Chapter 402 - 285: The Duke of the Armenians

The morning sky was clear. Vardan went to the palace and, as was court custom, surrendered the two swords at his waist. Although he was a close companion of Ruben, he couldn’t help but wonder, ’Can this court in the mountains even be called a court?’

In any case, he now felt awkward about this custom.

After all, the great Armenian Kingdom of the Bagratid Dynasty had been destroyed for nearly forty years. Vardan hailed from an ancient family of Armenian Nobility, and for as long as he could remember, the kingdom had existed only in the words of his elders. His family had lost their lands when the Byzantine Empire occupied Armenia.

Their glory was long gone, and they were barely surviving on small plots of land and the last vestiges of their ancestors’ honor. The Armenians seemed destined to be second-class citizens within the Empire. Their freedom was but a dream—vivid, yet ultimately unreal.

Yet no one could have predicted that the Empire, once so powerful as to seem unshakable, would be utterly defeated by the Turkic People’s offensive seven years ago.

The Armenians had once again been given an opportunity to decide their own destiny and reclaim the freedom and glory that was their birthright.

From a young age, he had received excellent military training while also studying strategy and diplomacy. Filled with passion and a thirst for glory, he had joined Ruben’s ranks without hesitation—an Armenian noble with the Royal Family blood of the Bagratid Dynasty who had once served its last King.

Vardan had displayed his extraordinary leadership during the defense of a small Mountain Castle in Cilicia, successfully repelling a siege by the Turkic People. It was Vardan who, while assisting Ruben, suggested using the mountainous terrain for ambushes instead of confronting the enemy head-on.

After all, pitting Armenian Infantry—who lacked both horses and proper training—against the well-trained Turkic Cavalry was tantamount to suicide.

And so, by relying on an increasing number of successful small ambushes and the construction of more Mountain Castles, Ruben succeeded in driving the Turkic People out of the Cilicia Mountains and establishing a core settlement in Cilicia.

This earned him Ruben’s appreciation, and he was appointed chief military advisor and Commander.

It was a successful strategy; in fact, it had all but saved Armenian rule in Cilicia. Yet Vardan often found himself regretting it.

Perhaps due to his advancing age, Ruben had begun to cling to Vardan’s strategy, growing content with his current position. The recruiting parties sent out were no longer just for conscription; like the Turkic People, they were for plunder. More than once, he had seen soldiers from these parties brutalizing innocent Armenian villagers.

The men they forcibly conscripted were no longer just to be soldiers, but to be servants. Gradually, it wasn’t just men they were taking, but women as well.

Of course, Vardan knew that Ruben was not the one enjoying these spoils. Vardan also felt this was not done on Ruben’s orders; Ruben was a devout man.

He preferred the company of Monks and Priests to that of merchants and townsfolk. He preferred reading and discussing ancient wisdom to admiring and caressing the bodies of women.

Ruben knew, better than many, what was sinful and what was holy, what was wrong and what was holy.

And yet, it was precisely this that made Vardan so deeply worried.

As Vardan’s thoughts drifted, a young and very serious Attendant tapped the floor with a Shepherd’s Staff, pulling his mind back to the present.

He led Vardan to Ruben’s chambers.

Vardan had been granted an audience with him in this small, simple room many times before.

The walls were stone, painted white, so the room was well-lit. And yet, for some reason, more than twenty candles were burning in a corner. Each candle was scored with deep lines about a thumb’s width apart.

Clearly, the candles were not for illumination, as autumn sunlight streamed in through a large window. Vardan had no desire to ask their purpose, lest Ruben tell him. Vardan was not good at listening to such things, and Ruben tended to ramble on about them with great enjoyment.

Ruben was well-versed in theology, but Vardan found it tedious and dull.

Vardan could only guess that each candle represented a Saint Ruben had prayed to in recent days, and each scored line represented a sin to be burned away.

Ruben had a very keen awareness of sin—especially his own.

The room was piled high with parchment.

The great Duke of Armenia, Ruben, was waiting there, still dressed in his brown robe. Sitting before his desk, he looked like a Monk.

Standing beside him was Taglan of Panphilia, wearing his Sword. Before Ruben’s arrival, he had been the most powerful Armenian noble in Cilicia and Panphilia, a status that afforded him this privilege in Ruben’s court.

There was a third person in the room: an Armenian Monk who stared at Vardan with undisguised hatred.

The man’s name was Shahak. He was small and gaunt, with a pale face that Vardan remembered for being meticulously clean-shaven.

Monk Shahak had every reason to hate Vardan.

Vardan had encountered Monk Shahak in Pedias. At the time, Vardan was leading his soldiers in a siege against a Turkic Lord entrenched in Cilicia, and Monk Shahak was in that Lord’s service.

In his own words, he was saving the Armenians of Cilicia "through means other than slaughter," and claimed to have saved at least ten Armenians from being massacred by the Turkic People.

To Vardan, this was a blatant lie, but Ruben had believed him. He had given Shahak the respect due a Monk and a high court position as Ruben’s personal confessor.

Vardan had tried to kill him then, and his failure was something he had regretted ever since. Shahak glared at Vardan, who returned a pleasant smile, knowing it would only make the monk angrier.

Ruben didn’t look up at Vardan, merely gesturing toward him with his quill in an apparent sign of welcome.

Ruben stood at the standing desk he usually used for writing. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the harsh scratching of quill on parchment.

Monk Shahak smiled triumphantly, but then, he always did.

"The Consolation of Philosophy," Ruben said suddenly, still not looking up from his work.

Vardan wanted to speak with Ruben immediately about the Normans who had recently appeared in Cilicia, but upon seeing Monk Shahak and Taglan of Panphilia, he swallowed his words. He glanced around before pointing to the window.

"It looks like it might rain," Vardan said. "There’s a mist in the west, and the wind is strong, Duke."

Ruben gave Vardan a resigned look. "In this world, what could be more blissful or sweet than to serve and be close to a ruler?"

"Nothing!" Monk Shahak and Taglan said with enthusiasm.

Vardan did not answer, for he was utterly astonished.

Ruben appreciated ceremony and good manners, but he rarely desired sycophantic flattery. This question, however, seemed to demand some sort of foolish adoration from Vardan.

Seeing Vardan’s surprise, Ruben sighed and explained, "It is a question from the work I am transcribing."

"I look forward to reading it," said Monk Shahak.

Taglan of Panphilia said nothing, merely staring at Vardan with his dark Armenian eyes. He was a clever man, but about as trustworthy as a lame weasel.

Ruben ignored Monk Shahak. He set down his quill and looked at Vardan. "In this context, Lord Vardan, a ruler can be considered a representative of Almighty God. Does the question, then, not imply that consolation can be found in drawing near to God?

But I fear you find no consolation in either philosophy or religion, as you have never seemed to care much for God. This state of affairs worries me.

For the cause we undertake together is precisely in accordance with the will of God."

He shook his head, trying to wipe the ink from his hands with a damp cloth.

"He had best find his consolation in God, Duke," Monk Shahak interjected, "or his soul will burn in eternal fire."

"Amen," Taglan chimed in.