He had been privileged to enjoy the sponsorship of the great General Antius Turbis and the grace of the old emperor. The introduction of stricter training regimes and standardised equipment and tactics had helped the Empire to regain all of its former glory, and to stand again as the preeminent force in the world.
Where did it all go wrong? Martius wondered. The old systems for governing the army and the Empire had made it wane and weaken. The corruption and debauchery at court had almost extinguished the light of civilisation. Now it seemed like those old traditions were being revived. The doom of the Empire was, perhaps, already written.
Decimation. Martius shuddered at the thought of it.
The barbaric practice was banned by him, under his ‘Martian’ reforms. Many had poured scorn on his ideas of tolerance and rehabilitation but with the support of the old emperor, along with Turbis and a few others, they had been implemented. Martius had empowered the common legionary soldiers to vote their leaders into position. What better way to choose a good leader than to ask the rest of the troops who they thought would be best at keeping them alive? At every level from sub-branch leader to Legion father, every leader was elected by a majority of their troops. He was proud of this meritocratic approach, but he knew that it had generated a lot of bad feeling amongst the upper classes, who had traditionally supplied the officer corps.
The inherited power of the upper classes was pure idiocy. If a soldier wished to progress as a leader of men, that soldier now knew that if he completed officer training at the academy, he would be eligible to stand for election in the legion. Only after serving as a legionary for at least a year would he be allowed to stand, and even then he was unlikely to be voted in until he was much more experienced.
Looking up from his reverie, Martius was surprised to find they had already approached the familiar semi-circular table that flared around the imperial throne, which was itself raised on a small dais in the centre so that the Emperor could survey his subjects from a respectable — but by no means imposing — height.
The council chamber was full. Many senators were in attendance, along with members of the extended royal family. Come to see the show, thought Martius. Some — the most senior — were seated, but the rest were forced to stand, peering over others as they craned to get a view of their emperor.
As commander-in-chief of the legions, Martius took his permanent seat at the table — almost directly facing the throne. He deliberately avoided acknowledging any other members of the court. The primus general of the Empire did not curry favour with anyone.
Turbis, rosy faced and puffing slightly following the long walk from the palace balcony, stood behind his right shoulder until a kindly senator — Martius recalled his name was Gravo — beckoned the old general over and relinquished his seat to him. Turbis sat with a long sigh, and then mopped sweat from his brow with a cloth-of-gold handkerchief.
Martius noted that dozens of the Emperor’s own Golden Legion lined the walls, fully armed and standing to attention. More than he had ever seen in attendance before.
The leader of the court stepped into the room through a door directly behind the throne. He was dressed, as tradition dictated, in black from head to foot. Still mourning the death of the great Xandar, founder of the Empire, on behalf of its people. Frighteningly frail, the Leader appeared to stand only by grasping hold of his ceremonial silver-tipped staff. The staff itself was so thick that his hands could barely wrap around it.
The Leader stood in silence. Gradually, people noticed him, and the room became hushed.
The Leader’s arms shook as he lifted the staff and smashed its tip into the stone floor three times. “All stand for the Emperor, Mucinas Ravenas!” he proclaimed, his voice a dry husk.
The seated dignitaries stood and the long wait began. This emperor liked to keep his subjects waiting. Martius thought it was probably a power game, but why the most powerful man in the known world needed to play power games was beyond him.
He is not his father’s son, he thought, not for the first time. He had started to question the wisdom of hereditary leaders at about the same time he had developed his concept for elections in the Legions. It was an obvious leap to think that a leader chosen by the people might be better at running the Empire than a man who held the position purely through an accident of birth. The problem with his burgeoning theory was that the old emperor, who had also gained his position by an accident of birth, had somehow reached a level of enlightenment through which he became an excellent leader.
Martius kept his theories to himself; to discuss them was high treason. Yet despite this silence, somehow rumours had grown that he wished for a republic. Even Turbis cajoled him in private about his ‘lunatic’ ideas. He considered it ironic that the harder he denied the rumours and swore allegiance to the throne the stronger they became.
Dangerous rumours, they will be the death of you.
Emperor Mucinas Ravenas appeared through a door behind the throne. He had taken to wearing high shoes, no doubt to hide his diminutive stature. He sat on the plain stone throne, and a slave placed a stool under his feet as he made himself comfortable.
After a brief pause, Ravenas nodded, smiling in the general direction of the waiting throng. “Please, be seated.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and nodded again, the very image of innocence.
“My General Martius,” the Emperor said, examining his fingernails. “I trust you carried out my orders to the letter?”
“Yes, sire.” Martius replied.
“They are decimated then?” The Emperor looked up to meet Martius’s eyes, lips tight, small eyes gleaming in his cherubic face. “Purified of their shame?”
“It is done, sire.”
“The Twelfth have been disbanded?”
“Yes, sire.” Martius’s skin prickled and began to itch.
“Their standard has been broken and burned?” The Emperor tilted his head coquettishly.
“Yes, sire.” Martius chewed the inside of his cheek. He felt a sharp sting as he drew blood, his mouth registering the metallic tang of it.
“Hah. Good, good. That’ll teach the cowards, won’t it? That’ll teach them to abandon their posts!” Ravenas stroked a finger over the arm of the throne.
Martius fought to remain calm. He seeks a reaction; give him none. Silence filled the chamber.
“My dear Martius.” The Emperor’s voice trembled slightly, a red tide riding up his neck as his face flushed. “I said, That… will… teach… the… cowards… Won’t it?”
Martius met the Emperor’s gaze. “Yes, sire.” Play the long game. Just play the long game.
“Yes.” The Emperor produced a thin-lipped smile. “We don’t need that kind of soldier in the army. We need proper soldiers. This is what happens when you let common men take command. I would think so, yes. This is what happens when you allow a man to rise above his station.” Ravenas leaned forward in his throne. “Not a commoner yourself are you, Martius?”
Martius shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Sire, I am ashamed to have to remind you that I am of your blood on your father’s side. I believe we are distant cousins. I could have the priests consult the genealogy but, as you probably know, house Felix has a long and illustrious history. Like you, sire, we trace our ancestry back to the great Xandar himself.” Be cautious; your pride always gets you into trouble. He lowered his gaze slightly, taking in the golden brocaded shirt the Emperor wore. It probably cost more than a legionary earned in a year.