VIII. THE FOURTH TRIUMPH
Asho broiled inside his breastplate as the priestess approached. The timeworn hand smeared black and goopy mourning ashes across his lips in a thick vertical line. Then, from outside the temple complex, the low dirge of war horns. The silver-haired priestess stepped aside. Asho bowed before the shrine of Thrysne the Stormlord. He gazed up at the chiseled marble in all of it’s masculine glory. His god wilded a copper trident high above his head that brushed the temple’s ceiling. His other hand pointed outwards towards the continent.
Asho turned, marching down the altar steps. Near the doors his uncle and cousin stood at attention near the war chariot. Uncle Hortus’s helm, an impressive plume of blue feathers obscured his face. Admrilia rocked from heel to sole, her grasp tight on her spear. Her neptori armor had been furiously polished, her appearance carefully cultivated to be as menacing as possible. Lips coated with thick ash paste, sharp black eyes outlined with kohl, raven hair coaxed to spill over her left shoulder in a braid fastened with leather barbs.
Admrilia’s eyes were hardened: like the Conqueror’s; like the Stormlord’s. Asho prodded to find any stress from their shared oath pressing down her shoulders, at the creases of her mouth, along the ridges of her forehead, and found none. Admrilia was as quiet and unsettling as before a hurricane.
Asho’s fingers rolled slowly around the handle of his spear. His whole body rumbled with poorly contained excitement. Asho scrunched his features and narrowed his ocean eyes. He exhaled slowly. Everything beneath the stars and above the waves was his. Emboldened, he moved for the chariot.
A hand pressed against his back. It was his mother, donned in a deep purple stolla. Taj’s blonde hair was pinned back in place by ivory clips. She looked better today, more put together.
“Mother, you look lovely.”
“And you are grown.” Her blue eyes watered. “Oh my son! Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Asho flushed deep crimson as she cupped his cheek. “Mother,” he hissed.
Taj released him and pretended to wipe dust off his shoulder. “Please, Asho.”
“I will come home. I promise.” Asho said softly.
His mother took a steadying breath. She looked around the crowd flustered, before waving to his aunt and cousins. Raja-Kai’s face tightened as Taj and Varius found their places near them.
Admrilia had already moved to the left of the war chariot. Asho sped walked to the right of the massive basket. He took in the crowd of dashing servants as they sprinted to fulfill last minute duties. Without turning to Admrilia he whispered. “Are you ready for today?”
“My whole life.”
Asho tightened his grip on his spear. “Me too.”
They lapsed into silence until the Conqueror arrived. Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex was dressed for war. His heavy ceremonial armor molded to his torso like a second skin. A purple cap hugged his shoulders and partially obscured the crusted hilt of his gladius. He strove towards the war chariot with the confidence of a thousand armies. Thick black ash painted across his ever unimpressed lips.
General Hortus stepped forward and removed his helm. He lowered to hiss his father’s knuckles. Once he had risen, the Conqueror did something that Asho had never seen him do. He smiled.
The Conqueror never smiled. In that moment, Asho understood why. The expression loosened his piercing jaw, lifted the creases around his mouth, the godliness of his pupils retreated. The expression did not make him appear warm exactly, but it did make the Conqueror mortal. Dangerous, but mortal.
Asho’s hand tightened around his spear, wishing he would stop.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The Emperor extended his arms out to the crowd. Knees hit the marble, fists cast overhead. “Dawn marks the fiftieth anniversary of my conquest.” The Conqueror boomed. “The flesh and blood of the Stormlord, I left Aegtrys an ambitious soldier and returned with Ker secured for our nation’s glory. As a people, we have ushered in a great peace unlike any in our history!
“No child starves. Our children become educated and our merchants fatten from the continent. Our legions and neptori uphold our customs and laws in every corner of the Empire. And with each territory gained, the power of the Stormlord grows in the hearts of men. As Ashenians, we have risen from mere islanders to a nation of merchants, of voyagers, of statesmen, and of champions. As a people it is our right to rule the Conquered according to our own pleasure!”
The prince lifted his chin. This was the Conqueror he was familiar with. “Today begins my fourth Triumph. It will be the first of which my two remaining heirs, prince Asho Atesh Ashiphiex and princess Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex, the Argenti, shall take part. But it will not be their last. My successor will continue our great tradition of conquest. Land will continue to be seized, cities will bend, peoples will surrender, until everything from the sea to the stars is our great peoples. May the Stormlord bring us prosperity!”
The Conqueror bowed low to the statue of the Stormlord. “I, Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex, first citizen of the Ashenian people, Conqueror of Ker, son of your blood hereby beseech you, Thrysne the Stormlord to bless the Triumph. To remember those who had been lost in our quest, to aid us in our time of need, and to guide us in our path for your glory.”
The Conqueror finished the prayer of departure and stood. Asho followed the Conqueror into the basket of the war chariot. Admrilia placed her hands on two of the horse’s reins and Asho grabbed the other set. His blood pounded thunderously. Being so close to the Conqueror, he could sense the wyrdstone beneath his breastplate and all of its fierce promises.
The massive cedar doors were opened by a team of twelve men. The rest of the processional was already in position on the porch of the temple complex. At the sight of them, musicians blew into their conch shells. The war horns sounded. The drummers tempo swelled into a marching beat.
They entered the crowded streets. The standard bearers led the procession; waving purple banners of the Ashenian Falcon. At the front the first legion marched in orderly columns, passing out gafs of grain and fruit to the awaiting citizens. Soldiers handed wooden gladius’ to the well dressed boys who had been pushed to the front of the crowds by their families. Girls were gifted carved flutes of flowers. Asho beamed at the sight of the spoils.
Behind the soldiers were neptori, and then the captured prisoners from Ker, Pi-Yenja, and Thrys. The Triumph prisoners were pelted with fish guts by the booing masses.
In front of the war chariot, General Hortus rode on a massive chestnut warhorse bearing the Conqueror’s standard. Asho darted a glance behind them to the rest of the procession. Behind their chariot was the remainder of the royal family being carried on liters; his mother and cousin’s. Then rode the Conqueror’s council, proudly leading the Senators.
Beneath the leather padding of his legionnaire helmet, the prince was grinning ear to ear. He reveled in the veneration. It was intoxicating. In that moment he swore to himself to gather every star; to conquer every territory. To shower prosperity amongst his people, just as the Conqueror before him. Asho lifted his spear and drowned in pure ecstasy as Aegtrys screamed his name.
“Remember you are mortal.”
Asho furrowed his brow, but Admrilia was whisperering to the Conqueror.
“Only a man who lived a life unfulfilled fears death.” The Conqueror waved out to scores of poor children as they elbowed each other for the flying coin.
Hours later, they arrived back at the agora. Centori formed a human shield against the masses. Hortus dismounted his massive warhorse and handed his standard to an attendant. The Conqueror stepped out of his basket and addressed the public. “I seek our people’s glory once again during the Triumph. In my year absence, my son, Hortus Atesh Ashiphiex will serve as regent over the Senate until my return.”
His uncle lowered his head and kissed the Conqueror's knuckles. “For my duty is to the Ashenian people, I accept this post.” So quietly Asho barely heard him, Hortus said. “Safe travels father.”
The Conqueror waved him off. Asho turned around, catching sight of his mother’s distraught face. Taj’s eyes met his, her mouth forming three words.
Asho repeated the phrase. He startled as the Conqueror stepped back into the basket and ordered them towards the harbor. He turned around, his stomach clenching in uncertainty. How long before he saw his mother again?
They arrived at the harbor an hour later. The seven massive warships of the first neptor awaiting their arrival. Asho coaxed the exhausted horses across the busy gangplank of the Conqueror's trireme. The Conqueror finally dismissed them, hastening with his advisors to a large tent that had been erected near the rear of the ship. Asho walked towards the massive purple sails as the final preparations were made. When the Pontus hoisted sail that evening, the last thing Asho saw of home was the island’s dazzling white cliffs.