Chapter 723: Abdullah’s Final Warning
"You all knew Antonius well," Abdullah began, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. "We stood by him on the decks of warships, on the walls of besieged cities, and in the halls of governance. Together, we built this empire—brick by brick, dream by dream. But now, our admiral, our emperor, is gone. And what remains?"
He paused, allowing his words to resonate. The room grew heavy with unspoken thoughts. Some men exchanged uneasy glances, their faces revealing concerns they dared not voice aloud.
Abdullah scanned the room, his sharp eyes reading the expressions of the gathered men. He had seen these faces before, once vibrant and unburdened by selfish ambition. They had been youthful comrades, united by a shared vision, driven not by personal gain but by a dream to turn a fleet into a kingdom and a kingdom into an empire. But now? Somewhere along the way, that collective spirit had faded. Ambition had taken root, corrupting the very ideals they once fought for.
"When did it change?" he thought bitterly. "When did we stop thinking about the future of the empire and start focusing on our own interests?"
The chancellor exhaled deeply and began pacing the room, his tone solemn yet commanding. "Each of you here," he said, "are the pillars of this empire—the keel of its ship. Without your contributions, this mighty state would never have been built. But hear me, and hear me well: a legacy is not something you build, leave unattended, and watch grow from the comfort of complacency. It is not an achievement you rest upon, as if you are safe from threats simply because you once stood taller than the rest. That is a dangerous mindset."
He paused, his gaze falling heavily on each man in turn. "Gentlemen, I must remind you: we are no different from what we were in the beginning. We are still the crew of Admiral Antonius’s ship. And that ship is not unsinkable. Far from it."
His voice rose slightly, his words pressing into the hearts of his audience. "We are not anchored safely on calm shores. We are still navigating treacherous seas, surrounded by storms—internal and external. If we do not stand together and fight these waves as we once did, this ship will break apart, piece by piece! And when that happens, mark my words, whatever power or wealth you cling to now will be meaningless. Everything we built will vanish. Nothing will remain."
"Remember, you cannot only love your country, when there are something for you to gain!"
By the end, Abdullah’s voice had grown fervent, his passion pushing him to the brink of exhaustion. A violent coughing fit seized him, forcing him to stop. One of the servants rushed to his side, offering him a cup of water. He drank slowly, regaining his composure as the room remained eerily silent.
"We all understand your concerns, Lord Chancellor," an official finally spoke up amidst the tense silence. His voice carried a thin veneer of respect but also a hint of defiance. "But I must say, you are worrying far too much. Every single one of us here is loyal to the emperor and unwaveringly devoted to the empire."
"Yes, absolutely!"
"We are loyal beyond doubt!"
Another voice chimed in, more pointedly. "But at the same time, I must say—these recent changes imposed by the new administration are causing immense harm. Removing so many loyal and capable staff from their posts across the empire is destabilising the very fabric of this nation! Have you not realised this? It’s a grave misstep, and many Romans feel the same way. They are distressed to see the familiar officers they trust being removed or shuffled unnecessarily."
"Yes, exactly!"
"It’s causing chaos!"
"A serious blow to the country’s stability!"
The voices grew louder as others joined in, echoing their agreement.
Abdullah’s lips trembled with barely contained outrage. He stood in disbelief, looking at the faces of men he once called comrades—men who had stood beside him on warships and battlefields, who had shared in the empire’s struggles and triumphs. These same men, now seated before him, seemed blinded by self-interest and factionalism.
He knew, deep down, that many of these officers were unfit for the vital posts they held. The late emperor had placed them there not for their administrative expertise but as a gesture of trust and loyalty—rewards for their past service and the brotherhood they had shared as sailors and soldiers. Yet over the years, too many had failed to rise to the challenge. Instead of adapting to their new roles and contributing to the empire’s bureaucratic machinery, they had entrenched themselves, fortifying their own power bases and pursuing their own interests.
And now, when the empire needed unity the most, they sowed division instead.
Abdullah closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He looked at these men for what he knew might be the last time, his gaze carrying a mix of pity and condemnation.
He had tried—tried his best to reason with them, to remind them of their duty and allegiance. But their rejection of his good intentions left him no choice. The empire came first. And standing behind him, unseen by them but very much present, was the one person who truly mattered.
The emperor.
...
Behind the curtains stood Emperor Leo, his expression unreadable, and beside him, seated with poised intensity, was his mother, Queen Dowager Anna.
"These courtiers are not saying what they truly mean," Anna remarked coldly, her voice dripping with disdain. She turned her sharp gaze to her son. "You are still far too naïve, my son. I have warned you before—you trust these people too much. But surely, by now, you must have seen for yourself what they are truly like."
Her eyes burned with suppressed fury. "Since your father’s passing, they have been selling this country bit by bit, piece by piece. Their greed knows no bounds. They are vultures circling the empire, ready to devour its remnants. And mark my words—if left unchecked, they will destroy everything your father built, leaving nothing but ashes. They will betray us, hand this empire over to our enemies, and consign our house to oblivion."
By the end, Anna was gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her teeth clenched as she bit down hard, her anger almost seeping into her words.
The young emperor sat with a frozen yet sorrowful expression. Once, he had firmly believed that these officers would obey his commands just as they had followed his father’s orders, acting like extensions of his will. But the stark reality now stood before him—if their core interests were at stake, their loyalty crumbled, and their promises of fidelity dissolved into empty words. The vows they had made at his ascension, pledging to follow him from the seas to the skies, were conditional.
Conditional, it seemed, on the emperor leaving their privileges untouched.
If that was the case, Leo thought grimly, then it was time to make room for a new generation—one that was energetic, loyal, and eager to serve the empire rather than enrich themselves. These unprofessional, self-serving relics of the past, who now clung to power like barnacles on a ship, could no longer remain as the empire’s stewards.
Resolute, the young emperor cleared his throat.
Abdullah, ever perceptive, heard the signal. He sighed deeply, gave the assembled men a respectful bow, and departed the hall. The puzzled expressions on the courtiers’ faces betrayed their growing unease, but their confusion was short-lived.
From behind the curtain, Emperor Leo emerged.
The room instantly tensed as the imposing figure of the young emperor strode forward. Following him was a line of Varangian Guards, their purple cloaks swaying and their weapons glinting ominously in the dim light. The sight of these fearsome warriors—grim, silent, and deadly—sucked the air from the room as they positioned themselves along the sides of the hall, flanking the emperor like a living wall of steel.
Leo took his place at the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across the assembled men as if they were already condemned. He sat down with deliberate calm, his expression devoid of emotion, and said nothing.
The room, filled with men thrice his age, fell into a suffocating silence. One by one, they returned to their seats, bowing stiffly. Their attempts at composure faltered under the emperor’s piercing stare.
Still, Leo remained silent. His face was unreadable, a trick he had learned from his father. Silence, he knew, could be as potent a weapon as words.
The oppressive quiet stretched on, each second hammering their nerves. Finally, after an excruciating minute, Cerberus entered the room. He leaned close to the emperor’s ear and whispered something.
Leo nodded slightly, then spoke at last, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"I have uncovered a plot within this government," he began, his tone steady but laced with cold fury. "A plot orchestrated by some of our so-called ’friends’ here—a scheme to sell out this country for their own profit."
