Triumvirate
The war was over. First Citizen Ilya rode into Velikia, the capital, and was greeted by cheering crowds. The train doors opened, and a small procession followed Ilya to the central plaza of the city. The people cheered, waved, and screamed as he stood atop the balcony of what had once been the Imperial Palace, and switched on a microphone.
“People of Carstvoa!” he began. “The Revolution has been hard, but at long last, it is won. Everyone here has suffered in some form. People I knew have died. People you knew have died. And even more fought for the Emperor, and worked against the good of the nation and its people.
“But no more! It is over! We have emerged victorious, and as long as I remain, no more blood will be needlessly split. The Revolution is over! Long live the Revolution! And now, dear citizens, I proclaim our enemies defeated! The Carstvoan Empire is dead, and I now officially declare this the Carstvoan Republic!” The thunderous applause rang through the air. All Carstvoa celebrated, because it was over. The bloodshed was over.
The rest of the day was spent parading. Tanks blasted fireworks instead of shells into the night sky, and First Citizen Ilya retired early for the night, retreating into his armoured train. “General Lev!” he hoarsely called out to the leader of the Revolutionary Guards.
“Yes, sir?” the young man responded.
“I want you to move the Guards to the borders. Keep the tanks and planes here in Velikia, though. Also, give… the one who reinforced the siege on Velikia… a promotion,”
“Understood. And… sir, that would be General August. I don’t think promoting him to such a high position is a wise idea,”
“He saved the day, didn’t he? Distant as he may be, he’s clearly intelligent, cunning, and capable,”
“Alright, sir. It will be done,”
And out of the chaos of the Carstvoan Revolution, a new, strong republic emerged. The economy started to grow once more as factories shifted from producing rifles, tanks, and artillery to toasters, cans, and tractor engines. A new government was formed, with a Premier being elected by a Council of the most prominent and influential revolutionaries. The choice of the first Premier was obvious. The choice of the next Premier, though, was far less clear.
While Premier Ilya still officially led the nation out of his bunker below the Imperial Palace, renamed the Council Headquarters after its reconstruction, his rapidly declining health had caused a great redistribution of power. It had been divided between his secretary, second-in-command, master propagandist, and first among equals in the Council, Councillor Marsha, the leader of the army, a former field soldier, hero of the veterans, the prodigious Grand Marshal Lev, and lawmaker, constitution writer, and creator of the new legal code of the Republic, Councillor Miroslav, all to the dismay of the Council, which had hoped it would fill the void Ilya would leave. The wheels of conflict had been set in motion, the only thing preventing its start being the ticking time bomb that was Premier Ilya’s health.
Within fifteen months of his proclamation of the Carstvoan Republic, Premier Ilya suffered a stroke, killing him in his sleep, and leaving a massive power vacuum. And all who had once been subservient and loyal to him rushed to fill it. The two senior partners among Ilya’s heirs, Marsha and Lev, met on a bright and warm morning, discussing prospects of cooperation over breakfast.
“Marsha. Good morning,” Lev opened, sitting down and taking a sip from his flask.
“Good morning to you, Grand Marshal,” his counterpart replied, carefully setting down her fork and knife.
“Let’s get straight to the point. Premier Ilya’s public funeral is tomorrow. After that, well… the Council will immediately start infighting,”
“I agree. Any of that will weaken us as a whole. I’d prefer to avoid it. And your help in this matter will be appreciated. I’ve already secured support from Miroslav. The people will be swayed easily,”
“Yes, but for the voice of the people to have any effect, we have to put on a show for them. Tomorrow, at the funeral, you’ll be reading out Ilya’s will. A few veteran divisions should keep the Council members silent. The only other copies of Ilya’s will are with me, as the head of the military, and Miroslav, founder of the judiciary. Between the three of us, we can make Ilya’s will whatever we want it to be,”
“And as for what happens after, you two could serve as… Vice-Premiers, or-”
“No. If even one copy gets leaked, you fall. My position, on the other hand, is secure. The Council can’t hurt the military much. I’m offering this to you out of generosity. We’re going to be equals in this,”
“You’re bluffing. The Council could slash your funding,”
“They wouldn’t dare. The Republic is vast and unstable, and we all know that. Lose the support of the military, and they lose their hold over the nation. I’m sure they would hate to see the east break away,”
“Alright, alright. You win. A relationship of equals. Just do your part, and I’ll do mine,”
“I’m glad you see things this way. What should we call our government, though? The… Troika? The Supreme Council? The Triumvirate?”
“The Triumvirate seems good. It’s got a nice ring to it. Anyway, do we have a deal?”
The Councillor and the Grand Marshal locked eyes for a second, mutual respect glimmering through an exterior of pure, unadulterated, Machiavellian ruthlessness. “Deal,”
In front of a massive assembly before the Council Headquarters, Councillor Marsha read out the will of Premier Ilya, who had supposedly given full powers to herself, Grand Marshal Lev, and Councillor Miroslav. Grand Marshal Lev took the stage, ratifying Marsha’s reading of the will. As for Miroslav, however, he had vanished. Right before Marsha sent someone to find him, Marshal August came onstage, the final copy of the will in his hands. Before the people, he took the stage, opening his address in the same way the dead Premier would. “People of Carstvoa!”
“Councillor Miroslav has been assassinated by a group of Council members seeking to declare Premier Ilya’s will as invalid and instate themselves as tyrants,”
The people collectively panicked. The crowd gasped, screamed, and broke into a brief chaos. After a few seconds, Marshal August, seemingly satisfied, continued, “But there is nothing to worry about. I will personally ensure that the traitors who have committed such a heinous crime are brought to justice, while also taking on the burden of Councillor Miroslav’s job until a replacement is found. And as my first action in Councillor Miroslav’s stead, I declare Premier Ilya’s will valid!”
The people cheered. Marshal August smiled. Marsha and Lev exchanged concerned glances. The Marshal had saved them. He could have exposed their plot right there, but he had chosen not to. And standing on the stage, next to both of them, he made clear his price.
For the first time since Premier Ilya’s funeral, the Council convened. The last to arrive, Marshal August walked in, a small leather-bound book in his hands. “The investigation is complete,” he announced, ignoring the formalities. “Councillors Zino and Alesya, you are accused of treason against the Carstvoan Republic and the assassination of Councillor Miroslav. The trial is tomorrow,” The Council exploded into a cacophony of voices, waves upon waves of meaningless noise. Zino and Alesya had been the most vocal of those who had challenged Marsha, Lev, and August’s new triumvirate. And now they had been given a death sentence in all but name.
The moon was sinking below the horizon, and the world was wrapped in a particularly cold twilight. The victorious triumvirs dined under a purple sky and above a blood-stained ground, preparing to discuss the future of themselves and their nation.
“So,” August began, breaking the deafening silence. “Carstvoa is finally secure. With the Council in check, what do you propose as our next course of action?”
“We make this official,” Marsha replied, a tone of finality in her voice. “Anything that could threaten us is gone. The Council is subdued, the judiciary paralysed, and the military clinging on to Lev’s every word,”
“We could hold a speech tomorrow. The people will be fully swayed, and the chaos will be over,” Lev said. And he believed it.
It was a bright and warm morning. The crowd gathered at the Council Headquarters as Councillor- no, Triumvir Marsha took the stage, Lev and August flanking her. “People of Carstvoa!” she began. “The traitorous Councillors Zino and Alesya have been defeated. Carstvoa, and Premier Ilya’s legacy with it, is secure. This is the first day of a new dawn, a new golden age for us and our people. And now, everyone, I declare the Triumvirate formed! Long live the Revolution!”
The three Triumvirs smiled as they gazed out into the horizon, the sun shining brightly through a cloudless sky. The struggle was over.