Leda

Chapter Five: Josen

Josen stopped on his way through the palace, turned on his heel and headed back towards the throne room. He had meant to slip out into the city, hoping to gauge the reaction of Colvé, now that he was brother to an emperor ˗ or emperor apparent, for Castor had yet to be crowned. Would the city still treat him as one of their own? Josen had always enjoyed the confidences of senators and merchants, had savoured his role as irresponsible younger brother ˗ as likely to be found in a whore house or gambling den as at a state function. Had Castor's rise to power meant that he would now be reduced to the position of royal lackey, clutching at his brother's coat tails and cold shouldered by his former friends? Josen longed to know ˗ to reassure them all that he was still one of them. He was not Castor's spy.

But there was something he must see first. Something Castor had reminded Josen of the previous day. He smiled as he thought of it, dismissed his guards and ran at full tilt back to the marble excesses of the throne room.

Of all Diodiné's acts of self-indulgence the throne room was by far the worst, with its lurid frescoed ceiling and its paintings of glorious battles and dramatic self-sacrifice from the empire's inglorious past. A long red streak of carpet ran the length of the entire chamber like a trail of fire or blood, rising up two steps to the dais upon which the throne itself stood: a confused mass of golden vine leaves and flowers.

Castor was not quite so impetuous as to have seated himself upon the throne yet. But he was swathed in royal ermine, a shiny virgin suit of armour gleaming beneath it. He clutched the hilt of a massive broad sword between two mailed hands, glaring out imperiously across the chamber, never breaking his gaze even as Josen drew near. To Castor's right, Master Valdec, the court artist, brushed an imaginary landscape of moorland and forest onto canvas. Josen peered over the master's shoulder, noting his brother's outline dominating the entire scene.

"Somewhat premature, brother?" he ventured.

"Why?" Castor spoke through gritted teeth, barely opening his lips as he struggled hard to maintain his pose.

"Well, I mean..." Josen shrugged. "It almost looks like a battle scene. With you the victor."

"That's the idea, idiot."

"Yes, well. It's just..." Josen scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his boot. "You haven't seen battle...yet, I mean," he added with haste.

Castor smirked. His grip on the broad sword loosened and then he raised it in both hands, jabbing it out towards the centre of the room. "The emphasis being on yet, brother. No. I haven't. Yet."

"I see," Josen said trying to sound thoughtful. Master Valdec set down his brush and easel, stepping respectfully to one side. "It's a symbol?" Josen ventured. "Of your intentions?"

"You could say that." Castor flicked a long strand of blonde hair from his eyes. He glanced at the throne for a brief moment but then, clearly thinking better of it, settled himself into their aunt's old seat to its left. The ermine slipped from his shoulders. Castor resembled an armour plated tortoise, Josen thought with an inward smile. The breastplate and spaulders were far too broad for his thin, wiry frame.

"Well, I was thinking brother," Josen continued, "that this moorland, the forests ˗ it resembles the North."

"Yes," said Castor briskly. "That was my intention."

"So the idea is that you are...or you will be...the conqueror of the North?"

Castor threw him a withering look.

"It's just that...I thought the North was well and truly conquered. By our great grandfather in fact. Or perhaps my understanding of history is somewhat...flawed."