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<span class="mu-s">An Interlude</span>
You are Eteocles Oedipodionidês, and you sit straight-backed upon your father’s throne – the throne of Thebes. It is an imposing thing – a gigantic, smoothly-hewn chair of dark stone, it has a magnetic presence within the throne room. This strikes you as fitting - it is the singular locus of power of one of the great Hellenic powers. Your fingertips drum the polished rock absentmindedly. You are dressed in the finest robes of regal purple silk, threaded with gold. They cascade softly as you shift upon the unyielding stone; their whisper of affirmation audible only to you. The embroidered silks are quite comfortable, if heavy, due to the gold - the robes are tailored to your massive frame. In your right hand, a large silver goblet is filled with well-mixed wine; an exquisite vintage you only just discovered in your father’s cellars yesterday. Taken together, the robes, the goblet, and your godlike appearance all contribute to the desired effect…
When seated upon the throne of Cadmus, which is raised on a dais – you loom over the hall like proud Zeus himself. You have learned over the past year that appearances matter greatly in the business of kings. A king is required by necessity to project strength and authority at all times, even in such quotidian affairs as this one – the public hearings that you allow once weekly, where nearly any Theban is allowed to air their concerns, provided that they are willing to queue and wait their turn to speak. Governance over the unruly and disagreeable Theban nobility has always been a delicate balance; the hearings provide a necessary mechanism for a Theban king to manage discontent. Between you and the unruly masses, your elite guard stands with spears raised – a constant reminder that a simple command could send their shades down to the realm of the Black Thunderer.
There is a middle-aged petitioner speaking to you in droning words, a rural nobleman just barely ranked above commoners. You make a show of attentiveness, even while your mind wanders. You are more concerned with the posturing of his body than the content of his plea – it is cringing and servile, as is proper. The petitioner is all but abasing himself, making yet another complaint about soil quality that you cannot bring yourself to care about. You advise the petitioner “patience”, and summon the next forward from the endless, milling crowd of needful Thebans standing in the center of the throne room. To each side, the assorted higher Theban nobility sit on rising benches, arranged at varying heights like those in an arena or theatre. The Theban nobility, brightly dressed, are splashes of color in the gloomy hall; this early in the morning, the mirrors have yet to catch the light of Helios Ηλεκτωρ to properly illuminate the interior.
