A Final Hope
My dearest Artimentia. Hero of Calvian Bridge. Empress-in-Waiting. Daughter.
I remember the first time I held you in my arms. Fresh from your mother's womb, you smelled of blood and amniotic fluid and life. The last time we embraced, fresh from your victory at Calvian Bridge, you smelled of blood and viscera and death. If I were a poet, I would encapsulate the disparity in verse, something suitably rousing that casts you as the protagonist in a tale of a downtrodden Empire, rising to defend the people from a despot.
Do I congratulate you or Orlanthe on working out my plans? After the ceasefire agreed at Calvian Bridge, which of you was it who knew I intended to meet up with General Doriannus Ocanthus and try to strike back at you immediately? Either way you now have your decisive victory. My defeat is now inevitable and my attempts at clinging to power are at an end. All that is needed now to bring this dark chapter in our glorious Empire to its conclusion is the vanquishing sword of a hero.
In my arrogance, I believed myself invincible, that I could overcome any challenger. All others had fallen before my armies, before the undefeated General Doriannus Ocanthus. Perhaps I should have suspected you could prevail. You always were a popular, intelligent little thing. Small wonder that my enemies gravitated towards you when you declared your intent, that my allies were so keen to desert me as you claimed victory after victory. And now you will come into your throne much sooner than I anticipated.
My actions in recent years have ultimately made this inevitable. Mistakes breed failure. Failure breeds discontent and in my urge to quell it, in how I dealt with revolt, I slipped into tyranny. The Trifold Palace. The defeat at Nuren. The execution of Artea. The massacre at Parthenea. Each a footstep towards my fate.
And so my only hope lies through you. I am not about to plead for my life. I will neither insult you nor demean myself. This is not a sham, a pitiful attempt at posthumous revenge. Nor is it the final flailing of a man destined for the execution block. Instead, I seek only some reflected gloss, that through your success, posterity will treat me better than I deserve. And so I offer you my advice. You know that I was so often master of the political arena, able to discern ally from enemy and wring advantage from both, to read the populace and guide its course. And I know you are wise enough to listen.
You should tear down the Trifold Palace. After the siege it will be a simple matter to complete the process. Stone by stone, marble column by marble column, break it all down and return all the wealth it contains to the people. Turn the grounds into open gardens. Build a school, a hospital, a temple. Anything other than the monstrosity it has become. As long as it stands, it will epitomise my reign and serve as a reminder of the blood split in its halls. Better for it to pass into memory. For something to stand glorious and unashamed in its place.
My inclination would be to combine it with a deification. Nothing is more likely to capture the hearts and minds of the citizenry. And you have a ready-made candidate. Artea. Perhaps my single biggest miscalculation. The number of those who espouse her doctrine has became a canker since her execution. They cannot be ignored and my persecution of them has only made them more ardent, more violent and ultimately more powerful. Instead, learn from the example set by the Expansionist Emperors.
Assimilate their beliefs into our own. Give her a voice in the afterlife, a seat at the side of the gods. It will help you monitor and guide the spread of an ideology that could threaten the very foundations of your Empire. It will allow you to bring the converted gradually back into the fold. If I had somehow emerged victorious, this would have been my plan. For me though, it would have been more difficult. After I ordered her execution, few would have trusted me. I expect you will find it a simpler conceit.
And now I must turn my attention to the living. I am not going to patronise you and bisect the Senate into those you can trust and those you can't. I expect you are capable of deducing such things for yourself and dealing with it all appropriately. But there are two whose fates you need to consider with care. General Doriannus Ocanthus and Orlanthe.
Many will call on you to execute Doriannus. He carried out my orders at Parthenea. He is the leader of my army. He could become the focus for dissenting voices. Such people are vindictive and short-sighted.
Doriannus is loyal and well-loved. His popularity among the armies and the citizenry, among allies and enemies alike, is unparalleled. His only fault is his unquestioning loyalty to the sanctity of the Emperor. To me. Kill him and you risk widespread discontent across the Empire. Battalion after battalion will oppose you. There will be no end to it. Let him live, let him serve even at the far-flung edges of the Twelve Realms, and you will gain a staunch ally. Not only that, but it will be a magnanimous act, one that gives hope to others who stood alongside me, that their sins too might be forgiven. By all means impose sanctions and conditions, but remember: an open palm feeds more than a closed fist.
This will be difficult for you to hear, but I need you to heed these words. Do not trust Orlanthe.
I know she has long been at your side. I know she fights for you. I know her skills have turned the tide of so many battles. I know she shares your bed and your life. But she works towards her own ends.
Since your siege on the Trifold Palace began I have been consulting the annals. What I have uncovered is deeply disturbing. She is older – much older – than she appears. Not since before the founding of our Empire has a demonspawn, a life-leech, strode these lands. And now there is one among us spreading only discord and strife.
You will find her alongside Martinus, General of the Nine Armies, during his rebellion. She aided Syrillia in the downfall of the Umanians. Records even place her in Erapolis when they attempted to secede from Oric rule. Her name changes in each telling but the descriptions are unmistakeable. Raven hair to her waist. Piercing emerald eyes. Wine-stain birthmark on the palm of her left hand.
I wish I had realised this sooner. I would have salted where she stepped. Burnt all she touched. Driven her across land and sea with young wood and ancient iron. Now that you know the truth, that task falls to you. To do otherwise risks all you hold dear.
Finally, I ask for something for myself. It is a small thing but important to me. Do not persist in the lies you have spread. My blasphemous trips to the Isle of the Gods. The demonic children spawned in my wake. My use of Asternum pollen. I have tarnished my name enough without you adding obscenities to it. I understand your reasons. Each lie, carefully thought through, undermined me and my support. They swayed the people to your side and gave me little choice but throw money and threats at everyone to maintain my power. Now however, you must be above such things. There will be an expectation on you to prove yourself worthy of your position, that you are different from your father. Embrace the truths and your reign and my name can only prosper.
And now I set aside my pen. I expect you will find this letter while I await my death. I hope I face it with what little dignity remains my own. I hope that you will make it swift and not drag it out through trial after trial, denunciation after denunciation. Most importantly, I hope you can go on to fashion something beautiful from the ashes I leave behind.
May your reign be long and fruitful.
Julian Valerius Brassus. Emperor of the Twelve Realms. Butcher of Parthenea. Tyrant. Father.
Letter presented at the trial of the former General, Doriannus Ocanthus, for the attempted assassination of Empress Artimentia at the Rubrian border during the fifth annual Imperial Progress. On display at the Trifold Museum as part of the exhibit to mark the 150th anniversary of the ascension of Empress Artimentia and Consort Orlanthe, long may they reign.
