The Commander knocked his fist on the table.
"What the hell was that?" he was asking, with a calm, plain, tone of voice that strongly contrasted with the expression on his face and the fist on the table: "All of this for a small colony like Ch'Aehkla?"
"A full-scale battle was unexpected, I must concur." a voice from the screen replied: "I would have expected the Imperials not to place too high a value on that colony."
"Did your colleagues think the same?"
A pause.
"More or less. The Senate is far from being compact about this issue; and moreover there is Senator tr'Mas...."
"Yes, yes, you already told me about him." a faint smile appeared on Amarik's face: "He's giving you quite an headache, isn't him, brother?"
Senator Haewhe tr'Viaen sighed, slightly, almost imperceptibly: "His position about what happened at Ch'Aehkla can be considered....dangerous, at least from the perspective of those who would like to see a stronger cooperation between our Republic and the Federation..."
Amarik snorted: "Our Republic? Almost a poetic definition, Haewhe, far from your usual detachment. I'm surprised. Just as you surprised me when you told me about your decision to support this....alliance."
"Still not convinced?"
"How could I? You know what I think about the Federation."
"Even now that you're among them?"
The expression on Amarik's face changed slightly, now somewhat more cold: "I didn't volunteer." he replied.
Haewhe sighed: "But since you are there, why not taking this as an opportunity? After all, willingly or not, that's reality. We are allied with the Federation, and although you don't want to see it, this alliance has its own merits."
Amarik shook his head. Once again, they had fallen into the trap of that conversation: "For what I see, this alliance will only serve to widen the divide between the Republic and the Empire, between the Romulans. And while I can concede that most members of the Senate and the military leadership on Rator aren't exactly prone to talking, you cannot deny either that there are zealots and fanatics even among our ranks: this alliance will only serve their goals, not ours."
"You may be wrong, Amarik. Although I'm worried as much as you are by those zealots you just mentioned. Some of them may be also in the JSI, you know..."
"If there's one thing I've learned over the years, is that where there's fanaticism, any hope ends. I'll keep my eyes open."
His head reclined over the chair, Amarik was thinking, immersed in the silence of his ready room.
Republican zealots, Imperial fanatics, Unificationists, friends of the Federation, enemies of the Federation....
"What a mess..." he said at low voice. Before Hobus, everything was easier; at least, the Empire was one, every Romulan was under one flag.
But now....
Amarik suddenly raised from his chair, moving toward a small window. From there, he could see the drydock on Deep Space 13 where the Inyadar was docked, under repairs after the battle. All around the ship, Romulan and Federation personnel were tirelessly working to get the ship back on active status. How kind of Starfleet, to offer its full assistance. Perhaps that was one of the benefits Haewhe talked about so much.
A grin appeared on Amarik's face: benefits...Starfleet was simply patching up. It was for the Romulans to fight other Romulans. But one thing Amarik could be certain of: his brother was no fool. He was son of their father, after all, and nothing had been able to stop Vromor from dancing inside Romulan politics, gaining more and more power as he went. It took a whole supernova to stop him.
Haewhe was no different, and Amarik understood that. He had found himself in a bad situation on Rator, mashed by Sela's power and the Tal Shiar, without any space of maneuver, but now he was free again, thanks to his brother.
"Here in the Republic it will be different." Haewhe had told him when they first stood on the soil of Mol'Rihan. He was already tasting the new opportunities opening in front of him, the new political horizons that were to appear.
For Amarik, it was different:"I didn't choose to defect because I tought it would be different" he had replied: "I did it because the Empire has fallen into the hands of fools."
He had used the same words when he had spoken with admiral Antor, few weeks after. The same exact words.
Fools, and murderers, the admiral had specified.
Amarik had replied with a question the admiral didn't answer. Not immediately, at least.
A sudden headache took Amarik out of his thoughts. He moved his hand to touch his head. During the battle, he had fallen from his chair, and a wound was the result.
"Very well..." he sighed: "Enough thinking. Time to get back to work."
He turned toward the door, but before leaving the room, he moved his eyes to reach his desk, almost as called by someone. For a second, he looked at a small, closed box on it.
The question he made to admiral Antor came back to his mind.
"Aren't we all murderers?"
"Computer, open a channel to Mol'Rihan, Senate Building, Office 134."
Amarik heard the typical sound confirming his command. He waited for a few seconds, or perhaps a minute (he couldn't say), while sipping from his cup of spiced brandy, tumbing his fingers on the desk.
Then, a male voice, almost solemn in his tone, but plain, perhaps too plain: "Office of Senator tr'Viaen, how can I help you?"
"This is Amarik. I would like to speak with my brother. He's waiting this call."
"Commander..." the voice didn't change in tone: "Wait a moment, sir. I'll check if the senator is available."
Silence.
Amarik had no difficulty in picturing in front of his eyes what was happening in that building, on distant Mol'Rihan: Rekel, the almost omnipresent secretary of his brother, had paused the channel, opening a second one directly to Haewhe; his brother would be there, his head slightly reclined over his huge chair (too huge for his body, perhaps), while drafting the speech he would submit to the Senate the next day; he would nod, saying a few words to confirm he would take the call while pulling his padd aside; then Rekel would come back to the original communication and...
"I'll pass your communication immediately. Good day, sir."
"Thank you, Rekel."
The face of Haewhe tr'Viaen appeared on the small display on the desk, a faint smile on it: "Amarik, nice to see you, brother."
"Did I interrupt something?"
"Of course you didn't!" Haewhe paused for a moment, as to focus all his attention on Amarik: "So, did you meet him?" he finally asked.
"The ambassador?"
Haewhe nodded.
"Yes, I did. I must admit that Starfleet made up a warm welcome."
"Usual diplomatic pleasantries." Haewhe waved his hand, as to drive away an annoying insect: "What do you think about him?"
"The informations you gave me were mostly accurate."
"They were also vague. Did you have a clearer picture?"
"Clearer? I couldn't say, brother, it's too early to judge. Moreover, he already showed good diplomatic skills in handling with the guests."
"Which means he was adamantine."
"Indeed."
"I understand." Haewhe sighed deeply. A note of disappointment made his appearance on his face, but it disappeared as suddenly as it came: "I guess you are right, it's too early."
Amarik looked at his brother: he could almost read inside his mind. He could see his own concerns, and meditations. He expected much more from that interrogation.
"You should not worry too much, brother. I will keep an eye on him." Amarik said.
"Yes, yes. That's a good idea." Haewhe seemed a little relieved by the proposal: "It's important to know who we are sending to represent Romulan interests among the Federation. That station may not be Sol, but it sees its fair share of diplomatic activity, for what I know and from what you told me." he paused: "The decision to send Ambassador Saren there was not casual."
"A certainty?"
"A suspicion."
"About what, exactly, brother? You have been far too vague about this subject. Perhaps it's time you speak more clearly with me." Amarik said. There was no hint of anger in his voice; perhaps, a slight trace of annoyance: "That's not like on Rator anymore, you know."
"Do you really believe that, Amarik? Imperial Senate, Republic Senate...it's always a Senate. I served in both. And I can tell you all assemblies like this one have their similarities. Political factionalism, in particular, is pretty much the same. Even the matters around which factionalism revolves! Could you imagine? We are still divided among the same line: pro-Federation, or anti-Federation?"
"You know what I think about that, Haewhe." Amarik replied, perhaps a little toughter than usual: "Shouldn't it be simply pro-Romulan?"
"It is never that easy...."
"Yes, it isn't indeed. So, what's your suspicion? Do you fear the ambassador may try to sabotage the alliance? That he may be aligned with the anti-alliance faction inside the Senate?"
"I do not have sufficient elements to decide. That's what bothers me."
"You lack information."
Haewhe nodded.
"As I said, I will keep an eye on him. But you should speak more thouroughly with your colleagues."
The senator scrolled his shoulders: "Some of them are quite sure about Ambassador Saren's sympathies, brother. Everybody I told with, also, had the not-proven opinion that he is a supporter of the alliance."
"But you are not convinced yet..."
"Actions prove one's position, better than words."
"We'll see."
"Why have I the suspicion you would be happier to find out that the ambassador is not so keen in pursuing the alliance, Amarik?"
"We will both see, Haewhe."
"Well, well..." Haewhe's face, for a moment, betrayed concern. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but he stayed silent.
Amarik took the opportunity offered by that pause: "There's something else, brother."
Haewhe emerged from his thoughts: "Oh, really?"
"I met that captain Buchanan we heard about on Mol'Rihan."
"Oh..." now there was curiosity on the senator's face.
"I spoke with him, exchanged the usual pleasantries, you know..."
"And...?"
"I still lack sufficient elements to judge either."
Haewhe smiled: "Really? That's a news. Commander tr'Viaen that takes his time to judge a human."
Amarik didn't reply.
"When we last met each other, you wouldn't have waited to express a judgment. Few months among Starfleet and you are already getting soft, aren't you?" Haewhe chuckled. A rare occurrence.
Amarik felt bitterness: "See you, Haewhe."
The senator's face disappeared from the display. The channel was closed.
The commander stood for a moment on his chair: growing soft? Him? He shook his head.
Never trust the blending of Romulan and alien blood: that was a lesson he had learned early on, during his youth, on Romulus. After all, how could be one's loyalty secure, if he's to divide it between two different worlds, two different civilizations? Apparently, someone among the great Romulan Houses was forgetting it.
Was he softening this opinion of him? Not at all!
Amarik finally raised from his chair, moving a few steps toward the door.
In truth, there was something troubling him. A concern, a doubt, running around his mind since he spoke with captain Buchanan-t'Veras. What was it?
He turned to look at his desk, at the little box on it.
He couldn't say.
Prologue to The Old Ways
Amarik was laughing.
There, alone in his ready room, he was laughing. Something he hadn’d done for a long time. But his was not a laugh out of pleasure. It was a low-tone, smooth, laugh charged with irony. He stared for a moment at the black screen where he had just finished reading his orders. It was the fifth time he had read them, and his reaction was still the same he had had the first time. Laughing.
“This is what irony really is.” he had murmured after that first reading. He still upheld that thought. He couldn’t hide to himself that his first feeling had been surprise: Commander tr’Viaen being assigned a sort of undercover investigation on Mol’Rihan in order to uncover the truth about a possible plot inside Republic Command against the alliance with the Federation.
That was something.
So he did the thing that he always did in those situations. He had called Haewhe. He hadn’t disclosed his mission to his brother. He had simply informed him that he was due back to Mol’Rihan for some days, ensured that he reserved a free spot of his precious free time as Senator for him, made the necessary arrangements for the meeting, and that was it.
He knew that Haewhe must have suspected something. He had been too long in the game for not suspecting. Probably, he also understood that this time Amarik would have not been able to tell him anything. Haewhe was no fool, he knew the rules, and he would have never forced his brother to disclose military secrets. Nor Amarik would have ever tolerated the attempt.
So their conversation had taken the usual path, bar the all-too-typical (for them) argument concerning the Republic-Federation alliance, and that absence could have already been read as a sign that that conversation was atypical.
More importantly, Amarik had taken one useful bit of information from his brother: Haewhe knew nothing of what was going on; that meant, the Senate, or at least a huge part of it, did not know.
Whatever the case, everything was set. Inyadar was travelling to Mol’Rihan for…maintenance.
Mol’Rihan…the name itself always had an effect on Amarik. Admittedly, not a pleasant one.
Mol’Rihan. Truth was, he hated the name. He felt a wound, deep-down, everytime he heard it.
Mol’Rihan. Amarik turned his shoulders against the desk, his face now looking at a small shelf full of small, exquisite artefacts. Authentic Rihannsu artefacts. Gifts from his father, and his father’s friends inside and outside the Senate, to Amarik, during his military career.
Truly Rihhansu. Not like Mol’Rihan.
He looked against at his desk, at a small, black box on it. He felt the sudden temptation of taking it, of opening it, hoping for some magical trick that allow that small box to somehow bring life to memories.
What was he going to do? He would do his duty, as always. He would investigate, he would collect informations, all the ones he could, and he would report them back to Command.
He would uphold his duty, once again.
But more importantly, this time, he would take the chance to bring some head down. He could almost smell it: that same stench he smelled during his days on Rihan. He knew that stench: corruption. Shadowy plots behind the backs of people, the same behavior that had weakened the Empire when he was serving it, the same behavior that had led to…he had taken the box in his hands. He was almost caressing it. He closed his eyes, and sighed.
Yes, this time, some head would fall. And if fate would be so kind to him, he would take one step further: after all, who knew how many of the people involved in her death were still alive?
And he had to begin all of that there, on Mol’Rihan. That useless place with that stupid, meaningless name.
“Commander, we are approaching the capital.” a voice on the intercom interrupted that flow of thoughts. He smiled, faintly: his crew shared his same thoughts on that name. ‘The capital’ was much better.
“I’m on my way. Assemble the team.” was his laconic reply.
Time to play the game.
Writing the History of the Empire
Amarik tr’Viaen was never an intellectual. Of course, this was not due to any lack in his education. Sons of senators always enjoyed quite a thorough upbringing in everything that concerned culture, and House tr’Viaen had a long tradition of being very focused on the education of its members. The results were evident in Amarik’s siblings: a brother and a sister with a bright and shiny artistic career, and a brother following their father’s footsteps down to the Senate Hall. For the artists, culture had been a source of inspiration. For Haewhe, the senator brother, culture became a tool for prestige and political ascension.
But Amarik, instead, was a pragmatic. A lover of administration and management, of keeping everything in order and efficient, as a child and a teenager he was attracted by culture as a tool for personal discipline, and for learning. Then, during his military career, culture became for him a tool for improving his performance as a officer.
He had some selected interests among the great names of Romulan literature and sciences, and occasionally he even indulged in reading poetry, as it happened particularly during his stay on his homeworld of Dralath after the destruction of Romulus. Some poets became his secret weapon to cope with the pain he felt deeply inside, the same pain he had felt since the death of Dhael, with the feeling of void, of uselessness, of desperation, of loneliness that sometimes managed to take a grip on the heart of that disciplined officer when he contemplated what had happened to the homeworld of his civilization, to the Empire he cared about, to many of the people he cared about, to his family, to his love.
But never more than that. And, surely, never was he attracted by the prospect of any kind of intellectual endeavour. When Haewhe confessed to him, one evening on Rator, that he wanted to begin writing a treaties on Imperial politics, Amarik laughed at his brother and mocked him.
So he was absolutely unmoved when he heard the rumor, one day he was strolling through the hallways of Deep Space 13, that a Starfleet captain, a certain Dubois, who apparently, differently from him, had a keen interest in history, had managed to gather a rather obscure club of historians on board his ship for a week-long convention and series of seminars.
Amarik simply didn’t care.
And he didn’t care either when, upon stepping in the lounge bar of that weird Ferengi, he noticed some rather odd people discussing not far from the bar. Two human males and a Vulcan woman were sitting just besides the bar, with three full glasses (full of what, Amaric couldn’t say) in front of them. They weren’t paying much attention to the glasses, though, nor to their content, because they were busy arguing. They were not screaming against each other, and actually the tone of their voices was rather plain, but it was clear to everybody who would have cared to pay attention to them that they were in the middle of some hot argument.
Amarik didn’t care. And yet, his instinct of always keeping an eye, and a ear, on what was happening around him in any given moment, inevitably led him to listen.
“This is clearly not the case.” one of the man was saying: “Now, listen to me, Paul, and listen attentively, my dear: there is no evidence, at all, that would support such a silly idea.”
The other man, whose name was clearly Paul, replied immediately: “YOU listen to me, my dear Iordanes. You say there is no evidence. Ah! That is silly! Certainly not my thesis. I will give you the evidence you so much crave about: just take a look at Earth’s 21st century.”
“Oh, that is a good one. It truly is, my dear.” Iordanes replied: “It is exactly the evidence I was looking for. You know why? Because it clearly shows, clear as the sky, how wrong you are.”
Amarik had, perhaps unconsciously, expected their Vulcan friend to stay rather quiet during that heated exchange. Such an expectation was, however, quickly disappointed. Because the Vulcan woman was all but silent. Surely, she intervened like Vulcans usually do: calmly. But it was evident how involved she was in that debate. There was none of the usual sense of longanimous distance Vulcans usually keep in front of humans (or other species, for that) arguing, in her.
“Please, Iordanes. Paul seems to have a point. I would be quite interested in listening to how his example could support his theory. Wouldn’t you?”
Iordanes nodded vigorously. He was bald, mostly at least, but he sported quite a long, grey beard, and it moved rythmically with his nods: “Fair enough for me, Y’riel. Let us leave our esteemed colleague embarass himself by explaining to us how Earth, four and more hundreds of years ago, could have possibly proved the idea that democratic political regimes could survive the combination of severe economic crisis, social unrest, declining demographics, and structural inequality. I am, as they use to say, all hears.”
Paul had exploited the long list of problems of 21st century Earth States to straighten his yellow-and-black jacket, quickly passing his hand on his bright blonde long hairs just to ensure they were alright and, finally, to clear his throat, ready to deliver the mortal blow to his enemy. But he never got that chance.
The attention of all three had now been caught by the appearance, all of a sudden, of a Romulan in Republican uniform standing just in front of them besides the table. Amarik had never been particularly curious in his life. Meticulous in accumulating knowledge, like in everything else, that’s for sure. But not curious.
And yet, he had felt this urge to move closer to that table, to those three odd people, and to speak to them.
“May we help you…Commander?” Y’riel asked politely, looking at the rank on the uniform.
Amarik looked at all three: “My apologies for the intrusion.” he replied “But I could not avoid to overhear your conversation.”
“Are you interested in Earth’s history? Or perhaps in cliodynamic methodology applied to political processes?” It was now Iordanes’ turn to ask, and he did so with the same vigour he had used earlier.
Amarik shook his head: “I’m afraid not.” but he immediately had to counter the expression of disappointment appearing on his interlocutors’ faces by adding: “I was interested about you, if I may be so blunt.”
“Oh, that’s a new one, for sure!” Paul exclaimed, touching his glass for the very first time and sipping it almost imperceptibly:“I didn’t think we were so interesting. Well, of course we are. But usually most people don’t notice.” he gestured with his hand to Amarik to sit on the sole empty chair left.
Amarik nodded, and sat down. He took a breath, then finally asked: “Are you historians?”
Y’riel nodded slightly: “Yes. My name is Y’riel. I’m professor of Advanced Historical Methodologies at Deneva Federal University. My two companions are prof. Iordanes van der Goth, specializing in the same field at the Zephram Cochrane University; and Paul Deacon, professor in Political History at the New Berlin Institute for Advanced Studies.”
Amarik nodded at each presentation: “Jolan’tru, sirs. Commander Amarik tr’Viaen, Romulan Republic Navy.”
“That’s something the S.H.I.L.L.A. would sorely need: a Romulan member.” Iordanes declader quite emphatically.
Y’riel noticed the quirked eyebrow on Amarik’s face, because she immediately intervene: “Forgive my esteemed colleague, who did not bother about informing you of what he is talking about. S.H.I.L.L.A. is the association we are part of.”
The name weirdly resonated with Amarik. Then he remembered: someone, somewhere, mentioned it when speaking about the club of historians gathered by Dubois on board his ship. So, here they were.
“It stands for Society for Historical Investigation and Life-long Learning, in case you were wondering.” Paul intervened.
Amarik wasn’t convinced much: “My apologies, but then…what the A stands for?”
Iordanes shrugged: “Ah, who knows!”
“How is it possible?”
“You must understand” Y’riel intervened “S.H.I.L.L.A. is quite ancient. It was founded by an Earth historian during the Eugenics Wars. His name was H.E. Rodhytos. From what we know, he was an odd person, even for a human.”
“And he loved mysteries, apparently.” Paul mused: “But, whatever. The acronym is not important. It is the mission that counts.”
Iordanes nodded vigorously: “Absolutely.”
Suddenly, a mood of concord and agreement had fallen upon the three.
“And what would this mission be, exactly?”
“Quite simple: the advancement and development of historical sciences. The preservation and pursuit of History.” Amarik couldn’t say whether the tone of solemnity with which Y’riel was pronouncing those words was just usual Vulcan style or not.
Nonetheless, he smirked: “And a scientific society that claims to be devoted to the pursuit of history never had Romulans among its members? That is quite preposterous. Are you Federation-reserved?”
Paul moved his hand as to stop Amarik: “You would be quite right in your disappointment, if it was like you said. But it is not. Or, to be precise, it was not. We have enjoyed the privilege of having Romulan members since before the Dominion War. Could not have been otherwise. Your civilization was gifted with a sort of natural skill for historiography, if I may say so.”
“Then what happened?”
“Hobus.” was Y’riel laconic reply.
Silence suddenly fell around the table, a silence heavy with sadness.
It was broken only after a few seconds by Iordanes, who now was speaking with an uncharacteristic note of gentleness in his voice: “To be fair, Commander, that is only part of the answer. Our Romulan colleagues already ceased to attend S.H.I.L.L.A. well before that tragedy. I believe the civil war that followed Shinzon’s death really was the beginning of the end.”
“I see.”
“Do you really?” Paul’s sudden question had the same effect on Amarik as a stab in his heart: “Do you really see the problem?”
Amarik didn’t answer immediately. He was, surprisingly, stunned.
Y’riel’s voice was calm as always, and it worked as a sort of balm for Amarik: “The problem, Commander, at least as we see it at the moment, is that your civilization seems to have lost its appetite for History. Shinzon, the internecine conflict between Donatra and Taris, Hobus…they seem to have worked towards a removal of History from Romulans’ horizons. You find no sense in History anymore, do you?”
Amarik knew that question concerned all Romulans but, in a strange unexplicable way, he was feeling like Y’riel was speaking just about him, not about an entire civilization. Did he find sense, in History? Did he find sense, in what had happened? For a split of a second, the picture of a burned house, ashes and grey sky passed in front of his eyes.
“Does History have a sense, a meaning?” he asked. His voice was plain, but he was forcing himself to appear calm.
“Does it not?” Iordanes intervened: “Your people, in the past, seemed to think that the answer to your question was positive. Romulans found that the only meaning of History was the State. The Romulan State, of course.”
“So when that same State fell in pieces, quite literally I would say, that meaning seemed lost forever. Romulus experienced its fair shares of internecine conflict along its history, but never something like what has happened during the last decades. It is not a trauma from which civilizations arise unscathed.” Paul said.
Amarik couldn’t avoid the feeling they were not talking just about the Romulan Empire. In a weird way, it was like those three strangers were just analyzing his soul while analyzing his own people. Meaning, sense…trauma…
“Did the thought ever cross your mind, Commander, that perhaps what is happening now, with the Republic and the Empire, is the result of this loss of the meaning of History?” Y’riel asked.
“That sounds suspiciously transcendental to me.” finally Amarik found the strength to reply: “You talk of history like ti was a god of some sort.”
Iordanes laughed all of a sudden: “A god? Oh no, please! That was an old idea, very old. We do not believe in that kind of stuff. No: when we talk about meaning, it is nothing transcendetal, truly. It is something much more mundane.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“The possibility for each person, and for groups of people, to look at History, and enhance their knowledge. Knowledge of themselves and the universe they live in. Knowledge of the mechanisms influencing the interaction of groups, cultures, civilizations. In a word: understanding.” Y’riel’s voice was firm, almost authoritarian in her explication: “Understanding and perspective. Hobus has been perceived as an absolute. A punishment, in the eyes of some; an unspeakable, unexplicable tragedy, for all the others. But you can look at it avoiding both traps, and looking at it for what it really was.”
“An event. An extraordinary event, but an event.” Iordanes nodded.
“Like all events, devoid of meaning by itself. But extremely meaningful, if put in context.” Paul nodded as well.
“That is what we are lacking right now, in S.H.I.L.L.A. We are not Romulans. We can grasp the true historical significance of what has happened only in part. A Romulan has a whole different perspective.”
“You are…asking me to join you?”
“Why not?” Iordanes smirked.
“Why me?”
“Because you sat here, listened, and asked questions.” Paul smiled. It was a surprisingly sweet smile.
“Perhaps, it is also because you need it, Commander. History is such a personal thing, sometimes.” Y’riel didn’t smile, of course, but the look of her eyes was gentle and kind.
When the odd trio left the table to go back on board the Peacecraft, Amarik didn’t move. He still felt quite stunned. He sat at the table for who knows how long, his eyes fixed on an invisible point in front of him.
What had he just experienced? He accepted the offer of those three weird strangers. How odd. And he felt good for that. Even more odd.
For a long time, he felt like he was lacking a mission. He had never trusted the Republic, but he couldn’t say why. He didn’t trust the Empire anymore, he fought against the Imperials, killed them, and yet felt a strange feeling of loyalty towards the idea of the Empire. And he couldn’t say why.
He always felt like he was missing something. And surely he was sorely missing someone.
Back on the Inyadar, in his ready room, Amarik sat down at his desk, as he so often had done before. He touched the small, black box always religiously kept on one corner of the desk. He put it in front of himself. He looked at it, more than he had done in all the years before.
A sudden, swift movement of his fingers, and he unlocked it, opened it, and its content appeared in front of his eyes. He contemplated it for a few seconds, than closed it again.
Moving towards the window, he reconstructed in his mind the whole discussion he had had with the three historians.
Could someone write the history of a fallen Empire while its ashes were still warm?
Amarik didn’t know. But, he be damned, he would have tried.
He just had to be ready to see his brother laughing at him, in vengeance.