Curia
77th Day of Spring
777 Karloman’s Peace
My name is Sergious Olearius Sulla, Karloman, it is a little past midday, I am still emperor, and I am late for Curia.
I wait for today’s session in court to begin in semi-self-solitude. I am, of course, surrounded by servants and protectors, yet they are obscured from me. They are busying themselves preparing for my entrance into The Imperial Solarium, where lies my empire’s metaphorical seat of power. I, however, am confined by the shutters and curtains of The Royal Throne, my literal seat of power. The Royal Throne is not, in fact, a throne at all. Rather, it is a palanquin– an ostentatious and ornate wooden box full of cushions and blankets which the emperor, in this case, me, is carried. When I am announced, the doors at the front end of this joining room will open, and a dozen servants will lift my box and carry me atop the Dais of Many Winds, from which I will hold court.
It is all completely and utterly ridiculous. I have thought so all my life—well, not all my life. I became emperor at the age of six. It was comical to me as a child, and I rather enjoyed the amusement of it all. As I aged, however, it made me chafe. Such self-aggrandising pomposity. Who does it serve? Not me. It simply gets in the way. I’d rather see all of this silliness done away with.
But who am I to throw out seven centuries of tradition? What right do I have? None. And for that reason, I wait impatiently in a pampered wooden box until my court is filled and I am finally announced and carried in, so the day's business can finally begin.
You would not believe my relief when those doors finally opened, and the sounds of synchronised drumming announced my entrance. A dozen servants lift my cell, and a procession of guards marches before them as I am carried to my place. As I go, The Master of Proclamation, Petre Philoponus, bellows my unnecessarily long-winded rostrum of unproven honorifics.
“Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Emperor!” he cries.
“Hail!” several hundred voices call back in response, the echo cascading into a cacophony that reverberates through the walls and up the solarium's high ceiling.
“Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Favoured of the Karloman Line!” Petre boomed once more.
“Hail!” the waiting crowd calls back again.
“Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Scion of the Spring’s Progeny!” Petre continued.
“Hail!” the chorus was canted back again, the voices growing ever louder.
“Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Protector of The Free People of Man!” Peter calls out as my bearers reach the top of the Dais and lower me into my place.
“Hail!” the collective voices replied again.
“Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Anathema of Malevolent Kind!”
“Hail!” the room responded once more.
“Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Emperor!” Peter cried out, finally reaching the end of my titles, just as two servants simultaneously opened the shutters and curtains of my container, revealing me to the court and the court to me.
“Hail!” the courtiers called back for the final time, falling silent in synchronisation with the drums. All present went from standing to kneeling, lowering their foreheads to the floor in the deepest bows.
What a waste of time it all was.
I lowered my head, returning the gesture of respect to all present, and they rise and retake their places, and, at last, I take the room in.
There are so many places I would rather be than in Curia, but despite myself, I cannot help but admire the majesty of The Imperial Solarium. It differs from the rest of the Imperial Palace in many ways. For one, it is far older. While most of the palace is only a few hundred years old, the Solarium is as old as the empire itself. Perhaps even older. It is said that Karloman himself built this hall as a meeting house. He, his wives, and his many sons called it home.
It is the most sacred of places.
For that reason, little has ever been done to affect it, and the history of it has been preserved in the very architecture of its design.
The first and most striking feature one would note when entering the Solarium is its sheer size. It is wide enough that fifty men could stand shoulder to shoulder between its walls and long enough for two hundred. The room's ceiling is so high that one must crane one's head to see it. Its roof is shaped like a trapezoidal prism, with massive openings along its lateral faces. On a day like today, when the sun is bright and the weather pleasant, the window shutters are left vacant, and the hall is flooded with light, bathing the room in a vibrant radiance. The walls are decorated with various hanging artefacts, many of which are made of metal, and the stone itself is veined like ore, all of which reflect the sun's rays, sparkling. In this light, it was almost as if the room contained a small glimmer of the prosperity of heaven.
It is breathtaking.
I’m not sure exactly what the second thing most people would notice is, but for me, it’s the stones themselves. Once you have taken in the grandeur of the room, you cannot help but be drawn to the glimmer of the walls and supporting pillars, and once you are, it is impossible not to spot. The stones used to build this place are larger than a man. It is perplexing to realise, as questions arise in your mind: How did they build this place? Hundreds of years ago, without centuries of technological advancement aiding them, they cut, carried, and raised stones four or five times larger and ten times heavier than any we use in construction today. It is as if this hallowed hall was built for and by giants.
Once you have wrapped your mind around that, I suppose the eye drifts to the reliefs. Along the walls and wrapped around the gargantuan support pillars are motifs depicting the life and mythical achievements of Karloman. In one, the Twin-Hammer can be seen wielding Mercy, the smaller of his weapons, as he forgives an army of slave soldiers he has just defeated and accepts them into his own. In another, he wields Judgement, the larger of his famed hammers, as he brings down the execution strike that leaves the traitor Mafius dead. There are four hundred sagas recorded on the walls of the Solarium. I have counted them all, though some are carved so high up the walls and pillars that I have never actually seen what has been contoured into the stone.
After those, I suppose one would finally see me atop the Dais of Many Winds. The platform I rest on is wide, square-shaped and consists of three tiers. The topmost tier is dedicated to me and my “throne”, where I sit at one end of the hall, overlooking its expanse. The second tier is a full step lower but broad enough that many souls occupy the square ring that encircles my tier. Those considered closest to me, the emperor.
Along the edge in front of me are four sets of cushions on which my wives sit in their places of prominence. Hemma, Merida and Tithis are present, but one cushioned position is vacant. The eldest of my wives, Eripa, is unwell. She has been absent from Curia for most of the year, and it pains me a little that there is a chance she will never be seen in these halls again. I haven’t seen her in days and should check in on her when I can.
The six grand councillors sit at the edges of the second tier, to my right and left. Grand Minister Leodhere Sadler, Grand Archivist Aelred Cuthwine and Grand Spiritualist Cephalas Ducas are on my left. To my right is Grand Justice Yoan Madec and Grand Excellency Paternus Philoponus, who recently manipulated fates so that son Petre could take on his role as The Master of Proclamation. Between Yoan and Paternus is another vacant space. The late Grand Commandant Mauricius Lucaenus’ post remains unfilled. A fact all present today expect to resolve.
On the bottom tier of my dais are those considered subservient to the second tier. For the Grand Councillors, that is a series of high councillors who run the subdivisions of each Grand Councillor's vast domain. For my wives, however, the tiers below them are empty. Sat before them should have been their children, my unofficial heirs. For over sixty years, those places have done nothing but gather dust. I curse whoever designed this, as they have forced my many wives to face that undeserved reality nearly every day since each one was unfortunate enough to be wedded to me.
I shake my head, pull my eyes away from the empty tier before me and look out at my court. Hundreds are gathered, waiting on me. I look to Petre, who has turned to face me and nod to him, and he bows in return. Then he rises, turns back to court and announces, “Grand Spiritualist Cephalas Ducas, First of the Faith, Keeper of Cycles and Guardian of the Souls.” He bows to the court, and the court bows in return. Then Petre retreats to take his place sat one tier below Grand Minister Leodhere Sadler, while Cephalas rises and comes to the fore of the Dias to face the court.
The Grand Spiritualist bows to me, then to the court and the court bows in return. Honestly, this becomes quite the workout for them all. I have seen newly appointed courtiers pass out from all the rising, lowering and bowing. To make matters worse, calling a session is a tediously slow process. The Grand Spiritualist’s role is amongst the worst, as the wizened old man pulls a large scroll from beneath his heavy-set seasonal robes and unfurls it for his reading.
Every session begins with a reading—every last bloody one.
Today, Cephalas recites the mythos of Carterback—a great battle during Karloman’s rise. An army of humans resisted the onslaught of the demons and their salve soldiers for many cycles. Karloman had promised aid but had been delayed by other foes, leaving the human resistance to stand alone against an unbeatable enemy. They became bitter, and when Karloman finally arrived, they denounced him as a fraud. Karloman was angered but did not let it rule him; instead, he showed mercy. He made an offer to the humans. Anyone who no longer believed he was a true Scion of Heaven, that he was not the Son of Spring, could leave then and there, and return to the collars of the demon slavers, unmolested. Many thousands took up the offer and returned to the demons, only to be press-ganged into the slave army and forced to the front lines. The next day, when battlelines were being drawn, Karloman gathered his army atop a hill, outnumbered ten to one, and called upon his father’s blessings. Spring sent winds and rain and flooded the lowlands, washing away the demon army and all those whose faith had faltered.
This, of course, is the brief version of events. A version Cephalas could have recited. Cephalas did not recite this version. Instead, he read every dreary word from the scroll, its paper unravelling and rolling further and further down the steps of the dais and across the Solarium floor. In all, it took Cephalas almost an hour to tell the tale, and the eyes of his audience were faltering by the end. When at last, mercifully, the man was done, he called out his final prayer, “To the Father, for the Son, by the Pantheon. Hail!”
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“Hail,” the court cried back, far drier this time than before. That fact was not lost on old Cephalas, who scowls at those gathered before turning and bowing to me and returning to his place.
Petre rises one more, taking his place before me, bowing again to me, to the crowd, who again bows in return. As I said, it is tedious. “Grand Excellency Paternus Philoponus, First of the Treasury, Master Tax Collector and Bearer of the Secretarial Seal,” he announces, repeats the bowing process and returns to his place.
Then, the greatest of bean counters takes centre stage and calls on my first petitioners. The first hour of Curia after the reading is dedicated to hearing petitions from the Merchant Class, a concession made to end the Merchant Rebellion two decades ago. Each petitioner is called forward by Paternus, who gives me a brief explanation of the issue. They are, of course, amongst the pettiest of squabbles, disputes over when payment for contracts is due or whether one merchant owes another recompense for defective goods. It is childish nonsense that grown men should be able to resolve themselves, but sometimes, a petition to the emperor is quicker or more preferable than relying on the courts.
I have long since learned to fast-track these petitions by simply not hearing them and delegating every dispute to the Grand Justice, who will deliver a more thoughtful verdict than I can at a time more convenient. When the Merchant’s hour has expired, those petitioners from among them who have not yet been heard are ushered out the back doors of the Solarium and told to come back tomorrow. The Grand Excellency returns to his position, and his son announces supper before any further business is conducted.
Hundreds of servants pour into the room from side passages, carrying wooden dining trays offering a generous selection of delectable delights. It takes some twenty minutes for every courtier to be delivered their serving, and then, the task of serving wine begins, with each courtier served a single clay cup of rich red fluid. All courtiers accept me, of course, who eats and drinks nothing. Emperors that reigned long before I learned all too well that the Curia supping was too tempting an opportunity for poisoners to risk participation. I would eat later, alone, and my protectors would carefully watch my meal preparation.
Once supper was done, the servants returned and the trays were cleared away, the whole process taking a further hour. Then, at long last, the real business of ruling could begin. Petre returned once more to the front of the dais and announces, “Grand Minister Leodhere Sadler, First Dignitary, Lord of the Rolls and Caller of Orders.” Leodhere and Petre both take their turns bowing.
The Grand Minister, a slight man in his forties, the youngest of my Grand Council, calls for the first point of order. As is traditional, the first point is raised by Garad Weal, Governor of Pavia, who may be the most redundant man in the entire empire. In most cities, the governor is amongst the most powerful of individuals, but with Pavia being home to the Royal Court, The Grand Council, hundreds of entitled nobles and thousands of ministers, there really isn’t much for a city governor to do, that isn’t already being done by someone of higher authority. Still, it is a symbolic role, and the one thing Garad can do is ensure one matter, per Curia, is heard by the emperor. Few men can guarantee that kind of influence.
The city governor is not reserved a place in the Solarium, and therefore, he is forced to take the petitioner's approach. Much like the merchants before him, he is granted entry to the chamber via the far doors and made to crawl, head held low, across the long red carpet that cuts a channel through the centre of the hallway. It is a difficult task for a man of his age, nearly sixty, made all the more difficult by his poor physique and being a fat man as well.
As he approaches me, he must endure the scrutiny of the One Hundred Sorcerors, who sit in two rows of fifty on either side of the red carpet. Each of the sorcerers faced the petitioners rather than me, fulfilling their duty of detecting any “malevolent” forces that attempted to defile the Solarium.
When the governor reaches the foot of my dais, he lowers his forehead to the floor and awaits my indication to rise. It comes in the form of a slight nod and the man lifts himself onto his knees, although he does not stand. “Hail Sergious Olearius Sulla Karloman, Emperor!” he calls out before getting to the point.
“Hail!” the room echoes the man.
Then, the Governor stands and raises the matter he deems to be the most important for the city. “My emperor,” he begins, “I bring to your attention this day a matter most delicate in the hopes your wisdom will help our noble city of Pavia navigate a trying time.”
“Of what issue do you speak?” I ask, not really sure what to expect. The governor can quite literally raise any issue, and he has never given much away.
“Fires,” Garad states. That doesn’t really mean anything to me, and I shift my cushioned litter uncomfortably.
“Rub two sticks together, and you’ll have all the fire you need,” I reply with a sting in my voice. Sitting here for so long has made me stiff and irritable, and I have no patience for coyness. Some present snigger at my words, and Garad smirks.
“I praise your wisdom,” Garad replies, “but it is not the starting of fires that concerns me, but the extinguishing of them.”
“Explain,” I demand.
“My emperor, you may or may not be aware that in the past cycle, the city has suffered more outbreaks of fire than it has in the last five years.” This deceleration caught the attention of many of those present, with disconcerted murmurs emerging from the ranks of ministerial benches that flanked the sides of my court.
“I had heard something to that effect,” I say. “Have you discovered the source of these outbreaks?”
“Indeed, I have my emperor,” Garad answers.
“And?”
“Lanterns, my emperor,” Garad announces to a chorus of sniggers, further frustrating me.
“Governor Weal,” I reply, allowing my tone to turn stern, “I caution you against further wasting any more of today’s session. Get to the point.”
“Very well,” Garad replied with a bow, “the city guard have arrested a man who has discovered a means of creating floating lanterns. They are small, made of thin paper and twigs, and somehow are encouraged to float through the air by a small candle. He has been releasing them throughout the city. Some of these lanterns catch fire and fall or bump into buildings, setting them alight.”
I’ll admit that this is a more interesting matter than I expected to be brought before me; however, the solution is simple, and I conclude that I need to hear no more. “Very well,” I say with a shrug, “have this arsonist executed and ensure any remaining lanterns are destroyed.”
“I’m afraid the matter is more complex than that.”
“How so?” I ask.
“The man in question rejects the assertion that he is an arsonist.”
“And what exactly does he consider himself?” I ask, shaking my head this time.
“A prophet,” Garad answers.
That caused a stir. A soft eruption of gasps followed by mutterings as all present baulked at the audacity. I can practically feel Cephalas Ducas seething from here. We are in the middle of a religious uprising that, if you’ll forgive some hyperbole, has practically brought the empire to its knees. And now, some reckless fool is starting fires through our capital and claims to be a prophet? No doubt many are wondering if the vile taint of the Truther’s preaching has breached the walls of the capital itself. I can see the anxiety, the disconcertedness of my courtiers’ expressions. This is an issue I cannot ignore.
I raise a hand for silence. I am obeyed.
“By what authority does this man make such a claim, Governor,” I ask, my words slow and measured.
“The man claims he has been sent visions from the pantheon, and the gods have told him of a new burial ritual which all the empire must obey.”
“And you took this claim seriously?”
“Not a first, my emperor, but the man has demanded the right to prove his ascertains,” Garad explains, pausing, letting the tension build in his audience before making his final revelation. “He demands a Seasonal Trial.”
The chamber erupted.
The seasonal trial is a sacred affair, typically reserved to decide significant disputes between the nobility and the royal family. Anyone who passes a trial is considered to have the god's favour. It was not something anyone could demand. For an unknown to claim it would offend the delicate sensibilities of my empire’s elite, as evidenced by the baying of the masses now. To me, however, it is quite entertaining. I turn my attention to Petre and indicate for him to silence the crowd. He calls for order, and the raging abates until, at last, we have quiet.
“Is this man here, today, in my palace?” I ask.
“Indeed,” Garad confirms, “he is in the care of the city guard. I can have him brought before you.”
“Do so at once.”
I can’t really say what I expected, but the man brought before me was not it.
He is old. As old as I, I suspect. He is frail, malnourished and grey; not just his hair but everything about him is grey. His thin skin is deeply wrinkled and mired by age spots and other blemishes. His robes are tattered, dirty and soiled. His eyes are tired and failing and he keeps them fixed on the floor. The weight of his shackles seems too great for him, pulling him down and giving him a drooping posture, and he appears to have trouble breathing; each inhalation is laboured and heavy.
“You are the one responsible for fires that plagued the city this last season?” I ask.
Like a corpse come to life, the old man throws his head back, his jaw hanging wide as he gasps for air as if he is maddened by fever. Through squinted eyes, he takes me in before his answer escapes him, his words spoken with great desperation as if every syllable pained him. “I can speak of no fires!” he cries in anguish. “I can speak only of my toils and my labours, those done in the name of the pantheon.”
A ripple of disapproving muttering makes its way around the chamber, accentuated by Cephalas Ducas’s discontent. “The old fools mad,” he hisses under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
I am not sure what to make of this man. He is old and frail, and clearly, his time at the pleasure of the governor’s guards has done him no good. His answer, however, is simply unsatisfactory. “I am to take that as meaning you are not guilty of releasing these supposed floating lanterns, then, am I?” I question.
The old man sways back and forth before he speaks again, his sweat creating a sheen across his brow. “No,” he says, “I released the lanterns. I was charged to do so by the gods.”
The angry murmuring of the crowd begins to boil, and I fear it will over-simmer if I do not get to the bottom of this matter fast. “What makes you think the pantheon set you this task?”
The old man’s head suddenly snapped forward, his limp body becoming rigid and unnaturally static. A cloud passed over, and the room dimmed; the sun's rays blocked from the Solarium’s windowed roof. His eyes bore into me, wide open, peering as if into my soul. I feel a shiver run up my spine, and a chill crawls across my skin as he speaks. “I see them in my dreams,” he says, his voice two-toned, no longer strained nor weary. “They come to me, showing me visions, visions of souls. Visions of the souls of the dead.” There is a new cadence to man, and his words carry around the chamber of my court, reverberating and echoing over itself. One voice becomes a thousand whispers. Those gathered look over their shoulders as if expecting to find a shadow at their ear. “They are caught in the winds of fate, cast about across the surface of this world, unable to ascend to the soil beds of Spring’s heavenly gardens.” My heart is thudding. “They are too heavy, weighed down by lifetimes of sin and despair. They fall back to the earth. They take root. Their vileness spreads like weeds. They are poisoning your realm. The dead can find no rest.”
I know not what this man is, but I am certain he is no heavenly prophet.
I turn to Master Lou, Leader of the House of Perseverance, one of the most senior members of the One Hundred Sorcerors. “Master Lou,” I call to him, “is this man a Malevolence? A Profanist?” My voice is stark, betraying the panic I feel. I have always been sceptical about the notion of Maleficar, but seeing the effect this ancient creature has on those present, I begin to doubt myself. Yet, more frightening than encountering one of Gader’el’s slaves in the flesh was seeing Master Lou shake his head. Whatever this man is, he is no sorcerer. He was something entirely unknown.
I swallow as I turn and look at the old man again. His recounting has ended, his body relaxed, and he slumps in on himself, frailty returned as if barely able to hold himself up. Silence fills the hall, and the weight of the courtier’s expectations builds upon my shoulders. I take a deep breath. “I understand you have requested a season trial to prove the validity of your claims,” I state, “to show that the gods support your endeavours?” A subtle nod indicates the man’s confirmation. “This I shall grant you,” I declare to a series of shocked gasps. “Whatever you are, I will let the gods determine your worth when Curia ends today. Governor Weal,” I say, turning to Garad, “take this man to the courtyard and hold him there. Spring will judge him.”
Garad does not act immediately. He stares at me incredulously. He wanted me to order a death sentence. He thinks I am being reckless. He thinks I risk further disruption in the city should this old man pass his trial. He doesn’t see the bigger picture. If the man is not tested, there will be those who claim the will of the gods was circumvented, and given the Truthers' growing influence, that is a narrative I will not condone to exist. And more worrying still is the possibility that the gods have sent this man. I’m not sure I would ever believe this to be true, but despite my age and my experience, I have yet to see everything there is to see, and there is always the chance this man is the real thing.
“Governor Weal,” I say, stealing my voice to ensure my displeasure is clear. I have given my judgment. You will see it enforced.” Garad’s face goes red, and I see his clenched fists shaking at his sides, yet he acquiesces, bows, and leads the guards and old man out of the court.
I let a few moments pass so the chamber has time to let go of its disconcerting. Each courtier present leans toward their neighbour, muttering disapproval or curiosity. I indulged this for but a few moments before I raise a hand for silence and turn to Grand Minister Sadler. “Call the next point of order, Grand Minister,” I say and move the day's business onward.
