The capital of the Imperial Province of Capea lies in a pleasant valley only two hours’ walk from where the Florea flows into the sea. In this town a young man sat on a folding wooden chair and chewed on his stylus. He was tall and lightly built, with dark, closely trimmed hair that seemed to suck in the sunlight that poured in through the unshuttered window. He sucked the end of the stylus and frowned at the waxed wood tablet lying on the desk before him.
“It won’t do, Cinnamon,” The young man told his secretary.
The secretary’s smooth brow furrowed for a moment, but he managed to suppress a sigh. The slave had grown up in the same household as his master, and knew when to keep his opinions to himself. He was, in addition, trying to save enough of his pocket-allowance to buy his own freedom, and did not want to say anything that would result in the allowance being withheld.
“Of course, sir. What changes would you like to have made?” The slave asked, leaning his head in to see the paper, his own dark hair almost matching his master's. The two young men fiercely resembled each other, and it was often assumed that they shared some common blood. It was not unusual in the old, aristocratic families where slaves had been owned for generations, families like Vitus'.
“First of all, this is going to offend people. Yes, I know, no matter what we do, someone will be offended. But this completely ignores the Estavacan position on the whole dispute!”
“This is the wording the governor suggested, Master Vitus.”
“I know,” Vitus replied, still playing with the stylus, “But if he's serious about reaching a peaceful ending to this war, he needs to take the Estavaci seriously.” He leaned back on his chair, and sighed, “Damn it all, I wish I knew what they wanted!”
“The Estavaci, sir?” The slave asked, cautiously.
“No,” He smiled, motioning for the slave to sit, “The governor and his advisors. For instance, why would the governor send me this?”
He pushed a scrap of paper towards his assistant. Cinnamon snatched it up, then looked it over carefully.
“Are you sure this is from the governor, sir?“ The slave sniffed at the messy handwriting and occasional ink blot that festooned the page. ”The writing – it does not resemble his secretary's hand."
“No,” Vitus smiled at his assistant, “It resembles the governor's own hand. And it was sent under the imperial seal.”
“This doggerel is official business, sir?” Cinnamon asked, surprised.
“Apparently,” sighed Vitus.
Thoughtfully, Cinnamon began to read the note out loud, “I dreamed there shall be a union of the empires, and that the child of this union shall bring peace to our peoples. – Flora.” He looked up. “Most cryptic, sir.”
“You're telling me,” Vitus said with a wry shrug, “It’s an excerpt from the memoirs of the Empress Consort Flora, written more than two hundred years ago. This passage is called “Flora’s prophecy”. There's other stuff in the original, stuff about the children 'knowing their own', whatever that means, and having odd effects on others around them, almost like making others more Able. Her dream is usually interpreted as symbolic, the child being the social change brought about by her marriage to Emperor Ferrius, though she seemed to think it was about her own children. That said, I can't see what this scrap of a quotation has to do with the wars, unless the Estavacan Confederacy counts as an empire. But then, why would the governor be pushing for continued aggression, instead of using all his diplomatic authority to try to force a peace? This stupid so-called prophecy says 'union,' after all.”
Since it seemed to be expected, Cinnamon ventured an opinion. “Perhaps, sir, the governor does not believe it a true prophecy?”
“I'm sure he doesn't believe it's a true prophecy. Who ever heard of fortune-telling that actually worked?” Vitus scoffed, “and anyhow, it reads more like old Flora's wishful thinking than anything else.”
“Granted, sir,” agreed the slave, “But if he doesn't believe in the prophecy, why send it?”
“Obviously because there's some message in it, something we're supposed to understand.”
“Perhaps,” the slave tapped the word 'union', “His honour is advising you to hurry up and marry Miss Aemilia?”
Vitus laughed, “The imperial governor of Capea Province couldn't care less about my love life. And Aemilia and I can't marry for at least another year.”
“I know, sir. When she's finished her term serving the temple. If I may say so, sir,” he added, hoping to get on Vitus' good side, “you are most understanding about the delay and treat Miss Aemilia with the utmost chivalry.”
Vitus smiled wryly, and said, "Well, you know the old saying: 'An uxorious husband makes for a meritorious wife' and all that."
The secretary rolled his eyes, “And you actually believe that, sir?”
“When it comes to my Aemilia? Sure I do. And even if I didn’t, well, there’s a right way and a wrong way to treat someone. And I intend to treat her right.”
“Because if you don't, she'll set you on fire 'accidentally', like she did when we were all children?”
“No, because I love her. Besides, she's got good control of her Abilities. She hasn't set anyone on fire for years.”
“Not on purpose, sir.”
“Like I said, I keep on her good side because I love her,” Vitus grinned, “Because she is the best, prettiest, kindest woman that ever was.”
Cinnamon resisted the urge to roll his eyes yet again. Master Vitus was as maudlin and romantic as an old woman when it came to Miss Aemilia.
YOU ARE READING
The Baby and the Battlefield
FantasyA baby? On a battlefield? Marcus is a clerk in the Imperial army. When he finds an abandoned baby on a battlefield, he has no idea what to do with her. His best friend is no help; he thinks Marcus is a sucker for taking the kid in. The slave who end...
