The Garden of Martyrs could more accurately be called a cloister, rather than a garden - barely more than a wide, curved walkway, overlooked by the tourists' glassed-in route through the palace, it is one of the emperor's least favourite places. He gives the statues an ill-favoured glance as he strides through.
"You know there weren't even any real martyrs, don't you."
"Majesty." The Chancellor's response is minimal, hoping to cut off the emperor's usual rant before it can start. Above them, the wall of martyrs stands unheeding. Each figure is nine feet tall; their bronze chests are out-thrust, their chiselled features and business suits rendered in bold, planar slabs, in a style which in a previous era would have been more suited to Hollywood cartoons or Soviet propaganda. The arrows sticking out from their chests form a formidable fence, jutting up and out over the two mens' heads.
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