Two chariot teams burst through the gate on the far end and raced in opposite directions. They passed each other once, wheels spinning so fast the spokes were a blur, dark earth churned up in their wakes, spitting long trails, the drivers hunkered low, reins in one hand, tall conical brass helms flashing, the long Imperial double standard whipping behind held aloft by a second man in the chariot.
As they continued another pass, I leaned over to Vendurro as they passed a second time. “Do the Syldoon still use chariots in battle?”
Mulldoos overheard and answered first. “Nah, ain’t seen a battlefield in centuries. Pompous bastard likes his history and tradition though. Like a dog likes its balls.”
Well. That clarified things.
After a third pass, the chariots slowed and came to rest on either side of the dais, the horse’s sides pumping like bellows.
The curved horns blared again, and all eyes went back to the gate as the Emperor entered the hippodrome on a huge dappled stallion, a long white cloak draped from his shoulder covering the horse’s hindquarters. On either side, he was flanked by a slave holding a long chain leading a leopard, a thick leather collar around the animal’s neck. The large cats moved languidly.
The Emperor had dark hair, almost perfectly black, which made the single round patch of white on his crown stand out like alabaster. His face looked lined, but not excessively so, and he appeared a man of middle years, holding himself exactly as I imagined an emperor might: erect, confident, head high, at ease. The sort of man who felt in command of any situation and was likely right.
A long column of Imperial Syldoon followed him in, enough to deter any threat from the assembly. The soldiers were all armed identically, long shields with the crenellated tops and tapered points bearing the charges of leopard heads on one side of the field and sunbursts on the other. Each soldier bore the slightly twisted conical steel helms, and their mail hauberks were broken up in the front by several iron bands. Brass bazubands on their forearms, brass greaves covering their shins, long spears balanced on their shoulders with those spiral heads, and on their left hips, quivers with composite bows and arrows. And of course, the requisite long surokas.
The horns blew one last long, strong note together and the Emperor dismounted and strode up the small dais, his cloak trailing unceremoniously behind him in the black dirt. I was surprised he didn’t have attendants carrying it. I expected the Emperor to slowly take the stairs, appreciating the moment, the attention. Instead, he ascended quickly-not rushed, but purposeful, as if he couldn’t wait to stand before his people and deliver whatever message he had summoned them far and wide to hear.
The members of the various Towers were silent in anticipation. But it was the kind of silence that still spoke tension, frustration, discontent. Several groups did not appear overly fond of their Emperor, at least anywhere near us.
A herald stepped forward and began intoning, “All assembled at this Caucus, pay tribute to his illustrious Emperor Cynead, first of his name, Sovereign of the grand Empire, Lord Protector of Principalities, Premier Prince of-”
The Emperor put his hand on the herald’s shoulder. “Bah. They know who I am, Isquinn. Spare us all, please.” He projected loudly enough that everyone in attendance could hear-this wasn’t meant for the herald’s ears only.
Isquinn turned ten shades of red, but bowed and stepped back, leaving Cynead in the center of the dais alone.
The Emperor called out, voice clear, strong, powerful. “What you do not know, of course, is why you have been called here today. It’s been some time since our last Caucus. Since I was sworn in, if I recall, or just thereabouts. So, it was high time we had another. Well, presuming we had something worth discussing. And as it happens, we do.”
Though I had only just seen the man for the first time, I found myself captivated, despite the ill feelings bubbling everywhere around me.
Cynead continued. “As you all know, our Empire not only survives, but thrives, because every Tower Commander, every Tower soldier, embodies the same qualities-ambition, courage, cunning. And of course, the willingness to strike fast and hard, to make enemies in order to achieve ends. We battle each other endlessly for position, for power, for wealth. Of course, this is true of other kingdoms as well-the Anjurian barons squabble and stab each other in the back, the fieflords scheme with their brethren to unseat each other. But our culture not only allows for this kind of brutal and pragmatic maneuvering… it fosters it, encourages it. Demands it, even. That is the Syldoon way. It is what brought me to my throne, and every conniving and bloodthirsty emperor before me.”
There were some mumbles and rumbles of disapproval, but Cynead raised his hand. “Oh, do not mistake me. I acknowledge some have come to power by exceptional guile and diplomacy, entreating rather than defeating. But no matter how an Emperor managed to secure the crown from his predecessor, you all must admit: very, very few have died of old age while occupying the throne. That simply is not our way.”
Someone in one of the front rows shouted, “An Emperor holds the throne as long as he is able, no longer!”
I expected guards to rush forward and seize him for the outburst, or at least for Cynead to rebuke him. But the Emperor only smiled. “Exactly so. And still, even the strongest, most competent, and savvy of Emperors only sit the throne for a short time. The Syldoon way is to seize, to overthrow, to manipulate and orchestrate. They do not call this place Capital of Coups for no reason.”
There were a few chuckles, and Cynead continued. “But therein lies our greatest problem as well. Not solely of our age, but of every age that has come before. Our strength is our greatest weakness. We are so busy constantly jockeying, bullying, trading, and making secret exchanges in the name of seizing power, that we are unable to achieve as much as we could. Our own system limits us.”
Another Syldoon two rows down stood and called out, “We are the mightiest empire the world has ever seen! I’ll take that kind of limitation!”
Several around us laughed and murmured agreement. Emperor Cynead handled the rebuttal with aplomb. “That is what we tell ourselves. But we have stagnated, my brothers and sisters.”
One Syldoon a row behind me hissed and Mulldoos said, so loudly I was worried it would carry to the Emperor’s ears, “Shit rhetoric!”
Always a way with words.
But Cynead maintained the smile and easy command as a few others hissed or openly booed. “When was the last time our borders moved outward? And don’t tell me about the plague. No one conquers during a plague. But think back-when was the last time our neighbors trembled, fearing our advance, or paid tribute to keep us from storming into their lands and simply doing what we do best-seizing?”
Someone cried, “The Empire is large, vast. Bigger than any two kingdoms combined. The wealthiest as well. How else would you define might?”
“And that size, that vastness, was all achieved long before our lifetimes. In the last hundred years, we have done nothing save maintain our borders and trade routes, survive our various coups and assassination, and tread water. History does not remember stagnation. It remembers greatness, achievement, growth, power.”
One Tower Commander stood long enough to say, “Growth or not, every kingdom the world over covets the kind of power we have.”
“Do we measure ourselves by what other kingdoms think, or want?” the Emperor asked. “No. We are the Syldoon. And we deserve more than to simply clutch onto the lands our forefathers gave to us. We deserve far more than that. But our very nature prevents us from achieving it. I took the throne myself three years ago. Before that, Thumaar held it for longer than usual, but had the plague to contend with, so was lucky not to lose more than he did. Before him, every rule has lasted less than a handful of years. Not time enough to put serious plans in place, let alone carry them to fruition. Our rulers come and go, the power shifts, and our sons do not inherit it. Everything about the Syldoon is short-lived, finite, and limited. Even our greatness, such as it is. Unless we are brave enough to do what must be done to change. To grow, ourselves. To not only solidify what we have and who we are, but to extend our borders, our influence, our might. And that is why you were summoned here today.”