The steady drizzle of rain had ceased by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, but the damp air still carried the weight of an autumn storm. Within the flickering candlelight of his chamber, Aurelius Rodrik sat behind a simple wooden table, surrounded by a growing stack of parchment scrolls—petitions, reports, and official responses from the various ministers and noblemen of the exiled West Gothic court.
His expression darkened as he reread the documents before him.
"The Treasury claims there is no money. The generals say we have no army. The administrative officer insists we lack capable men. The scholars suggest we delay action. And the Inquisitors… all demand the prosecution of Duke Gundemar? Because his command mistakes led to the army's defeat?"
Rodrik could hardly suppress a bitter laugh.
This was his first attempt to directly break the stranglehold of his four chief ministers by calling upon the broader body of the court for advice. Yet, as he read through their responses, it was clear that no one was willing to challenge the status quo. The entire court appeared to be in agreement: resistance was futile, negotiations with the invaders were inevitable.
And yet, unlike before, Rodrik felt… strangely unaffected by their defeatism.
Standing to his left, Count Oppa, the ever-watchful master of court affairs, quickly stepped forward, hands folded in practiced humility.
"Your Majesty, you must understand—this is simply the will of the people."
Rodrik exhaled sharply.
"The will of the people, Oppa? Or the will of cowards?"
The Count did not flinch, but his expression betrayed the faintest glimmer of annoyance. Nevertheless, he smiled, lowering his gaze slightly.
"A wise ruler does not judge his court too harshly, Your Majesty. But if you wish to hear a voice that speaks differently, may I suggest summoning a few of the former senior official from Toledo? Surely they will give you a broader perspective."
Rodrik tilted his head, watching the man carefully.
"Which one?"
"Two men of unimpeachable character," Oppa answered smoothly. "One is Luitprand of Tarraco, a scholar and philosopher of high standing, once an imperial advisor and Principal of the Royal School. He withdrew from governance some time ago, intending to retire to his estates, but was stranded here when the roads became too dangerous. The other is Sancho of Corduba, a well-respected judge and inquisitor known for his upright nature and sharp mind. Both are known for their wisdom and virtue. Surely, if His Majesty wishes to understand the popular feeling of the court, these two will be of great assistance."
"Very well," he said, setting the parchment down. "Summon them tomorrow. I would like to hear their thoughts."
The next morning, with the sun breaking through the storm-laden sky, Rodrik sat upon his high-backed chair in the temporarily royal pavilion, awaiting his guests. The setting was far removed from the grand palace halls of Toledo, but it served its purpose well enough.
The first to enter was Luitprand of Tarraco, an elder noble of refined manners, wrapped in a cloak embroidered with the symbols of his family's long and illustrious lineage. His eyes gleamed with intelligence as he bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty, it is an honor to stand before you."
Following close behind was Sancho of Corduba, younger than Luitprand, his robes simple yet dignified. His presence lacked the refined elegance of his companion, but his sharp gaze betrayed a man of quick wit and conviction. He, Inclination of the Head in proper deference.
Rodrik nodded in acknowledgment before waving for them to sit.
"It has been some time since I have spoken with men beyond my four chief ministers," he admitted. "I trust you have both heard of the court's recent summons to discuss the fate of our kingdom?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Luitprand said carefully. "A matter of grave importance, no doubt."
Rodrik's gaze flickered over to Sancho, who remained silent but studied him with open curiosity.
"Then let us speak plainly. What course do you believe I should take?"
The two men exchanged a brief glance. Luitprand, as expected, spoke first.
"If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, our kingdom is wounded. Our resources are strained. The nobility is divided, and our armies, what few remain, are scattered and disheartened. In times such as these, history teaches us that stability is paramount. Reckless action may endanger not only Your Majesty's throne but the very existence of our people."
A cautious answer, Rodrik thought. Predictable.
He turned to Sancho, expecting something different.
And, to his surprise, he got it.
"Your Majesty," the inquisitor said, voice firm but measured. "You have summoned us here to speak truth, not to flatter. So I will tell you what I see: a court that is afraid. A nobility that has grown comfortable in its helplessness. And a kingdom that does not know if its king will fight for it."
Rodrik raised an eyebrow. That was… unexpected.
"You say this so bluntly," he mused. "Yet you stand before me with no fear."
"Fear has never won a war, Your Majesty."
Silence stretched between them.
Rodrik leaned back in his chair, studying the younger man with renewed interest.
Perhaps, in a court filled with cowards, he was exactly the kind of man Rodrik needed.