Firebrand

Chapter 702: First Among Equals

First Among Equals

One of the many halls in the Imperial Palace had been chosen to serve as the Senate chamber from now on. Martel could not tell what distinguished it from a dozen others, nor did he care. It had the space, at least; nothing filled up the floor except a statue in the middle and a throne for the emperor to one side.

It had been another subject of debate whether the monarch ought to be present. Some claimed that his appearance, if not involvement, would lend the occasion further legitimacy. Others argued that it suggested he or any other future emperor was a necessary component for the Senate to have a mandate for its decisions, and this set a poor precedent. He might be allowed to participate in a ceremonial role in the future, but for now, it was best he remained out of sight.

Besides those present during the negotiations, a great number of the dignitaries of Morcaster arrived. Every member of the nobility with a title that gave them a seat in the assembly. The same went for the aldermen of the guilds and the highest ranking magistrates of the Imperial administration. Pretty soon, Martel could only recognise fewer than half of those gathered.

The high priest of Sol appeared as well, flanked by seven other members of the clergy. Crucially, they carried a large chest with them. Within, they claimed, lay the holiest relic in all of Aster: the Eye of Sol. As far as anyone knew, this was the first time it had ever been removed from its resting place in the Basilica. Considering the importance of today’s event, any artefact of lesser value would not suffice.

Martel wore the clothes Eleanor had arranged for him, and he did see her point; considering his usual disinterest in garments, he would have looked out of place. While it did not bother him particularly, now was not the time to ruffle feathers or raise eyebrows. She appeared in her uniform with the legate’s pin on her surcoat, which took him a little by surprise; he had been under the impression she had also ensured new clothes for herself.

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“Are you ready, captain?” she asked, joining him.

He was not. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Inside his pocket lay the letter to his mother, to be sent if he decided to stay. Through the crowd, Martel noticed the duchess of Trior, who gave him a knowing look.

Thinking ahead, the high priest had brought a beautifully adorned staff with him, which he now pounded into the floor to command silence. “Lords, ladies, and people of Morcaster! Our city calls out for leadership. Under the blessing of Sol, I request an assembly to be called.” He took position by the statue, and everyone arranged themselves to stand before him. “I hereby call this Senate to order!” Old and frail though he might appear, he had the voice of a preacher to reach every person in the hall. “Our realm needs a leader to make urgent decisions. I am told it is the will of this assembly to select Sir Martel of Engby as imperator with full imperium over all Asterian lands. Those in favour, walk to my right side.” He raised his staff, held in that hand. “Those against, go to my left.”

Martel watched them. If anyone made a single attempt at disrupting this moment and ruin everything he had accomplished, he would set the entire palace on fire and leave nothing but ashes.

Every member of the Senate walked toward the right, although many did so hesitantly. “It is decided,” the high priest declared. “Sir Martel, are you prepared to take the oath?”

“I am.” He cleared his throat and stepped up to the chest containing the relic, placing his hand upon it. “I, Martel of Engby, swear this by Sol. I shall faithfully uphold the office of imperator of all Asterian lands. I shall not claim this title for longer than as needed. I swear this by Sol. I shall let justice guide me in all decisions pertaining to the lands where I hold imperium. Thrice bound, I swear this by Sol.”

The members applauded, some more forcefully than others.

Martel turned to face them all. “As imperator, I make these declarations. The armistice provisionally signed with the kingdom of Khiva shall be upheld as a peace treaty.” More applause. “My legions shall be disbanded with the full payment they are owed, except for the Tenth, which shall assume the responsibility of urban legion to Morcaster under Legate Lara Chasseur with the singular right to recruit until twice the regular size.”

A servant approached him, holding a board to serve as a firm surface along with a writing set and a large document. Martel took the feather pen.

“In my capacity as imperator, I hereby sign the Great Charter of our realm, which is to take effect immediately, and I command the Imperial administration to send out missives across the Empire, informing all of its contents and summoning those who by right belong in this chamber, but have yet to take up their seat in the Senate.” Martel exhaled, having successfully said everything he had memorised. Except for the final sentence, soon to be spoken. But first, he wrote his name below the Great Charter, turning it into law.

Placing the quill back in its holder, Martel looked at the Senate. This was the last moment to delay. None could force him to resign if he considered himself still to be needed. His allies in the assembly would support him.

Across the room, beyond the heads of the gathered people, he saw the empty throne. It could be his. Some might argue it was his by right; he had taken by deed what others were merely born to. In his mind, he saw it. He wore a crown, and the peoples of Aster bowed before him, seated upon the throne.

Martel was a battlemage in the true sense of the word, his magic and his mind trained for war. On a battlefield, he acted swiftly and decisively, and his instincts did not fail him when reactions were needed.

But to rule required a mind for peace. To sit during long debates, listening to grievances and take counsel, to find the argument that would persuade others and craft a compromise rather than threaten them all with execution until they obeyed. The same skills that allowed Martel to grasp power also made him unsuitable to wield it. He would never tip the scales this way.

On the other hand, he would never again have such an opportunity to improve matters for the many citizens of the Empire. It seemed selfish to indulge in self-doubt rather than seize his chance to do what was right for others.

Such were the arguments Martel had told himself, back and forth. But deep down, he knew the only reason that mattered. He had killed again and again to stand here today, and the hands that would seize a crown were stained red. He did not deserve such splendour, and he could not be trusted to sit upon the throne.

Martel took a deep breath. “My duties done, I resign my position.” Cheers and applause erupted across the hall. He looked at Eleanor, who gave him a knowing smile. He tried to reciprocate, but with the endless debate inside his mind finally at an end, he felt too tired to summon emotions of any kind.