Michkov and Romey heard the great double doors open on their ancient hinges, giving them time to stand at attention before the entourage crossed the round chamber and entered the reception hall.
The Emperor, stiff as though propped up by the gold braid and medals on his uniform, stood between the desks, looking at them each in turn. “Report, lieutenants.”
Romey stared suggestively, so Michkov cleared his throat to speak first. The most urgent dispatch related a defeat of Battalion Nineteen at the eastern frontier. The troops had fought to nearly the last man, and Michkov endeavored to paint a veneer of heroism on the tragedy, which cost the Empire a valley’s worth of villages. With so much sadness, Michkov longed for some spark of hope.
His enthusiasm carried him, despite the weakness of his argument. “I am sorry, your Majesty, to report the loss of a portion of territory. But you will be pleased to hear of the bravery and loyalty of the men who fought and died in your name. I have a list of commendations from General Tanov, who speaks highly of—”
The Emperor drew a tired sounding breath. “How many men died, Lieutenant Michkov?”
Too many. That was always the answer on Michkov’s tongue. But he had numbers. He could give the Emperor numbers, when his enthusiasm failed him, as it always did when he saw the Emperor’s weary face. “Battalion Nineteen, your Majesty.”
“The entire
battalion?” Michkov nodded, and the Emperor’s gaze fell, like a farmer who learned that yet another crop was blighted and was unable to raise his ire against the hand of a God who allowed such hardship. He turned to Romey. “Lieutenant Romey?”
Where Michkov longed to see the heroic, and perhaps crafted his reports to reflect his longing, Romey saw insecurity and conspiracy.
“The Empire is beset, I fear I must report. Revolts have been uncovered at these villages.” He listed. “These garrisons inform they are undersupplied and cut off.” He listed. “Because of thieves, the roads are nearly impassable at these junctions.” Again, he listed, until the Emperor raised his hand, commanding him to stop.
“Enough. I will read the reports.”
At this stage, Michkov and Romey handed their neatly written reports to the Emperor’s aide.
Today, breaking the routine, the Emperor paused before continuing with his entourage to his study beyond the reception hall. He said, in a voice soft with defeat, “When I was a boy, there were heroes to carry the day. Great men. What have we now? Dispatches.”
All the portraits in the long corridor had stories to accompany them, great men who built the Empire from scraps of feuding lands. With them served great men, subjects of a hundred tales of generals fighting off barbarian hordes, discovering new lands to farm and mine, falling in love and rescuing fair ladies from evil marriages.
As a child, Michkov loved the stories of heroes—of a single man changing the world for the better, wielding a saber at the front lines of the eastern frontier, inspiring his whole division to push on, to rally for the Emperor—
As a child, Michkov had such dreams for himself.
After the entourage left, closing the door behind it, Romey said, reprimanding, “You’d do well to remember that His Majesty wants facts, not stories.”
Flushing, Michkov muttered as he returned to his seat, “Stories never hurt anything.”
. . . the Hero ducked bullets, flares, cannonballs, all pouring over the battlefield in an unearthly hail. A young lieutenant, he was leading his first patrol into battle. Against battle. He’d been ordered to flank the enemy’s position, disable the spur of artillery that had pinned the division in this bottleneck of a valley. He had twenty men who could not move without the threat of being shot. Impossible odds, a fool’s mission. So be it.
“What now?” his sergeant asked as he slid into the turf beside him. “We’ll run out of ammunition before they do.”
Staring down the rocky hillside, the Hero considered. A ravine, where snowmelt ran off in the spring, cut a narrow gash along the edge of the hill. Only large enough for a single man, the enemy had neglected to cover that position, rightly assuming the Imperial forces would not even consider sending forward troops numbering less than a patrol, at least. The Empire’s strength had always lain in numbers and persistence. Neither had saved them on this treacherous frontier, with its windswept mountains so unlike the ancient forests and meadows of home.
But the ravine led directly to the first row of cannon currently slaughtering his countrymen. One man with a pistol might inflict damage.
“What do we do?” the sergeant repeated, as if the Hero had not heard him over the noise of the shelling.
Before beginning the trek down the hill, the Hero reloaded his pistol. “We crawl on our bellies like worms, Sergeant.”
Michkov had been daydreaming again. He remembered running in the streets of the capital with his brothers and their friends, playing soldier, pretending they were brave officers fighting for glory on the front. His daydreams had changed over time, as he completed his schooling, graduated with his commission, and learned that military service had more to do with standing at attention than showing bravery. Now, if he could have one wish, it would be to make his daydreams for the Empire come true, somehow.
Another battle had taken place on the eastern front, and wondrously, this had not ended in so sound a defeat. So the report was not quite as dire as it had been the day before. Perhaps, perhaps . . . .
He gave this report to the Emperor: “The battle in the east continues. Again, I regret to report that the losses are great, your Majesty. But there is a small story of wonder. A young lieutenant showed great bravery when he crawled behind enemy lines armed only with a pistol. With stunning marksmanship, he shot down a whole line of cannoneers. Against all odds, this man returned to camp, ragged, bruised, but whole and inquiring about the safety of the men under his command. The crippling of the enemy artillery saved the lives of countless soldiers who otherwise would not have reached camp safely.”
Michkov’s voice, normally only just greater than a whisper, grew vibrant with the telling. He felt as though he had seen his Hero’s actions with his own eyes and wanted to shout the deed to the world. When he finished, Michkov became aware of his voice echoing in the granite hall. Suddenly self-conscious, he lowered his gaze, afraid he had overstepped his bounds before the Emperor.
After a pause that lasted long enough to be awkward, he looked and saw an amazing thing. For the first time in memory, the Emperor smiled. His eyes shone with an emotion that was not exhaustion but—pride. For a moment, the Emperor seemed to hold up his uniform, instead of being held by it.
“How . . . heroic,” the Emperor said.