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Chapter 36: Rages and Battered Desks
A simple wooden desk was all there was in Scipio's office. There was no carpet where feet could shift, nor was there a shelf where books could sit. There was only that desk and the floorboards, three windows and a door to the left. It was very, very, simple.
The three windows were directly in front desk. The largest was in the middle, flanked by the other two. The largest was the most efficient; it was large and could accommodate three regular Archadians side by side and was very effective in welcoming sunlight, wind and view. The other two however were more holes than windows, simple squares carved due to whim.
The door to the left was as simple as everything else. Scipio was in stark contrast with his office. The room was bare and was colored with hues of dull grey and brown while he was dressed in deep tones of black and red.
No manner of queer odds and ends littered his desk. His gloved hands were the only things which occupied the surface. The desk had two drawers at the left hand side and two at the right. The left contained a few sheets of parchment and a quill. There was also a bottle running low of ink. The lower drawer once contained the crest which he had surrendered to the vile Vladimir. He winced at the thought.
The right hand drawers contained a pistol and several charges. He took one of the charges and placed it in his gloved palm.
The door to the left shook as someone knocked it from the outside.
'Come in.' Scipio said exasperatedly. Every visitor he had received were messengers who brought nothing but summons from the Emperor or the Senators.
The knob turned and the door swung outward. A door swinging outward obliged the visitor to step back a little. Scipio had a good view of the doorway; the outward swing gave him ample time to blow any assailant's head off.
An Imperial soldier stepped in. Scipio looked at him with a raised brow—even if he raised a brow the Imperial could not see, he had his mask on always—as he saluted him the way Archadian soldiers salute their officers.
'Soldiers are not eligible messengers. Their duties are to war and war alone.' Scipio told the Imperial. The Imperial shifted uneasily, 'Speak.'
The Imperial cleared his throat and then said nervously, 'S-senator Ortal wishes your presence at the Imperial palace complex, your honor.' The Imperial then straightened his back. He was nervous; every messenger after the twelfth had feared being ordered to give word to Scipio: Scipio killed the twelfth when it had failed to deliver the message due to stuttering.
'This…Senator could not avail the employ of a conventional messenger?' Scipio asked blankly.
'N-nay, your honor.' The Imperial was beginning to get more shaky.
'Dismissed.' Scipio said disgustedly with an impatient wave of his hand.
The Imperial saluted, bowed then walked briskly out of the room, closing the door behind him.
As soon as the door was shut Scipio cursed at the ceiling violently. He pounded his desk and roared in rage.
An Imperial soldier standing guard in the hall turned his head in puzzlement towards Scipio's office; he could almost swear he was hearing muffled screams.
Scipio scowled and thrashed his desk a little more before he abruptly stopped and straightened and fixed his hair. He stood up gracefully and exited his desolate office. People always ranted about how un-grand his office was even though his salary was more than enough to afford a hundred of the current offices he had exclusive of possible adornment.
Growling, he closed the door behind him. Whenever he flew into rage he could not tell why, all he knew was that memories fancied to flood back into his mind each time he lost hold of his wayward temper.
As he marched out of the Ministry building he remembered the bout he had with the Tournesol captain, he was disappointed. The existence of the covert organization was classified information even to the Majisters. However, he, having stayed up late at night for countless occasions, had seen suspicious figures bounding here and there on the rooftops. He was able to dig up information of the Order of the Tournesol: the finest five in all Ivalice. If the finest of the finest was to be easily bested unarmed then the other four were no more than sitting cockatrices.
When he had reached the palace complex he suddenly remembered the tiny boy what called by the public 'emperor.' He was disgusted by the knowledge that Archades was to be steered into directions preferred by the boy. He was a boy, no more but surely less.
When the guards saluted him he saluted back and he then remembered his ascent to Majister. All the blood spilled just to secure that seat which he, nor the others, ever truly wanted. The painful and harrowing ordeal was one of the many reasons of a Majister's unfriendly disposition. All the Majisters were forced to go through that horrible agoge. They were all forcefully taken and took on an Archadian nationality in exchange for salvation.
When he was climbing the red carpeted stairs he remembered the old, vile and withered Vladimir. Such a man was unfit to take up leadership of the valiant AAF or any contingent capable of combat. He was no more suited for leadership than he was to be within the company of the living.
He reached the heavy double doors and, as he had done so a few nights ago, pushed the doors open without knocking. He had not incurred Ortal's anger, his impatience only.
'Here was I to think that Majisters were courteous.' Ortal said sarcastically.
'What do you want?' Scipio hissed.
'Don't forget what you have given me,' Ortal fished the crest from his robe and brandished it at Scipio, 'I need you to command the Archadian foundries.'
'To create more ships and more weapons, understood. And then you want me, as the only Judge Majister, to pass an act to the senate providing that we amass every single male able to do battle to be enlisted in the army. Great, I have my commands, I'll be off. I'll expect my payment very soon.' Scipio spoke with a tired tone. He turned around sluggishly with a smug look on his face.
'Halt.' Ortal commanded.
'WHAT NOW?!' Scipio shouted impatiently.
'True enough what you have said are the commands I was to issue. However, you will have help with this action. Zargabath has escaped his captivity from Larsa.' Ortal hid the crest back in his black robe and joined his fingertips. The sight gave Scipio an urge to pounce on Ortal and kill him. He was getting impatient and all he wanted to be repatriated to his office and think and remember. He did not want to listen to this slob.
'Capture?' Scipio asked disbelievingly.
'Incredulous isn't it? You may kill him after you have signed the forms and permits.'
'Let him live. He is of no concern to us.'
'Is that so?' Ortal inquired doubtfully.
'The bureau he leads is more loyal to me now than they are to him.' Scipio answered with little hesitation. ' Of course, I know he is traitor and I ordered them beforehand to mask their hate for him until the time is right.'
'I don't trust your judgment.' Ortal replied coldly, an eyebrow raised and brow furrowed.
'What have you to lose?' the exasperation was evident in Scipio's answer.
'Everything.'
'A judge like him is no more than a Hume subject to death.' The Judge Majister scoffed, stressing the word Hume and subject to death.
'I will ensure yours if this escalates far beyond hold.' Ortal spoke in a voice that Scipio was sure the Senator though was threatening. Oh, how pathetic.
'I'm sure you will.' Scipio smirked.
The Senator did not seem to notice, like any other conversation they had and merely changed the subject.'Your pay will arrive at your office.'
'Thank you.' Scipio said, relieved. Finally he could continue pondering in his desolation until his pay arrived.
'Fifty million gil. Assure the worth of my while.'
Scipio merely gestured and left the room, this time allowing a vein-thin smile to adorn his lips.
