Empress & Soldier: Chapter 19, part 1
In which Eudekia learns more of love.
A COMMOTION IN THE HOUSE—footsteps and voices—woke me. It was barely dawn, from the light filtering in through the closed shutters. Was my father ill again? I tied a robe over my sleeping shift and stepped out into the corridor. A cold breeze snatched at my clothes: the outside doors must be open. The voices, low but urgent, were in the courtyard; commands being given, I thought.
I hurried towards the main entrance to the house, only to be stopped by my grandmother. “Your father has been called to the palace. Come with me.”
The palace? What had happened? Even as I formed the thought, a cold certainty settled on me. I grasped at the sleeve of my grandmother’s robe, halting her. “Philitos,” I whispered. “Is he—”
“It is not Philitos, child,” she said. “It is Oppelius. The Emperor is dead. Messengers will be riding to find Philitos. Who is the Emperor, now.”
The Emperor. I stared at my grandmother, unable to speak, to catch my breath. Philitos was the Emperor. But he couldn’t be. He wasn’t ready. Or old enough.
I tried to think past the swirling confusion. “Why is my father needed?”
“He is close to Philitos. An advisor. I believe Varos will be asked to be part of the council that will oversee Casil until Philitos arrives.”
Of course. There had to be a council, because Philitos was out of the city. In the past, Empresses had sometimes held power for their sons. But—
“There is an Empress,” I said.
My grandmother signalled for silence, then beckoned me into her room. “There is an Empress,” she said grimly. “Although it is a marriage by proxy only, unconsummated, and she has not been acknowledged as Empress-Consort in the Assembly. But she is a risk, if Qipërta is ambitious.”
“Or the Boranoi,” I murmured.
“Indeed,” my grandmother said. “If she claims the title and the power, she is a prize. One that would bring Casil to civil war were she then to marry an enemy of ours. Philitos must enter the city first and be crowned, as quickly as possible.” And, I thought, marry his father’s proxy bride. With the marriage unconsummated, there was no law against it. It was what would be expected.
###
IN THE CITY, unrest began to simmer. The people did not like an empty throne, Mahir told me. Rumours of disease or poisoning swirled—after all, the Emperor had been well, taking a new bride, and then suddenly dead. Drought pushed bread prices up, adding to the discontent. A guard stood in the office when I met clients now. Some begged for longer to repay loans. Some asked for more funds. I agreed, mostly, but I raised the rate of interest.
I saw my father rarely, and when I did he was preoccupied, and grey with fatigue. It was my grandmother who kept me informed: how she learned all that was happening, I never knew. The rumours of disease, she said, had been purposeful: they provided a reason to keep the Qipërtani bride’s ship anchored well out from the coast.
“Disease and unrest,” I said. “Her safety must be considered above all else.” A clever ploy. Who had thought of it?
“Indeed,” my grandmother said. “But the unrest is not all a story. Casil needs its Emperor.”
Where was Philitos? No message came. Oppelius’s body had been given to the flames, and his ashes placed in an urn, but no formal interment could occur without his son to make the ritual offerings and speak the eulogy. I worried for Philitos, for his safety, for the grief I supposed he must feel at his father’s death, for the responsibility and role he must take on when he returned to Casil. For his future, and mine.
###
“THE EMPEROR HAS RETURNED.” Mahir brought me the news as I prepared myself for my morning’s clients.
I blinked. The Emperor was dead—but he meant Philitos, of course. “When?”
“Last night. Late. Your father is home, briefly, and wishes to see you.”
I went to my father’s room, my throat dry with apprehension. He was dressed in the dark tunic of mourning. My grandmother was with him, still wrapped in her robe, her hair undressed.
“Eudekia.” My father was brisk. “Mahir has told you Philitos has returned to Casil?” I nodded. “He wanted no public procession until after the rituals for his father. He will be formally acknowledged in the Assembly at midday, but quietly.”
I found my voice. “May I be there?”
“No. Not for that, nor for any public event. It is unsuitable.”
“Child,” my grandmother began. My father stopped her.
“Matra, this is mine to say.” Her lips tightened, but she raised a hand in agreement. “The Emperor spoke of you to me last night.” His voice carried a trace of anger, or maybe regret. What I thought might happen had; Philitos had realized his duty as the Emperor. He would marry the Qipërtani princess. If she could not give him an heir, he would adopt one. And I would marry Seia’s grandson, and be an officer’s wife.
“Eudekia, are you listening?” my father said sharply. “Philitos intends to announce his betrothal to you as soon as his nine days of mourning are done. I have agreed.”
Betrothal? “But—”
“Your father can scarcely refuse the Emperor, child,” my grandmother said. Her smile was nearly smug.
“But what happens to the Qipërtani princess?” All the reasons—and threats—behind that marriage still existed.
“Do not concern yourself—” my father began. My grandmother interrupted him.
“Varos, wait. Eudekia may need to concern herself. The Qipërtani marriage is a problem. We do not know what she—or her brother— expects, but if it is that she should marry Philitos now, perhaps a picture painted of a separation of true lovers would sway her thinking? A position here as Empress-Dowager with a generous allowance could be granted instead.”
“And what role would Eudekia play?”
“That is not yet clear. Perhaps none. Perhaps a plea to be allowed to marry the man she loves, in writing or in person.”
My father rubbed his brow. “I wish Roscius were here. I would trust his estimation of the threat to Casil more than Genucius’s, and certainly more than Quintus’s.” His gaze turned to me. “Your grandmother is right,” he said. “You may need to do as she says. Prepare yourself. I must go.”
He was calling for Nishan before he had fully left the room. I sank onto a stool; I didn’t think my legs would hold me much longer. Was it fear or joy that weakened me?
“How can I be Empress?” I whispered. I couldn’t stop the smile spreading on my lips, though.
“Why should you not be?” my grandmother answered. “Varos is an advisor to the Emperor now, his close counsel. That places him—and you, child—at the highest rank among the dignitasi. A perfectly suitable match.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Joy was bubbling up, but not defeating fear, quite. I was to marry Philatos. “I don’t know enough, Avia.”
“Most girls, told they were to be Empress, would be worried about clothes and jewels,” she said. “Your first thought was political. You will be fine.”
Would I be? But my father had agreed to the marriage, at least in principle. But for all the happiness spreading through me—and part of me wanted to shout aloud, to dance, to laugh in sheer gladness—Philatos came first. He must be sure of what he did. I could not be the cause of regret. He had to think of his empire, not of his heart.
I loved him enough to give him up, if that what was best for him. For the Emperor, and the empire.
“I must go to the clients,” I said. When I was done there—and I would see only the most important, and leave the others to Mahir—I had a letter to write.
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That was a welcome bit of news to end the day on :)
The Emperor is dead. Hail the Emperor!