Chapter III: The Grand Council

The sun had been up for a couple of hours now and the birds had come and gone with their songs of morning. Alastor climbed the two thousand and a half or so marbles steps of the White Olympus Tower a dozen times in the past, but only now did his steps seem to break a sweat.
            His legs had started to cramp up and his back had ached from poor sleep the prior night. If it was from a bad dream, he did not know, the councilman seldom remembered his dreams as of late, if he had any at all for that matter. If I am too weak to even climb the steps of the council meetings, how am I expected to hold any sway in them?
             The capitol building of the kingdom stood near three thousand feet, eclipsing any structure in Alexandria or any others in its vicinity. The council room itself was located near the apex of the tower, second only to the king’s personal study. Alastor had passed half a thousand torches in their black iron sconces before finally completing the arduous marble trek. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, staining his navy wool collar.
            He was early, he prided himself on being the first to arrive, by only a few minutes he assumed, but enough to get his paperwork in order at least. Much to his surprise, he was not greeted to an empty room as he had expected, instead the huge ironclad doors only opened up to him an already seated council meeting with the newly crowned king at its head. “Don’t just stand there, come on in.”
            “My apologies your grace.” He stammered, caught with his pants down, “I was told the meeting would start at noon.” It was you who told me. The king had only responded with a disinterested wave of the hand.
            Alastor surveyed the grand council, a huge room made of four stone walls, three of which were decorated with mosaics of famous battles: The Liberation of Alexandria to his left, The Conquest of the Yellow River to his right and the Battle at Gaugamela directly in front of him. In the center, seated around a huge table were his fellow councilmen: Belwick the Younger, Draco III, Markos the Tall and Cyrus VI, all dressed in their identical navy blue surcoats. Scrolls, books, quills, and candles cluttered the great table, a round slab of glass with the lands that made up New Hellas painted on. He started to take notice of the cream colored wax that dripped down the side of the candles. This meeting has been going on for about an hour.
            The short trek form the door to his empty black walnut seat felt like hours. The man to his right, Markos the Tall, was a man who rightfully earned his title. Even sitting, he measure two feet taller than him or anyone else in the room. The only thing more unsettling than the advisor of naval affairs’ fearsome height was his eyes, specks of grey that had perhaps once been a blue were two cold things that never let on to what the man was really thinking. The advisor of financial affairs sat to his left and had always been a more welcoming man than the others. Cyrus IV’s face was old but welcoming, his face sagged and his nose drooped as if it lacked the proper cartilage it needed to stay erect. He gave Alastor a welcoming smile as he seated himself.
            “If I may continue…” Belwick the Younger had said, shooting off a cold brown gaze at Alastor, “I believe we were discussing the matter of rampant centaur and satyr attacks in the southern parts of New Ptolemia. Lord Meliton III reports of a little over a two dozen dead, three storehouses and four mines raided since his last letter.”
            “How many times has this beggar lord contacted us for aid?” the King clenched his teeth, “How fit is a man to rule if he can’t even handle a group of half-men?” He sighed pondering the situation for a few seconds, “Send three dozen volunteered troops from our army south but instruct him that this will be the last letter he sends to us about this matter, I don’t have time for beasts and their playthings.” He signed and provided his purple seal for the documents presented to him and gave him a wave of dismissal.
             Draco III, advisor of international affairs stood up and presented the king with a new set of papers. “The fifty have petitioned once more to raise their numbers, a humble sixty they request your grace. They say they would not be half as bold if not for the poor harvest and living conditions due to the lack of healthy working men.”
            “The B******s of Hephaestus.” The king said to himself, a slight hint of amusement in his voice. “They grow bolder, has it not only been a decade since my father had agreed to raise their numbers from forty-five to fifty? Give them two dozen bushels of wheat for their poor harvest and a case of medicine for a variety of ailments.” He scribbled his signature and sealed the papers. “Oh and tell them if they dare ask again I will reduce their numbers by three and then by five for every subsequent year they ask.” He dismissed those papers too.
            “Our sentries to the East have been reporting the rise of a new rebel insurgency near the city-states of Old Bactria. Other than some small raids of military bases they seem to have little influence in the areas as of now.” Draco III had continued after tucking the previous papers away.
            “Who or what do they fight for?” the king asked with a tinge of annoyance.
            “That, we do not know as of yet, however, they seem to call themselves the Truestars.”
            “Truestars?” the king cracked a smile, “These brigands get more creative with their names every year. Are they cultists?”
            “Unconfirmed but I wouldn’t cross out the possibility, I have heard rumors that some troops saw one of them use the bane but as of yet that is all it is, rumors.”
             The king scratched his stubbly beard pondering at the thought, “Send seven dozen troops, crush their encampments and bring any and all insurgents to me, alive if possible. Put a bounty of six hundred talents on their leader, bring him to me alive, I will make an example of him here in our capital. Have me updated with any and every sign of progress.” The man gave a bow of obedience, showing the top of his thinning head, as the king had signed off and given his star-shaped seal on yet another piece of parchment. Seven dozen troops and six hundred talents? That’s a tad much for a small band of brigands that haven’t even sent in demands isn’t it your grace?
            “Any more edicts you wish to present me, I have other matters to attend to.”
            “Well I’d hate to keep you from your other duties your grace but the common folk have given grievances about rats and other vermin raiding their storehouses.” Alastor had spoken up, pulling out the folded parchment out of his coat pocket. “From the estimated numbers it seems the common folk of Alexandria have lost a total of seven percent rations in total over the last two or three months,”
            The king sauntered over to read the papers he held up, “Seven percent? Surely the commoners can survive with that deficit?”
            “In total your grace, and merely just an estimate if I may say so. There are some families who have lost nothing and some families that have lost nearly everything. I urge you your grace to-”
            “Urge? What urgency is there in seven measly percent my advisor of domestic affairs? I asked for reports of murder, theft and intrigue in my city yet you give me a lecture on grain? What do I care for if a few will starve due to the ill care and neglect of their storehouses? They are commoners, doomed to beg and starve for the rest of their days, am I to weep if that is shortened by a few years?” King Philip had stared the councilman down, a tension so thick not even the king’s legendary blade could have cut through it. A sigh broke the long stare down, “But alas, they are my citizens… and ultimately my responsibility I suppose. You will seek those who have lost more than fifty percent of their stock and reimburse for half of what they lost.” The king had reached down with his quill to sign the papers, the hot and soft purple wax poured down the page like soft molasses before eventually heralding the sixteen-pointed star from the king’s golden stamp.
            “Now if that is all, I-“
            “My king,” a royal messenger cut him off as he burst into the room, “pardon my intrusion but Lord Orestes has arrived and is ready for you.”
            “Good, let him in.” The king responded with a smile, he sat himself down in his own black oaken chair, covered in banner of purple silk. So I haven’t missed it.
            The warrior lord stepped through the huge ironclad doors, two men clad in black with golden masks at either side of him. He was draped in half a dozen exotic pelts of the god’s know what animal, he wore an armor of polished brass and a blood red cape that draped over his back and left side. “Lord Orestes, nice of you to join us.”
            “The lord of New Sparta answers when his king commands, although an exchange of letters would have sufficed if I do say so myself.” The bearded man had taken off his helmet, its foot and a half plume swaying as he did so. His long braided hair spilled out as he did so. His face was strong and unmoving, almost as if it were carved of granite.
            “Well, I preferred to talk to the man responsible for the death of my father face to face.”
            The Spartan lord’s face did not flinch, “No beating around the bush it seems.”
            “Good, you do not play a fool’s game of ignorance. I will waste no time in asking what the Lord of New Sparta has to say in defence of his people?”
            “The people of New Sparta and their lord claims non-guilt in these treacherous matters.” His face was solemn, if the man was lying, it was hard to tell.
            “Pardon me if I find that hard to believe my lord, if you have not seen it, the gaping hole in my father’s corpse seems to say otherwise.”
            “Even I will not deny how treacherous these murders look upon my people, but you have my word that the Spartans had nothing to do with such a craven act.” Alastor studied the king’s face. He doesn’t believe him.
            “You would convince me the Spartans, you who were designed to kill from birth, were not behind my father’s death? Do you take me for a fool Lord Orestes?”
            The warrior lord’s face was still unmoving but his pride was obviously injured, “We raise warriors, not killers. And I take you for a man of reason your grace.”
            “Warrior, killer, when will you realise the two are inseparable?”
            “Have you summoned me to blow insults at me and my people King Philip or to work with one another in this queer state of affairs?”
            “I have called you to answer for you crimes of regicide.”
            “And my answer was innocence, your grace. Now if that is all you need of me, please dismiss me as I will not stand here and take every baseless accusation you throw at me King Philip.”
            “Then I fear you nor your people will stand much longer. In the case of New Sparta being unable to prove its innocence in the crime of regicide, I hereby decree New Sparta a city-state at war with the crown. They are to be treated guilty until proven innocent, as of today I will sanction trade embargoes, revoke the passports of every Spartan man and woman, and employ a garrison of the crown’s troops in New Sparta until we can truly come to a conclusion.”
            “NO!” the warrior lord shouted, but it was Alastor’s similar shout as he jumped out of his seat that caught the king’s eye. He shot a look of disdain, a cold gaze that made him regret what he had done in an instant, he found the whole council’s watchful gaze upon him. “Your grace, you cannot possibly intend to impose such harsh punishments on one of your own city-states on mere suspicion. This is absurd, you gave your word that this would be a matter of debate-“
            “You should learn to hold your tongue young councilman, it speaks out of place, sit.” His voice was firm, icier than the coldest day of a winter night. The councilman looked around the room, none of the other councilmen dared raise their opinion or were they simply just crazy enough to agree with the king’s rash decisions. “And besides, I promised you nothing.” The king continued his piercing glare, every second that he stood was an act of defiance and jeopardized his seat in the council, it was a whole five seconds before he had the wits to find his chair.”
            “I implore you to heed your councilman’s advice, you wage hostility on men, women and children who committed no crimes on what… baseless intuition?
            “This so called ‘baseless intuition’ may have saved my father if he had been less trusting of the war mongering Spartans that carved his heart out.” There was venom in the king’s voice.
            “I see now that the king has not inherited the common sense the gods had given his royal father or even a simple lack wit possess. Is this what the once mighty Macedonia monarchy has come to over the past millennia and a half? A husk of its former self led by a paranoid child who will not listen to reason.”
            “Your words will be the death of you my lord.”
            “And our spears yours, I do not know why you seek war so readily but the Spartans would rather fight than have their honour challenged so baselessly. If it is war you seek my king them come prepared for we surely will be.” Lord Orestes stormed out of the room, each footsteps a thunderclap in the stony room. The king’s golden-masked guards crossed their spears to prevent the Spartan lord from walking any further.
            “Let him go, I gave my promise of safe passage under my roof.”    
            “Yes, the most sensible thing you’ve done since you were crowned king.” He marched off, knocking over half a dozen torches in their sconces in anger.   
            “Draco, see that my edicts are issued, the rest of you are dismissed.” The council save one arose as instructed, Alastor had been the last to exit. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the king’s distasteful gaze, a stare of great fury and disapproval that did not sit well with him. This is what I had feared. New Hellas is already so torn, a civil war could undo everything. What have you done my king… better question, what have I done?