but he was no lord. The Mad Dog was put down in the dirt like the rabid beast he was. The true honor belongs to the brave men who marched under my banner to vanquish such wretches."
For a man who had just excised one of the most agonizing tumors currently festering on the empire’s northern borders, he played the part of the humble servant with terrifying perfection.
Monstrous tales had been told about the bastard known as the Mad Dog, too many to count, and each more bloody than the last. The imperial historians would undoubtedly spend gallons of ink detailing the crimes of that brute and his wretched followers. While it was true that bandit parties had sprouted like weeds across Romelia after the catastrophic fallout of the Battle of the Two Eagles, there had been only one band vicious enough, disciplined enough, and clever enough to systematically defy the crown.
Entire companies of knights and regional garrisons had fallen victim to the bastard’s vicious tactics. But the supreme humiliation, the strike that had made the entire capital tremble, occurred when the Mad Dog managed to force open the heavily fortified gates of Letoricatura. He had put the ruling lord and his entire family to the sword,raping the lords’ daughters, while defying the Emperor’s legions from within the city walls for two agonizing months.
At the peak of his bloody reign, the Mad Dog could boast a few hundred hardened cutthroats at his back, each as bloodthirsty, godless and remorseless as their commander.
Luckily, they were now nothing more than a grim passing note in the state archives. Their severed heads currently adorned the very spikes of the city gates they had once forced open. All except for the Mad Dog himself; his skull was presently rotting in the crisp air outside the gates of the Eternal City, pinned high upon a pike as a warning to all who dared mistake the empire’s distraction for weakness.
"The people of the empire thank you, my lord," Mesha said, leaning forward slightly on his gilded throne. "Long have our magistrates hunted those wretches. It warms our imperial heart to know that no more of our loyal subjects will fall victim to such unspeakable cruelty."
"It is my absolute honor to be of service to the throne, Your Majesty."
"And it is our supreme honor to boast a man of your caliber as our vassal." Mesha brought his hands together in a sharp, rhythmic clap, and within a heartbeat, the entire grand hall erupted into a roaring cascade of applause. Lords, ministers, and decorated knights pressed forward, shouting their congratulations and raining praises down upon the Patriarch of Thalassos.
There were far too few opportunities for such unbridled merriment these days, so the young Emperor allowed the court to indulge itself for a few moments. The Empire was currently bleeding through a bitter, exhausting era, the last two winters in particular had demanded staggering, painful sacrifices from every house in the realm. The Mad Dog had been a catastrophic nuisance, to be sure, but he was far from the greatest threat looming over the throne. The deep, bleeding gashes of the recent civil war still ran raw across the provinces, and many of those structural fractures had yet to be resolved.
If only our enemies remained strictly outside these walls, Mesha thought darkly.
The Emperor raised a single, ringed hand and within seconds, the roaring hall died down to a breathless, absolute quiet once more.
"Great and perilous services demand a likewise magnificent reward," Mesha proclaimed. He had spent hours locked in a furious, hushed argument with his uncle Keval, debating exactly what price the crown had to pay for this victory. The treasury wasn’t exactly in a condition to be overly generous, but the loss of face from a peasant bandit successfully slaughtering an imperial house and holding a fortified city was a stain that had to be washed away with royal largesse.
Of course, that catastrophic massacre of the local nobility carried a distinct silver lining for the crown: because the Mad Dog had thoroughly wiped out the ruling family of Letoricatura, the entire region and its lucrative tax revenues had technically reverted back to royal custody. It was a lofty, prosperous city occupying a flawless position along the southern trade routes.
It cut Mesha deep to give it away, but statecraft demanded sacrifices.
At least he still had the fingers...so that could be swallowed down.
"My lord," Mesha said, his eyes locking onto Marcellus. "Your secondborn son, Ser Garla of House Thalassos, is currently without land or title to his name, am I correct?"
"Your Imperial Majesty is, as always, flawlessly informed," Marcellus replied, a tiny, ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his sculpted lips. He perhaps already knew the reward.
"Then let it be known," the Emperor’s voice boomed off the stone walls, "that from this day until the end of time, Ser Garla of Thalassos shall be named the rightful Lord of Letoricatura and all its surrounding fiefs."
It was a bitter pill to swallow. It was not nearly as optimal as keeping the wealthy city firmly within the royal domain, but Keval had pointed out the hidden structural defense: when Marcellus eventually died, the city would not fall into the hands of his primary heir.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was the safest move on the board. Perhaps they could even throw one brother against another, if things turned to that.
"I am profoundly honored by such an extraordinary grace, Your Majesty," Marcellus said, bowing low once more. "I shall ensure my son rides to the capital with all haste to swear his eternal gratitude and lay his sword at your feet."
I don’t know precisely how honored you will feel by what comes next, Mesha thought, his inner cynicism flaring. His grandather had thought him that a true ruler never allowed a perfect tactical opening to pass untaken.
Things after all were not all flower and wine between the The Imperial Family and the Thalossos.
"I shall be thoroughly delighted to welcome your son as a guest of the court, my lord," Mesha said smoothly, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. "Furthermore, the imperial household finds itself in urgent need of a new cupbearer. It has occurred to us... perhaps your thirdborn son could also be granted the supreme honor of serving at our royal side?"
The words fell into the grand hall like a block of ice dropped into a still pond.
Instantly, the court went completely, suffocatingly silent. The soft rustle of silk robes and the clink of swords disappeared. Lords looked to one another through narrowed eyes, and the slight, triumphant smile that had been resting on Marcellus’s face withered, his dark eyes instantly turning to stone.
For three terrifying heartbeats, Mesha felt a cold sweat prickle beneath his heavy velvet robes. He stared down at the great patriarch, genuinely fearing that the proud warlord might openly refuse the request right here on the marble floor. A public refusal would be an insult the crown could not ignore. It would spark an immediate, ruinous sourness between the Emperor and one of the most powerful houses in all of Romelia, fracturing the fragile peace they had bled to achieve.But he had little to show in political victories and right now he had the perfect first step he could take.
Luckily Marcellus was a creature of the court as much as he was a victorious lord. The tension broke as the lord let out a slow, controlled breath, his features smoothing back into a mask of polite compliance. He clearly realized that the staggering wealth of Letoricatura, a reward that secured a magnificent, permanent future for his second son, vastly offset the heavy, political price the Emperor was extracting. It was, after all, only a thirdborn son being taken as a glorified hostage.
Both gained something at the light of all.
"The boy is young, Your Imperial Majesty," Marcellus said, his voice smooth but devoid of its previous warmth. "But he knows his duty to the throne. He will be deeply privileged to hold your cup."
Mesha offered a thin, victorious smile from his high throne.
The first step had been taken at last.