The Gardens

  77th Day of Spring

  777 Karloman’s Peace

  My name is Sergious Olearius Sulla, Karloman, it is morning, if only for a little bit longer, I am emperor, and I love these gardens.

  The city of Pavia, the capital of my empire, sometimes referred to as the Seven Cities City, a reference to its odd composition, is massive. The city was built across a fork in the Danzig River, and once upon a time, it was three separate cities. Since then, the construction of many bridges has united them into one. However, some sectors of the city have grown so large that people consider them cities of their own, all contained within the confines of Pavia.

  One of those city-sized sectors is the Royal Imperial Place.

  The Royal Imperial Palace deserves its status as a city, being larger and more populous than many of my empire’s actual cities. Half a million people call the palace home, and it is comprised of thousands of buildings, all contained within a curtain wall that stretches for miles and separates it from the rest of Pavia.

  As you might expect, the beautification of the palace has been an important objective of its many architects. Thus, it contains, quite literally, hundreds of gardens. Yet, these gardens, the ones I have the good fortune of strolling through right now, are the best. They are my gardens. They are internal, with the walls of the most private wing of the emperor's house encircling them. Few ever see them. They are for me, my most treasured guests and my most trusted companions, and for them only. They are magnificent.

  Exquisite species of flora from every corner of my empire have been gathered and nurtured in this place, and thanks to the tireless efforts of my personal entourage of botanists, the exotic blend of foliage has flourished, painting the most intricate of murals.

  Greens and blues mix with yellows and reds. Trees of many heights and widths boast an aura of petals that rain down upon ponds and fountains in their dozens. A wet fragrance changes to a new intoxication every few steps as the different blends of scents mix and meld. All of which rouses memories of days gone by when I travelled the lengths of my empire and beheld its many and varied wonders. Every time I walk through these gardens, I smile, and recollections of beauty dance in the back of my mind.

  I stop under the shade of the drooping petals of an ever-creeping vine. It has grown twenty feet high, clinging to the walls of a large seven-sided wooden pagoda. With one hand, I gently cup one of its clustered flowers and admire it. Their colours range from white to pink to purple, some bearing a hint of yellow in their centre. They appear like luminous veins upon the petals.

  It is beautiful.

  “Do you know its name?” Lady Hemma asks me. Her first words since we greeted one another some minutes ago are: I smile at the sweetness of her voice.

  “It is a form of Wisteria; the botanists call it Pale Wisteria,” I answer, turning to her, “although it has been sometimes known by another, more sinister name.”

  “Which is?” she asks, with giddy curiosity.

  “Creeping Death,” I said with a rise of the eyebrow. I tried to keep my face serious, but a grin broke out across my features, and Lady Hemma laughed along with me.

  “And why do they call it that?” she asks.

  “Because of the paleness of the petals and because its vines stretch far before it blooms,” I answer, releasing the flower and continuing our walk through the garden. “People liken it to the bony hands of Winter reaching for you. A bit of silly nonsense, but I am rather fond of it.” We walk a little further in silence, admiring the garden, before I finally stop and turn to my wife. I smile at her, “So, what can this wizened old man do for you today?”

  She smiles back and tilts her head, “Who says I need anything from you? Can I not simply wish to spend time with my husband?”

  “You can spend time with me whenever you want, my dear,” I reply, “but today, of all days, just before Curia? There is something you want. So, let's hear it.”

  Her expression changes. It's not annoyance that I detect in her features, that much I am certain. Hesitation perhaps? Whatever it is Lady Hemma wants to discuss with me, it is not something she is eager to broach. She looks at her feet momentarily and then back at me; she smiles and gestures for us to continue our walk. I oblige.

  She takes in a deep breath. Then, she begins. “It is not anything I need from you, but what another, one I am empathetic to, needs,” she explains.

  “Oh,” I exclaim, “is this a confidant of yours? A sensual companion? A boudoir friend?” I tease and she blushes.

  I have had six wives during my time, although, in keeping with tradition, I only sported four at any one time. Monogamous marriage is the law for most citizens of my empire. However, the need to propagate future Karlomans is so significant to the faith that the emperor is always encouraged to possess four wives to ensure the continuation of the lineage. Something that hasn’t worked out in my case.

  Most of my wives have been uninteresting. All were political marriages arranged by my advisors to solidify my rule. The women themselves have been generally of high quality, if somewhat lacking in personality and wit. All were daughters of Prefects, and thus, the marriages allied me with men of influence within the empire. Those men had hoped for sons with future claims to the throne that they might seize upon following my demise. No such sons have been produced, however.

  Although the propagandists perpetuate the narrative that I have been unfortunate enough to be repeatedly wedded to barren wives, the truth is that the fault lies with me. And to be honest, I am perfectly okay with this fact. I have never had much love for lovemaking, and I find children generally quite irritating.

  Hemma is the youngest and most recent of my wives and the first of them I have chosen for myself. She is not from such a prestigious background as the rest. She was the daughter of a former advisor whose wife was a dear friend. When Hemma’s mother had informed me that her daughter was to be married off to some oaf, I intervened. I had known Hemma all my life, and she had always possessed a sharp mind and a quick wit. She makes me laugh and think; I love her for that.

  And now, before you think too little of me, I am, of course, aware that I am more than twice this woman’s age, and you may be concerned that being married to an old barren man like me is a terrible fate for the girl. You will think that because you never saw the fat old bastard she was destined to wed. If you had, you’d understand the act of heroism I have performed for the dear girl.

  I have long given up on the concept of fatherhood and, thus, beyond the consummation of our union, I have never lain with the woman, and I have no intentions of ever doing so again. They are horrible experiences in truth, and if I don’t enjoy them, you can be damned sure my wives didn’t either. I mean, what young woman wants to be deflowered under the watch of not only the Grand Spiritualist and the Five High Priests, my personal guard, and about a dozen servants, but also to have their own parents present? I can’t imagine that's what young girls dream of as they grow up.

  No. I put her through that indignity once, and I shall never do so again.

  I do worry, sometimes, that Hemma resents me for this. After all, she dreamed of motherhood and a family of her own, and I have denied her that. She is, however, still young and beautiful. She has not yet reached her thirtieth year. There is plenty of time for her if I can do her the kindness of dying soon. My name is Sergious Olearius Sulla, Karloman. It is morning, and I will not be your jailor for much longer, my dear, I promise.

  “Nothing like that,” she replies, dismissing my feelings. “I hardly know the man, but once I heard his story, I had to meet him and hear it first-hand, and now that I have done, I think you must hear it too.”

  “Who is he?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Count Rolland,” she answers.

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Neither had I,” she explains, “until he arrived in the capital, that is. He arrived as a refugee. The Truthers have destroyed his home. He witnessed it firsthand. What they did,” she hesitates, her expression full of woe and anger, “well what they did is unspeakable, but you must hear it.”

  “Very well,” I say, “I shall speak with the man on the morrow.”

  “No,” Hemma snaps, a rare barb in her tone. She is one of very few people brave enough to say that word to me. I love her for that.

  “No?” I echo.

  “No, I must be today, before Curia,” she adds, her tone softening again.

  “And why is that?” I ask.

  “Because I know today’s session will determine much of how this war proceeds, and you must know this man’s tale before you make any decisions,” she answers. I smile. All my other wives have always been content with the leisurely pampering that palace life offered them. Not Hemma; however, Hemma always had a mind for politics and eyes that looked beyond our walls. If she had been my wife in my younger days, I’ve no doubt she’d have accompanied me on the campaign trail. I would have liked that, I think.

  “Is he already here?” I ask, knowing the answer.

  “He is,” she answers, “I asked him to wait in my private drawing room.”

  I sigh. “Very well,” I say, “send a servant for him. I will meet this Count of yours.”

  We sit on an intricate stone bench, awaiting Count Rolland's arrival, under the shade of three of the garden’s trees. None of the trees are native to the Central Region; each comes from a different corner of the empire, painstakingly nurtured by my botanists to grow in an alien environment. At Hemma’s request, we are alone, or as alone as the emperor ever can be. Most of my entourage of hand servants have been dismissed from the garden, but my personal escort of guards remains near, although respectfully distant. Only Corneliu himself is close enough to potentially be within earshot.

  From what Hemma has told me, Rolland’s tale is traumatic and offering him as small an audience as possible is an easily extended kindness. However, that kindness comes second to my safety, and the count will have to suffer the proximity of Corneliu if he wishes me to hear it.

  I see him coming through the dense leaves of the trees, led by Yerdal. He is a regal-looking man, nothing like what I envisioned. For a noble, he is a little short, with broad shoulders but an otherwise slim build overall. He wears very formal red attire, robes that are mostly plain in design, with subtle embroideries on the black cuffs. They are not in fashion. That is curious. Hemma has informed me that the man was made a refugee, and perhaps this was all that was donated to him, but somehow, I suspect that is not the case. This man chose these robes. He values tradition. If I were to guess, I’d say he was in his fifties. His hair is transitioning to grey, but enough of its jet-black origins remain to give him a more youthful expression. It is the wrinkles around his eyes and his sun-kissed skin that betray his true age. He is clean-shaven, and his features are both stern and learned.

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  Despite myself, I immediately feel that the man possesses a sense of authority. He is wise, and he is a man others listen to. It is a rare trait, but some men simply demand attention, and Count Rolland appears to be one of them. Yerdal announces him, and the man approaches, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. “My emperor,” he says with solemn reverence. I gesture, indicating for him to rise and sit beside me on the bench. He does so, placing himself on my left while Hemma waits patiently on my right.

  “Thank you for taking the time to see me, my emperor,” the man begins, his voice soft and words slow. “You are most gracious.” I nod and force a smile to welcome the man. Silence prevails for a moment. Rolland waits, perhaps believing that doing so is respectful, allowing me, the venerable elder, to dictate the terms of the conversation.

  “So,” I begin, “my wife has informed me that you have suffered a great loss.”

  “Your wife speaks true.”

  “She also informs me that the tale you must tell is one that an emperor should hear.”

  “I do not know if that is true,” Rolland says, his words accompanied by humble eyes, “but if Lady Hemma believes it to be so, I will tell you all that has befallen me.” I turn first to my wife at my right, and she nods to me. I turn back to Rolland and indicate that he should begin.

  “I appreciate that you do not know who I am, my emperor, but you should know that I am the Count of Wesel, of the Marquisette of Mores in the Gladbach Commandery of…

  “Of the Montebeliard Prefecture,” I say, finishing the count’s sentence for him as I intake sharply, feeling a prick in my chest as my heart quickens. Instinctively, I look to Corneliu, who notices my discomfort and takes a step towards us. I gesture quickly and subtly with one hand, and Corneliu halts, returning to his post. I am not in danger, and there is nothing Corneliu can do to defend me from the news.

  “So,” I say, having composed myself, “the Truthers have begun to probe even the Central Region.” That is something the late Grand Commandant repeatedly informed me was an impossibility. ‘That a peasant rebellion would ever have the resources or forces to threaten my empire's very heart was preposterous’, he had said. How wrong he was. How wrong he was about many things, it would seem.

  I turn to Lady Hemma, “I take it this is the news you felt I must hear urgently? That the Truthers have begun to invade the very heartland of the empire.” I ask. She shakes her head and directs me back to Count Rolland. I gesture for him to continue.

  “With all due respect, my emperor,” he says, “the Truthers have not just begun to invade the heartland. They have been here all along. They are everywhere. Many of those who burned down my home and murdered my family came from my own villages.”

  I nod my head and try to maintain a sympathetic face. However, I cannot take what Rolland says as the damming indictment he wants me to. “I understand you have suffered greatly, Count Rolland, and you have my sympathy. That said, however, what you have experienced is part and parcel of a peasant rebellion. It is our own charges that turn on us when those days come. It is the very nature of rebellion.” I stop short of criticising his rule, but if his own villagers were involved in his downfall, then I suspect he bears at least some of the blame.

  “You are, of course, right,” Rolland responds to my surprise, but he does not stop there, “and if this were a normal peasant uprising, I would agree with you, but it is not. This is not an attempt to dislodge some oppressive noble, a resistance to over-rigid laws or even a desperate attempt to survive. It is a total and complete rejection of the core foundations of not only your empire's unity but of the very principles that bring us together as a people.”

  It is a bold statement but spoken with such conviction that I am compelled to believe that Rolland has evidence to back it up. “Go on,” I say. He looks over my shoulder to my wife.

  “Tell him,” she whispers, and so he does.

  “Please know, my emperor, I am no stranger to violence.” He began with a measured tone, a strong cadence, and carefully chosen words. “I have warred, and I have killed. I fought for you during the Merchant's Rebellion. I have seen what happens when a city falls. I have seen men butcher one another. I have seen men lose themselves to bloodlust. I understand violence. But what I saw the day my home fell was a level of depravity beyond anything I have ever seen before, by some margin.

  “A mob formed in the town centre and stormed my manor. The household guards were overpowered and slaughtered mercilessly. Even those who surrendered were butchered. They were not given clean deaths. They were made to suffer. I have seen savagery of that kind before, but what followed…” Rolland trailed off for a moment, the words catching in his throat. “What followed was perhaps the worst atrocity I have ever witnessed.

  “They were not satisfied merely with burning down my home or killing my men. No, they had to do the cruellest, nastiest and worst things their imaginations could conjure—the raping of women, the murder of children.”

  He paused again, his eyes having drifted from mine. Now, he was staring blankly ahead, a sheen coming over them as they reddened. I could sense the pain that lay behind them, feel the weight of the horrors he had witnessed. In a way, I applauded the man for recanting these events. The strength it must require is enormous.

  “I watched helplessly as they held down my sons, seven and five, and decapitated them.” His face screwed upon for a moment as if he had become puzzled, almost as if he could not believe his own memories. “They didn’t use blades or axes. They used spades. They held my sons down, put a blunt rusty spade head to the back of their necks and pushed down with a boot. All the while, over the screams of my boys, I heard them chant that ridiculous mantra of theirs. ‘The truth will set them free. The truth will set them free. The truth will set them free.’” He met my eyes once again. “They were jubilant. That is what you have to understand. They cheered with utter elation. I can describe it in no other way. These people do not see us as human; they fear no consequence. They were merry as they massacred.

  “They stripped me naked, beat me with rods and made me carry the heads of my boys as they marched me out of the town and sent me on my way. They are not afraid of reprisal. They would destroy us all and delight in it.” He reached the end of the tale and held my gaze as he let the story sink in. “That is the enemy you face, my emperor. That is what I came to tell you. That is what you need to know,” he added, a final statement to punctuate the importance he felt his message carried. Whatever else I think, I know that Count Rolland is a master orator. He had not spoken a word that did not carry itself through me.

  “My Emperor,” Yerdal says, coming over and interrupting before I can consider the count’s tale in full. “It is midday. You are late for Curia.” I nod at Yerdal.

  “Apologies, Count,” I say, keeping my voice as compassionate as I can, “and thank you for telling me your story. I know that it can’t have been easy. Please remain in my house for the remainder of your time in the capital. You will be my honoured guest. Yerdal here will show you to a room and see that your needs are addressed.”

  “Thank you, my emperor,” Rolland replies, standing and bowing before leaving, Yerdal leading him away.

  “So?” Hemma asks once Yerdal and the count are far enough away. I look to her and give her a coy quizzical look. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, “tell me what you are thinking. Do you see why I needed you to speak with the count before today’s session?”

  I inhale, and I exhale. She wants more from me than I can give her. She expects Rolland’s ordeals to prove a point. I’m not sure it does. I’m not sure why she needs it too. Unlike the rest of my wives, Hemma has always cast one eye beyond the walls of the palace and to the empire at large. She feels a sense of obligation by virtue of her position. She thinks she has to act in some way to soothe the troubled times we find ourselves in. It is noble, but she is still young and naive.

  “I feel for the count,” I say to her, “but it changes little.”

  “How can you say that?” she hisses as she rises, choosing to tower above me and stare down her nose. “How can you hear that and not understand? These people. These Truthers. They are heinous. You cannot show leniency. They must be eradicated. There can be no negotiation with this Archbishop, not now or ever.”

  “I have said nothing about negotiations,” I remind my wife.

  “You may not have said anything,” she retorts, “but I know you. You will try to end this war amicably. You are considering concessions. You’ve never had much appetite for war, and the Merchant’s Rebellion has soured that little of what you did have.”

  “My dear, you did not see what happened in the final years of that war, its bloody end…” I try to argue back.

  “No, I did not,” she cuts me off, “but I know enough of it. I know it was terrible. But what is done in the name of this Ekkehard Reubke and his Truth of Heaven is far worse. What happened to Rolland and his family is no isolated incident. It's happening a hundred times in a hundred places, even as we speak. You must prevent it. You must excise it from our people and bring order back to this empire.”

  I sigh. “Archbishop Reubke is one man. He did not kill Rolland’s family. “She tuts and turns her back, somewhat petulantly. Her arms are folded, and she almost trembles with rage. She does not understand. I am already late for Curia, but I would loathe myself if I did nothing to explain myself to her. “My dear, please sit down.” She ignores me. “Do not make an old man beg; it’s bad for my knees.” She tuts again but turns to face me, and I give her the most pitiful look I can. She rolls her eyes but acquiesces, sitting beside me again, although she refuses to look at me. I smile to myself, happy to have even this small victory.

  I purse my lips as I try to think of the words, and old memories stir. “What do you know,” I ask, “of Lepidus’ Four Soldiers?” She turns to me, shooting me the most disapproving glare. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes again.

  “Nothing,” she states.

  “Well, that’s not surprising,” I say, “Lepidus has been dead for some five hundred years, and I don’t think he comes up in conversation often these days.” Her nostrils flare with impatience, but she takes my bait.

  “And who was Lepidus then?” she asks sullenly. I smile.

  “Lepidus was a scholar, one of the Seekers in Lucanus’ Library,” she raises an irritated eyebrow, and I know I need to get to a point sooner rather than later. “Lepidus had the great misfortune of living through The Succession War.”

  “Which succession war?” she asks with a sigh.

  “No,” I say, “The Succession War. While we have had many succession wars, The Succession War is named so because it is the worst of them there has ever been.” She tilts her head. I could always get Hemma’s attention with a bit of history. “It was a particularly bloody war that ended one of the Karloman lineages.

  “One of my ancestors, Samus Sulla, murdered the then-emperor, Ferrus Ossa, in an attempt to steal the throne. This caused a blood feud between the Ossaians, those Karlomans descended from his first wife and the Issians, those descended from his third. A war followed one that lasted for forty years and was so bloody that all sense of order dissolved, and even formal militaries became non-existent.” I saw the question on her lips before she asked it. “Those who knew how to manage a disciplined army died early on, leaving nothing but roving hoards to battle it out in the latter years. Lepidus had the misfortune of being born into this time, and he observed those around him and wrote about those observations in his great work, Lepidus’s Four Soldiers.

  “His treatise hypothesised that most men take on one of four roles in times of war. He called those roles his four soldiers.”

  Some of the anger has left her face and been replaced by intrigue. She wants to know more and is willing to forgive me a little to hear it. “So,” she says, “what are the four soldiers?”

  “Well,” I begin, “they are The Ravager, The Follower, The Watcher, and The Lost. The Ravager is a lover of violence and finds himself at home in bloodshed. Lepidus spoke of the dangers of this type of man. When left unchecked, they can develop into beasts. He says that they would compete with one another to see who could be the most despicable, and often, without order, The Ravager will lead, for most men fear The Ravager and few challenge his rule.”

  She muses on my words and then asks, “And the others?” I smile once more.

  “The Follower does exactly what you would expect. He follows. He does not necessarily relish the violence, but he will commit violence when he is told to do so. The Follower is a coward, giving up his autonomy and responsibility to others. The Watcher watches; he does not partake in violence, but he is a passive bystander, doing nothing to prevent it, and is, therefore, complicit. Then there is The Lost, the avoider, who does nothing to stop the others and finds a reason to be absent, too afraid of the others to save anyone's life.”

  She nods, accepting my words and considering them. “Okay, so what is your point?”

  “My point is, what happened to Rolland is not unique, nor is it surprising. When order falls apart and war breaks out, Lepidus’s Four Soldiers go on the march. But I do not need to deal with Lepidus’s Four Soldiers, I need only deal with one man, this self-proclaimed Archbishop Ekkehard Reubke.”

  “And if he is The Ravager,” she asks, her eyes burrowing into me.

  I take a deep breath. “I have always said you put a mad dog down.”

  Her shoulders drop with relief, and she exhales. “Good,” she says, nodding, “that at least I am happy with.” We smile at one another, but the sound of footprints steals her attention away. Yerdal has returned.

  “Apologies, my emperor, my lady,” he says, bowing to me and then to Hemma, “but Curia is very late now; we must proceed.”

  “Indeed,” I agree, “lead the way.” We get up and begin to follow Yerdal out of the Gardens.

  “Husband,” my wife calls to me as we go, “what did Lepidus suggest be done about his four soldiers?”

  “Ah,” I exclaim, “well, he theorised a fifth man, The General, a man of strong enough will to resist the temptations of violence. A man capable of turning the Four Soldiers into Warriors. He tempers The Ravager, giving cause to his violence. He inspires The Follower, giving purpose to his obedience. He rouses The Watcher, forcing him into action, and he guides the lost until they no longer fear the fight. An idea that he based on a very real individual.”

  “Who?”

  “Commodus Hort,” I state. “The first Grand Commandant, leader of my ancestor Paris Sulla’s armies, who eventually won the war and established the Cohort system my army still largely uses today.”

  “I see,” my wife states, “and you hope this Ekkehard Reubke is like Commodus?”

  “Oh no, I dearly do not,” I chuckle. Commodus was a military genius. If this Archbishop is anything like Commodus, we will be in trouble—very much trouble indeed.” I am being serious, but my wife does not know this, and she laughs along with me.