Generic empire
15-06-2005, 05:59
Prince Aleksander Alexei looked with distaste at the arid land drifting below the window of the large Generian Imperial diplomatic jet. He was not pleased at having been selected to accompany his cousin Varus on this excursion, but it had been his father’s will, or so he had been told. Antonius was so often bedridden these days that he rarely communicated his directions in person. Cousin Varus, as Aleksander knew him, seemed to be becoming more and more involved in the everyday workings of the Empire. The young prince was not sure how he felt about it. Part of him wished for such authority, but the larger part of him was content to live without such responsibility. As the eldest son and heir apparent, however, it was the wish of the Emperor, and of Varus, who was more than ten years his elder, that he be trained in the ways of international diplomacy.
The prince had just recently turned 18, and come of age according to tradition. He had already gone through the Imperial Military Academy at Ntac, and could both competently command a unit in battle, wield a saber with ease, and fire a rifle accurately and precisely. However, there were many at court who doubted his ability to lead a nation. He was a man of impulse and excess, one who would rather spend his time lounging about the Evil Dictator’s Club than study the bureaucratic workings of the Empire he would someday rule.
He was certain that Varus had arranged for his accompaniment on this trip, and it perturbed him to the core. His cousin was no better than he, so why should he be forced to kowtow to him?
He brushed the thought aside and leaned back, as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.
“Your grace, we will be touching down in Istanbul in approximately 15 minutes.”
Varus, seated on a leather couch a ways up the length of the cabin grunted his approval. He scrambled to grab a set of documents as the plane banked left, catching them under his elbow at the last second, brow furrowed in irritation. For a man of only 28 he looked much older. The stress of his responsibilities had lined his forehead, and he now wore the stern look of a bureaucrat, though the warrior’s physique was still evident. He placed the papers in a leather briefcase and grabbed for a tie that lay across the table. Quickly, he tied it around his collar, and tightened the knot. Aside from the ornate ceremonial jacket, he looked more like a businessman than a representative of one of the most powerful governments in the east.
Varus leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired. Over the past three days, he had gotten a grand total of ten hours of sleep. He had been more or less running the Empire for the past four months, what with Antonius’s alcoholism becoming more and more dominant. He looked over at Aleksander, his cousin ten years younger. It had not been his choice to bring him on the trip, but Varus’s aunt, the Empress Anja had asked it of him, and so he had been forced to oblige. In truth, Varus saw his cousin the Prince as a firebrand, a recipe for disaster better suited to the battlefield than the far more dangerous realm of international politics. Seeing his looks of disgust as he watched the countryside, Varus felt a sinking feeling. Aleksander could possibly ruin all prospects for positive relations with the Khalifah al Muslimeen if he did not watch himself. As Aleksander’s hands went into his jacket to remove a small silver flask, Varus’s fears seemed to implant themselves.
“You do know the Khalifah is a Muslim empire, correct?”
Aleksander took a swig of the liquor and looked over.
“Your point?”
“Intoxicating liquor is prohibited by Sharia law.”
Aleksander looked at the flask and tucked it back into his jacket.
“Just watch yourself. I don’t want to have to tell your father you were beheaded in the streets of Istanbul.”
Aleksander scoffed at this.
“They’d have to get close enough to arrest me first.”
He patted the hilt of the ceremonial saber at his waist. Varus rubbed his eyelids as the plane began to descend.
“Welcome to Istanbul, your grace.”
The prince had just recently turned 18, and come of age according to tradition. He had already gone through the Imperial Military Academy at Ntac, and could both competently command a unit in battle, wield a saber with ease, and fire a rifle accurately and precisely. However, there were many at court who doubted his ability to lead a nation. He was a man of impulse and excess, one who would rather spend his time lounging about the Evil Dictator’s Club than study the bureaucratic workings of the Empire he would someday rule.
He was certain that Varus had arranged for his accompaniment on this trip, and it perturbed him to the core. His cousin was no better than he, so why should he be forced to kowtow to him?
He brushed the thought aside and leaned back, as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.
“Your grace, we will be touching down in Istanbul in approximately 15 minutes.”
Varus, seated on a leather couch a ways up the length of the cabin grunted his approval. He scrambled to grab a set of documents as the plane banked left, catching them under his elbow at the last second, brow furrowed in irritation. For a man of only 28 he looked much older. The stress of his responsibilities had lined his forehead, and he now wore the stern look of a bureaucrat, though the warrior’s physique was still evident. He placed the papers in a leather briefcase and grabbed for a tie that lay across the table. Quickly, he tied it around his collar, and tightened the knot. Aside from the ornate ceremonial jacket, he looked more like a businessman than a representative of one of the most powerful governments in the east.
Varus leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired. Over the past three days, he had gotten a grand total of ten hours of sleep. He had been more or less running the Empire for the past four months, what with Antonius’s alcoholism becoming more and more dominant. He looked over at Aleksander, his cousin ten years younger. It had not been his choice to bring him on the trip, but Varus’s aunt, the Empress Anja had asked it of him, and so he had been forced to oblige. In truth, Varus saw his cousin the Prince as a firebrand, a recipe for disaster better suited to the battlefield than the far more dangerous realm of international politics. Seeing his looks of disgust as he watched the countryside, Varus felt a sinking feeling. Aleksander could possibly ruin all prospects for positive relations with the Khalifah al Muslimeen if he did not watch himself. As Aleksander’s hands went into his jacket to remove a small silver flask, Varus’s fears seemed to implant themselves.
“You do know the Khalifah is a Muslim empire, correct?”
Aleksander took a swig of the liquor and looked over.
“Your point?”
“Intoxicating liquor is prohibited by Sharia law.”
Aleksander looked at the flask and tucked it back into his jacket.
“Just watch yourself. I don’t want to have to tell your father you were beheaded in the streets of Istanbul.”
Aleksander scoffed at this.
“They’d have to get close enough to arrest me first.”
He patted the hilt of the ceremonial saber at his waist. Varus rubbed his eyelids as the plane began to descend.
“Welcome to Istanbul, your grace.”