บท 31: The Council
"There was nothing great achieved without danger."
-Niccolò Machiavelli
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The Council of Ministers gathered in the opulent Hall of Gilded Columns.
The hall exuded a sense of imperial grandeur, its lofty ceilings adorned with elaborate frescoes depicting scenes of Russian triumphs. Massive chandeliers hung from above, their crystal facets catching the morning light streaming in through arched windows. The walls were lined with towering marble columns, their once-gleaming surfaces now dulled in places, evidence of hands brushing past over decades of meetings.
A long, polished oak table stretched through the center of the room, its surface bearing the faint scratches of countless pens, papers, and elbows resting during hours of debate. Along its edges sat high-backed chairs, each upholstered in faded burgundy velvet, worn at the edges where ministers had leaned in during moments of intensity. The brass fixtures on the chairs shone, but not perfectly. Tarnish clung to the corners, a quiet reminder of time's passage.
Maps and charts hung on the walls, their parchment edges slightly curled, the ink on some faded from years of use. A globe stood in one corner, its surface smooth and shiny from fingers tracing trade routes and territorial ambitions. The room smelled faintly of ink, old wood, and wax polish. A mix of tradition and pragmatism, as if the space itself bore witness to the weight of decisions made within its bounds.
On a side table, stacks of papers and leather-bound ledgers lay neatly arranged, though not perfectly aligned, as if hastily set down after late-night preparations. An inkwell sat nearby, its base stained with drips, and a quill rested at an angle, as though it had been placed there only moments before.
The council chamber was dominated by the imposing fireplace at the far end of the room. Its intricate carvings of double-headed eagles and Orthodox crosses gleamed faintly in the warm firelight, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The mantle was worn, its edges softened from years of use, and above it hung a grand portrait of Tsar Alexander III, his stern gaze seeming to oversee the proceedings even in death.
The air carried a faint mixture of old wood, ink, and smoke, with just a hint of dampness from the November chill that clung to the stone walls. Dust motes floated lazily in the firelight, visible only when the flames flared brighter as the logs shifted.
Nicholas sat at the head of the table, framed by the glow of the fire behind him. His presence filled the room, not because of his imposing stature but through the weight of his gaze and the gravity of the moment. He rested his hands lightly on the table, his polished cufflinks catching the light as he adjusted his posture.
"Gentlemen," Nicholas began, his voice steady but charged with intent. "This chamber has witnessed many decisions that shaped the empire we serve. Today, we gather to make decisions that will determine its future."
'I don't know why but I got a bad feeling about this...' thought Pobedonostsev.
The ministers sat in silence, their faces illuminated by the flickering light. Sergei Witte was poised, his pen resting on the blank page of his notebook. Konstantin Pobedonostsev sat with his fingers steepled, his sharp eyes studying Nicholas closely.
"My father," Nicholas continued, his voice firm but tinged with reflection, "dedicated his life to safeguarding this empire, ensuring its strength against all adversaries. His legacy is one of stability, but stability alone will not secure our future. It is our duty to take what he built and make it stronger. Not through force alone, but through foresight."
The fire crackled behind him, as though emphasizing his words.
"The treasury faces its burdens," Nicholas said, his voice growing sharper. "Our people labor tirelessly, yet they carry the heaviest weight of taxes. This cannot endure. The nobility must understand that the empire's strength relies not just on the fields but on the unity of all its subjects. I will introduce reforms to ensure that every estate contributes to the stability of Russia. The nobles will be asked to pay their fair share. A small price to pay for the preservation of this vast empire that has given us all so much.
A draft for the taxation system reform will be worked on with Count Witte and will be presented to you soon."
'He didn't even ask my advice on this one though... that is not a great sign.' Sergei Witte pondered to himself.
He then sighed, contemplating once again.
'He's now getting bolder and bolder. His moves haven't ever been wrong until now though. And I don't think this is a bad move either...'
A murmur rippled through the room. Some ministers exchanged uneasy glances, while others nodded subtly.
Pobedonostsev grit his teeth. He couldn't oppose Nicholas as directly as he did before. And conveniently, by Nicholas's order, Grand Duke Sergei was taking care of the guests who came for the Tsar's funeral, so he wasn't present in the meeting. Right now, no one wanted to directly oppose Nicholas in front of everyone.
'Quite convenient for him huh? What a happy coincidence!' He thought.
"I understand your concerns," Nicholas said, raising a hand to quiet the murmurs. "This is not a punishment, nor is it a departure from our traditions. It is a call to solidarity, a reminder that every man of standing has a duty to the land that sustains him. A slight adjustment to their contributions will lighten the burden on our peasants and foster loyalty among our people. This is not a matter of politics. It is a matter of patriotism!
Also, do not forget the capitalists and the money they have been gaining lately. They will also be taxed, their fast uptrend and ambitions curbed. They don't have the accumulated capital like we do after all.
Sergei Witte leaned forward, his pen scratching against the paper as he took notes. Pobedonostsev's eyes narrowed, though he remained silent, his expression unreadable thanks to his years of experience and training of his poker face.
"As for our administration," Nicholas continued, "it must become a tool of efficiency and order. Corruption and inefficiency will not be tolerated. I will work with Count Witte to implement modern accounting methods to ensure that every kopek collected is accounted for and put to use. The bureaucracy must function like a well-oiled machine, with accountability at every level."
The fire's glow danced across his face as Nicholas leaned forward, his voice lowering but gaining an intensity that seemed to fill the room.
"This council has been called not just to discuss, but to act. Russia demands our best, and I will accept nothing less. Together, we will build an empire that is strong, just, and unshakable."
The room fell silent once more, the weight of his words settling over the gathered ministers. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the faint scratch of Witte's pen as he finished writing.
Nicholas rose from his seat, his hands resting firmly on the table.
"I will not impose these reforms by force. I seek your counsel and your cooperation. But let me be clear. Russia cannot afford to stagnate. If we are to remain strong, if we are to protect our heritage and ensure our future, then we must act now. I ask you to join me in this endeavor, not as Tsar and ministers, but as Russians united by a common purpose."
Nicholas sat back, his gaze sweeping across the room, challenging anyone to object. None did. The Tsar's authority, though young, was firmly established. The ministers, conservative and progressive alike, understood that a new chapter had begun, and they would be part of it. Or risk being left behind.
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