Fiction:March of the Eagles

Prologue
It was barely an hour and a half before his appearance at the event downstairs that the Emperor was flown in. Landing on the roof of Arès Villa in a transport gunship, he was whisked by attendants down the stairs at a brisk pace, through the upper halls quartered off from guests to his private bedroom. It was half past four on Richelieu, though it was two in the morning on Paris and the French monarch was never one to sleep in transit. His eyes felt heavy, though that – as his secretary reminded him on the platform – could easily be fixed with a slight application of makeup. When he had raised concerns about the tightness of that day's schedule, that had not exactly been the first thing on his mind. Once in his personal quarters, he quickly stripped, stepped into the shower, and found himself alone for the first time since he got out of bed that morning. Silence found him at last as he stood in the jet of water, letting the water roll over his swollen eyes, stiff shoulders, and aching back. Yet even his showers were planned down to the second, as a knock came on the door to remind him that he had a minute left.

"Oh, come on!" he called, "That can't have been four minutes."

The knock came again.

With a dissatisfied grunt, Alexandre hurriedly washed himself and emerged, a towel wrapped around his legs, into what was supposed to be his private bedroom. An army of staff, attendants, secretaries, and advisors, met the goose-prickled Emperor in what had sadly become a common routine. Because they had been delayed, his secretary ruled his time like a tyrant; he needed to dress, shave, dry and stylize his hair, apply makeup, eat, look over and edit his remarks, and memorize key attendees and their faces – all at the same time.

"Alright people," His secretary bellowed with the voice of a drill sergeant "let's move!"

This was his penance for choosing a secretary with a military background. Like a pack of jackals, his staff closed upon him. The next thirty minutes were a blur. When they finally released him, the exhausted man with dripping locks over his eyes had been replaced with the person of the Emperor, dressed in a fine tailored suit of a deep navy blue, dark matching tie, and crisp sky-blue shirt. The symbols of his office were pinned to the lapels of his coat, on his left the gold-and-red rose insignia of the Legion d'Honneur, and on his right the gold tripoint star of the French Empire. His greying hair was parted and slicked back, accentuating the contours of his features chiseled with experience. He looked like the statesman he meant to be, and that was enough.

"How much time?" he asked, still inspecting his reflection in the mirror on the side of the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Empress lurking at the ledge of the room.

"Thirty-six minutes, your excellency," came the rejoinder from his secretary, who was evidently pleased with himself.

"We're done here?"

"Yes sir, we're done."

"Good work everyone," the Emperor flashed a grin. "Now get out, all of you. Zou! Out!"

Many of them laughed as they made for the door. It took time for the tide of people to cram themselves through the narrow doorway, but before long the door had closed and Alexandre was alone with Anestasia of Hal'Sk.

"What do you think?" Alexandre asked, spreading his arms out regally for her.

The Empress Consort of the French gazed over his form with cat-like eyes of chestnut. She had met the occasion with an elegant formfitting white robe with gold embroidering. A lime green sash wound around her waist and was held in place by a silver bird of prey pendant, the insignia of House Hisan. A light cloak of deep blue silk flowed around her shoulders. In her early twenties, she was wonderful to look on with her angled face, sharp features, and ridged forehead. Yet, it was not for love of her beauty that Alexandre had married her. It was her throne he could not resist. She was the forbidden apple which he had picked, and which had caused him no end of trouble since. With slow, pondering steps Anestasia circled around him until he felt her hands dusting off the back of his jacket. Dandruff flaked everywhere.

"You don't look like an Emperor," she uttered in that deep voice of hers. "What did you use in your hair?"

"What?" Alexandre turned around to face her. "I'm not––I used baking soda and vinegar, like they said. It's ––"

"I know," her lips pursed, puzzled. "Wait." She went into the bathroom, and emerged holding a jar of white powder. Her bemusement had turned to stark amusement as she looked at him. "Alexandre, read the label. This is baby powder."

Alexandre's face turned red.

"How can you be an Emperor without knowing the difference between baby powder and baking soda?" she teased.

"I'm a politician," Alexandre fumed. "Fifty senators, eighteen thousand representatives in the French Parliament, more than a hundred sovereign states and heads of state, I can list them all by name, their major constituents, affiliations, dilemmas, goals, you name it... And you expect me to know the difference between baby powder and baking soda?"

"Oh, if this is below you..."

"It's not," he said, taking the powdered jar with a look of exasperation. "I'm in politics because that's all I know. I have power because I'm good at it. This," he waved the jar, "is someone else's problem."

Anestasia disengaged and shook her head with a saddened grin which faded away. A sigh followed.

"What?" Alexandre demanded.

Her tone had hardened, she was no longer kidding around. "Your impulse is to justify yourself. Stop that. It used to be that Emperors did not need to explain––they just did. That's what made them different from the rabble, the false pretenders, the upstarts. Pretenders pretend, Emperors rule. This was so with your Kings and Emperors of old as well, from what I hear."

"Yeah, well that was a long time ago." Alexandre had returned to the mirror to adjust his tie. "What is baking soda good for anyway?"

"It's used in bread. It's also good as shampoo along with vinegar – which is what you just tried to do – general deodorant, toothpaste, cleaning agent, fire extinguisher..."

Alexandre raised a hand. "Alright, I get it," he turned back towards her, folding his collar back down. "And how does a princess come to know so much about baking soda?"

"It comes with the territory," Anestasia flashed him a sad smile. "I've been waiting on men my whole life."