Fallen Eagle-Chapter 41: A Foolhardy Heart

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 41: A Foolhardy Heart

Breathless cold seeped through the weathered stone of Probatofrourio as easily as it knifed in through the narrow arrow slits that passed for windows. The fort seemed to breathe with it, exhaling frost into the dim barracks. Orestis’s joints creaked under the strain of rising in the dead chill; his tendons protested like old bowstrings, but what his body had lost to the years, his mind had clawed back in sheer stubbornness.
He forced himself up from his hay cot, brushing aside the prickling straw, and heard the familiar rustle of the veterans following suit with the same brisk, economical movements they’d drilled into themselves over a lifetime - and relearned in their first stint in the Fort.
The recruits dragged themselves up minutes later. Bleary-eyed and slack-faced, still unused to the relentless bells and shouted wake-ups, they mimicked the veterans with decidedly less enthusiasm and far less vigour, rubbing sleep from tired eyes. It had taken more than one ‘morning scare’ from the veterans to hammer the fort’s punishing schedule into their soft village bones. This wasn’t the record pace the old Captain had imposed when he’d first taken Probatofrourio in hand, but it was still a world harsher than anything these boys had known. It was good enough. For now.
Orestis buckled on his familiar war axe, old Nadia. The weight of her head settled into its nook on his hip, a spot wholly reserved for her after all these years. The haft was smooth where his fingers gripped it, darkened by sweat and rain and old blood. He gave the weapon a firm pat for good luck - a habit he caught himself leaning on more and more in these days.
He stepped out into the corridor and then into the courtyard ahead of the assembled mass, the cold biting harder out in the open. Behind him, the ’sheep’ as the veterans called them, filed out slowly, shoulders hunched against the morning bite, yawning into their palms and whispering to one another.
“Oy, look who’s finally deigned to get out of bed.” Philippos’s voice cut through the murmur from among the knot of veteran men-at-arms by the wall. “Don’t let us keep you from your beauty sleep.”
A few of the men around him grunted in laughter. The life-and-death struggle against the Tatars had scraped away softness and grudges in equal measure, leaving behind something lean and dangerous that showed in the way they stood together now, shoulder to shoulder without thinking about it.
“You ought to try it sometime,” Orestis shot back, the banter coming easy where once it didn’t exist. “Might help with that ugly mug of yours.”
Philippos bared his broken teeth in a lopsided grin and spat on the frosted ground, the gobbet hissing faintly on the stone. “Damn jokester, this one,” he muttered, the well-worn line he reached for when a witty retort failed him.
Their new captain trudged toward them across the yard like a stout bull shouldering through a crowded pen, every step heavy with the weariness of too little sleep. Leonidas’s height and broad build, already impressive before, seemed to have grown a size since the day they’d pinned the Captain’s mantle on his shoulders. Capitaincy was a nobleman’s post; seeing a common soldier raised to command was a rarity. Probatofrourio was an exile for unwelcome nobles, far from a prestigious commission, but it didn’t tarnish one bit Leonidas’s achievement in the men’s eyes - his appointment was a choice every soul in the fort quietly rejoiced in and appreciated.
“The shepherds on the northwestern hills have been complaining,” Leonidas began without preamble, voice carrying easily over the yard. “They’ve seen faded campsites in the woods and the village of Xerolakki, on the western edge, is neck-deep in another squabble. The two most preeminent families are at each other’s throats over the same two grazing spots. We have to make yet
another
appearance to cool heads before things escalate.”
He sighed, breath steaming in the cold, and Orestis could understand the weight in that sound. Used to be a fort commander only cared about the valley just beyond his walls. However, with the creation of the Coalition, Probatofrourio’s garrison had been turned into something else: a peacekeeping force, a logistics hub, and the nerve center for the now established Shepherd system. The Crown had stepped in later and ‘abolished’ the Coalition, but only on parchment. The mutual-aid pacts, shared harvests, and localized resource pools still flowed, only now they did so under the Crown’s seal.
The lords in Mangup recognized the old system was broken so they leaned on the captain’s innovations. They couldn’t risk a border noble growing fat on too much gratitude and too many favours so they centered the whole tangle of responsibilities on the fort and placed a commoner in charge, a man beholden to the Crown and no one else. For Leonidas, it was as much blessing as curse: power enough to matter, shackles enough to feel every tug.
“Nikos,” Leonidas called, his tone carrying a new edge of authority that hadn’t been there back when he was just Sergeant. “How are things with the new additions to the Shepherd system?”
There were many things Leonidas did exactly as the old Captain had taught him, but he was already tugging at the seams, looking for places to innovate, to make the system his own instead of merely inheriting it. Something he didn’t take the brute as capable of doing.
“Tough,” Nikos answered. The younger man had grown into the role of Sergeant with the same quiet patience that had made him the most of Probatoufrorio’s veterans. “There’s still some pushback on the terms of the arrangement. I’ll go talk with them after the morning drills.”
“mAybe we should hold off on the changes, best to let the little lambs get used to their post before you try reinventing the wheel,” Philippos cautioned. He had emerged as the reserved, conservative voice among the veterans, and one whose gruff opinion now drew a brief, thoughtful quiet. “God knows the kids in my group can barely hold a spear without shitting themselves at imaginary enemies.” He’d been granted his own pentarchos to command, and the responsibility clung to him like an extra layer of armour.
“I think what they’re scared of is you,” Orestis couldn’t help adding, the barb slipping out with a crooked smile and drawing grins and a few muffled snickers from the circle.
He jerked his chin toward the shivering line of recruits. “We should get around to the morning training, Captain,” The air still held that clean, brittle crispness that made breath sting in the lungs—perfect for waking men up the hard way.
“Are they all recovered, Orestis?” Leonidas asked. He rarely bothered with ranks when speaking to his men. To him, we were all just soldiers.
“Aye, the fever was short-lived. They just needed a bit of miracle broth and rest.” Orestis wiped his hands on his cloak as he spoke. He had, of course, been designated the fort’s healer. “Although the honey is running out from the initial provisions,” he added, the thought souring his tone. The honey was what kept the miracle broth from tasting like boiled ditchwater.
“I thought you said we had a few more weeks of it left.” Leonidas complained, brows falling into a deep line.
“That was a few weeks ago, Captain.” Orestis answered deadpan. He’d become the informal quartermaster, simply because he was the one most familiar with Demetrios’s old system and could puzzle through a few letters his father had once forced into his skull. He kept the records his own way, scratching simple marks onto scraps of parchment and the back of crate lids - crooked lines, loops and dots that might not belong to any known alphabet, but which he’d invented for every sack of grain, jar of salve, and, now dwindling, pot of honey.
“How on earth are we going to get honey delivered to us?” Leonidas sighed, the sound heavy and long, the kind he used whenever problems wandered outside spear training and physical drills. Logistics, bureaucracy, and diplomacy had become his single greatest fears.
Leonidas scrubbed a hand over his face and then straightened, turning toward the yard. “All right,” he said, voice cutting across the cold air. “If we can’t conjure honey, we can at least make proper soldiers. Run them through the marching drills. Hard.”
The order rolled through the old hands like a familiar drumbeat. Philippos and the other veterans barked commands, driving the recruits into formation. Lines wobbled into place, boots scuffing on frozen ground.
“About face!” Philippos roared.
The recruits spun, some too slow, some too early, a few tangling feet and nearly toppling. The veterans prowled along the ranks, snapping out corrections, cuffing shoulders, yanking cloaks straight. Again and again they sent the men through the gauntlet of turns and steps until the clumsy shuffle began to smooth into something like order.
It was the second week of December now, and already the newer men were being sent on short patrols along the nearer ridges, getting their first real taste of the land they were meant to guard. Between marches and drills they kept the old Captain’s measures alive: boiling water until the steam rose, sending parties out daily to gather firewood, check fish and hare traps, tend to the garden and, naturally, latrine duty. They’d made the recruits dig fresh ones on the first day, the grueling ritual bringing back nostalgic memories.
“Forward march!” came the next command, and the yard thudded to life with the uneven rhythm of tired boots.
By the time Philippos finally called a halt, even he was breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold. He planted his hands on his hips, chest heaving, then found enough air to twist toward Orestis.
“You’re getting slow in your old age,” he puffed, a grin splitting his battered face. “Another round and you’d be the one collapsing, not the pups.”
“Keep talking and I’ll have you on latrine inspection for a week,” Orestis shot back, but his reply was distracted. His gaze had snagged on something beyond the walls, out where the road bent along the low ridge.
A few figures had appeared on the horizon, dark shapes against the pale sky, riding in a tight knot. As they drew closer, details began to resolve - the cut of their cloaks, the way the lead rider held himself in the saddle. Orestis’s heartbeat stumbled.
No. It couldn’t be.
He blinked, rubbed at his eyes as if the cold might be playing tricks on him. But the gait, the proud, familiar seat, the way the man’s head turned to take in the fort as he approached, it was unmistakable.
The Captain was back.
The wind rustled through the bare branches, a wheezing sound like a tired whisper. It seemed fitting, Cassandra thought as she slid a freshly folded parchment into the crack in the wood of the old swing she hadn’t used in years. The ropes were frayed, the plank weathered and grey, but it still cradled her offerings each winter. A small ritual she conducted in secret, away from prying eyes.
Well… almost all eyes.
“What is this year’s poem about?” Hilda asked. Her usual boundless energy was muted, as it always was when they ventured near the oak in the heart of winter. She picked her steps carefully around the roots, voice softer than normal, as if afraid to disturb something.
“Nothing much, little sister,” Cassandra replied, giving the swing a gentle push so it creaked once. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat and sent a half-wish, half-request up into the cold, white sky. “Health, family…”
“...Love?” Hilda supplied, eyebrows arching mischievously, the word heavy with double meaning.
Cassandra turned just so Hilda could see the full force of her eye roll. The girl had been relentless ever since that close encounter in the sewing room’s study. “Come now, Cassa, you can’t keep on telling me the meeting with the Captain meant nothing!” Hilda went on, pouncing on the topic like a cat on yarn. “He was practically fawning over you!”
Hilda seemed far more thrilled about the whole thing than Cassandra. No doubt because, for once, she was the prime informant on the latest, hottest bit of gossip in the castle - a position that granted a certain measure of influence and power over the other stuffy Ladies who mocked her during lessons.
“You are presuming much. He merely asked for my name,” Cassandra said, trying to lay out the plain facts for what felt like the thousandth time. For the thousand-and-first, it fell on utterly deaf ears.
“After stating he was looking for an adequate match!” Hilda nearly squealed, clapping her gloves together. “He was basically proposing on the spot!”
“And there are many adequate ladies in the castle,” Cassandra countered crisply. “You are presuming too much. Besides,” she shook her hair free of a dusting of snow. The white blanket had fallen thick and often this year compared to previous. “That would assume I am interested in him at all, which I most certainly am not.” She drew herself up and struck a regal pose to punctuate the point.
Hilda burst out laughing, a far more infuriating sound than it had any right to be. “Oh, my dear older sister, your deceit is so complete you even fool yourself!” she declared with pompous propriety. For someone who claimed to have no talent for etiquette, she slipped into the role of a court dame alarmingly well. Madame Zeta would have fainted with pride if she could see her now. Hilda, it seemed, only grew in such skills when it suited her. “You cannot even say as much without growing beet red.”
Cassandra turned back toward the view across the snowy courtyard, definitely not to hide her expression. She harrumphed. “Nosy little brat. The Captain is from a disreputable household, penniless, and has forfeited his inheritance, from what I have heard.”
“He is also dashing, a decorated war veteran, and shrewd, from what I have heard,” Hilda replied smoothly, looping her arm through Cassandra’s and steering her away from the oak. “I’m not asking you to fall head over heels for him, simply not to try to fool me.”
Cassandra paused and studied her teenage cousin, snowflakes caught in the girl’s dark lashes. For all her dramatics and mischief, Hilda could, from time to time, utter strangely piercing little truths that sounded far older than her years.
“What? I’m uncultured, not stupid.” Hilda shot back at once, chin lifting. She’d caught the look on Cassandra’s face and bristled, shoulders squaring as if ready to take offense at the slightest provocation.
“You only use your talents for tomfoolery.” Cassandra replied dryly. She reached out and flicked a finger against Hilda’s forehead, a sharp little tap the girl was too slow to dodge. “Especially for prying into matters you shouldn’t.”
“Ow, Cassa, that hurt!” Hilda clapped a gloved hand to the offended spot, lower lip jutting out. She had such an annoyingly endearing expression when she pouted, eyes going wide and theatrical. “I just wanted you to tell me what was in the poem so I can sell the information to the other Ladies,” she confessed, with a shameless honesty only she could manage. “Do you know how fun it is to have them eat crumbs out of the palm of my hand?”
Cassandra couldn’t help the breathy laugh that escaped her, she decided to humour her cousin on a whim and illuminate her a little. “Luck in love,” she said at last.
Her gaze drifted back to the swing, to the folded parchment resting where the worn plank met the old oak, and to the promise she’d made that day.
She came to a decision.
“I will arrange a meeting with the Captain,” Cassandra said. The words were quiet, spoken as much to the wind as to Hilda.
Hilda’s eyes nearly sprang from their sockets. “You mean?” she breathed, stepping closer, boots crunching in the snow.
“The Captain is looking for a partner, and so am I.” Cassandra straightened, folding her hands neatly before her. She did not speak with the blushing, flustered admiration of a lovestruck maiden, but with the measured, weighing tone of a proper Nomikos lady judging a proposal. “I will take his measure directly.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; any instances of this story on Amazon.
The admission hung between them, sharp and fragile. Cassandra swallowed, suddenly aware of the cold biting her cheeks. She prayed, silently, that her mother was watching over her now, and that she was not being too foolhardy with her future or her heart.
The upper floor of Probatofrourio Fort smelled of the stone dust and old wood Theodorus remembered. Here he had spent many a night huddled over maps by candlelight, eyes burning as he planned how to meet the Tatars in the passes and beat them back. Now his concern was of a decidedly different nature.
The captain’s quarters and office had been claimed by Leonidas since Theodorus’s departure, and the space bore his mark. Where once there had been teetering stacks of parchment and neat rows of s, there was now a marked lack of paperwork. The desk was clearer, maps rolled tight and stowed instead of spread over every surface.
After arriving with a small entourage of riders, Theodorus had sent word that he wished to meet with Leonidas and his sergeants. They now gathered in the room, the pale light slanting in, drawing pale lines over the scuffed floor.
“Thank you for agreeing to the meeting on such short notice,” Theodorus began, cloak settling around him as he stepped inside. “I know my presence was unexpected.”
“Of course, Captain.” Leonidas stood at attention almost before the last word left his mouth, shoulders instinctively squaring. He gestured for Theodorus to sit on one of the two benches along the wall. “It is no trouble.” The words were smooth enough, but there was a hint of awkwardness in the way he shifted, as if the formality of being addressed by his proper rank from Theodorus.
“Oh, but it is, Captain,” Theodorus replied, deliberately emphasizing the title as he lowered himself onto the bench. “You did not have to acquiesce to my request so readily.” He extended a hand toward the opposite bench, inviting Leonidas to sit with him rather than loom over him.
“Please, Captain, do not jest so,” Leonidas muttered, almost flustered, and plopped down with more weight than grace, looking faintly abashed.
“We are the same rank, Captain.” Theodorus’s voice cooled, a strand of something threading through it that did not belong with his youth. “Modesty is a virtue, but a commander should act his rank.”
Leonidas straightened at once, spine lengthening as if someone had tugged an invisible cord. Being reminded of this by a teenage boy - no matter how formidable he was - lent a particular sharpness to the lesson. The sergeants ringed along the wall exchanged the faintest glances and then fixed their eyes forward, expressionless.
“What did you want to discuss, Captain?” Leonidas asked more formally this time. Theodorus inclined his head, satisfied with the adjustment.
“The Doux has tasked me with implementing the Shepherd reconnaissance system across the northern frontier,” Theodorus began, folding his hands over his knee. “I wanted to discuss an opportunity to improve it further. I’ve discovered a resource previously untapped in our principality, one that could potentially serve as a great boon.”
“What do you mean, Captain?” Leonidas asked, trading a quick look with his sergeants. Their faces were thoughtful, brows furrowed.
“The Tatars themselves,” Theodorus said.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. “There are dozens, potentially hundreds of nomad families living on the outskirts of Theodoro’s territory or thereabouts,” he went on. “Even if they migrate across vast territories between us and our neighbours, they spend part of their time here, in our lands.”
He could see eyes widening around the room as the shape of the idea formed. He leaned forward, unable to keep a note of excitement from his voice. “What better scouts could we have than a light cavalry force that ranges well beyond our borders and knows intimately how to spot Tatar raiding bands, how to read their tracks, how to match them for speed? If we could bring some of them into the system, teach them our signals and pay them fairly, they could extend our sight far past our walls.”
The reaction was not what he expected. Instead of shock or immediate debate, the veterans of Probatofrourio promptly chuckled, a low ripple of amusement rolling through the room.
“Well, it’s funny that you mention that, Captain,” Leonidas said, smiling at Theodorus’s puzzled expression. “Because we are already trying to implement that idea.”
He gestured toward Nikos’s dark hair and sharp cheekbones that spoke of mixed heritage, who stepped forward quietly from near the door.
“I knew of some families in the region with ties to my own,” Nikos explained, voice calm but carrying. “So I reached out to them. Asked if they’d be willing to participate in the system and serve as scouts. We’ve been informing them of our signal codes and expanding the network to encompass their own foraging range.”
Theodorus blinked, surprise breaking through his controlled expression. “Whose idea was it?” he asked, studying Nikos with renewed interest. “Yours, Nikos?”
The sergeant allowed himself a small smile, the expression tugging at the scar along his cheek. “Well, I thought of my own ways to contribute and improve,” Nikos said. “That was what you always preached, Captain.”
Theodorus rose and stepped closer, the bench creaking behind him. He clapped Nikos on the back, palm landing solidly on mail and worn wool. A light laugh escaped him, genuine despite the gravity of their talk. “Good work, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Nikos replied, dipping his head. “Although it hasn’t been all sunshine and roses, I must admit.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?” Theodorus asked, returning to his place but keeping his attention fixed on him.
“The nomadic families are… reticent to go against the Khanate, even indirectly,” Nikos said slowly, choosing his words with care. “They’ve lived a long time in these lands, away from old grievances, keeping their heads down. They don’t feel any loyalty toward the Principality. They don’t want to choose a side. They want to graze their herds, move with the seasons, and be left alone, as they always have.”
Nikos’s gaze dropped to the floorboards, his features softening into something almost wistful. “And who can blame them? I’ve lived the struggles myself. Our people are barely tolerated in the countryside. We’re foreigners when we ride with the Tatars, and strangers when we walk with Greeks. Why should they help us at all?” He let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “Only my own family and a few close kin have agreed to join the Shepherd system.”
“Those are all valid points, Sergeant,” Theodorus answered after a thoughtful pause. “The main problem is that there isn’t a large enough advantage to tempt the nomadic families onto our side. While some have blood feuds with the ruling houses and can be convinced to act, most are simply former fugitives and wanderers seeking the empty land and grazing south of the Khanate. The pastures to the north are likely contested or dangerous. They aren’t moved by loyalty, they are moved by survival.”
He let his gaze move around the room, making sure each man followed his reasoning. “We must give them a reason to care about the Principality. Something tangible. We must offer them a benefit that makes them want to lend us their help, not out of charity, but because it clearly serves their own interests.”
Everyone unconsciously leaned in at Theodorus’s lowered, conspiratorial tone, the air in the room seeming to tighten.
“What did you have in mind, Captain?” Leonidas asked at last.
“You wanted t-to see me, C-captain?” Steward Theophylact’s stutter was as pronounced as ever, and his small study the usual besieged fortress. Shelves bowing under ledgers, scroll tubes crammed into every niche, and mountains of paperwork scaling up his desk as if trying to seize the high ground in some unseen battle. Theodorus had to wonder how the pile seemed to keep growing even though the bureaucratic nightmare of his arrival had long since subsided. The Steward had a gift, if it could be called that, for finding more papers to sign and correct.
“Yes, my good Steward. I’ve come to bring you an update on the collection of the tithe from our circuit around the villages,” Theodorus said, stepping carefully between stacks of bound s. He cast a sidelong glance at the harried assistant, Iadeus, who was hunched over a side table, rummaging through loose sheets and making his own cramped corrections. Theophylact only paused in his because Theodorus had come in with ‘urgent’ business.
“Ah, yes, Captain.” With just the word ‘tithe’ alone, he had the Steward’s full attention. “Please tell me it goes well,” He practically pleaded, fingers tightening around his quill.
“I have secured a part of it, my good Steward,” Theodorus said. Through a careful mixture of blackmail, promises, diplomacy, and plain problem-solving, he was confident he’d managed to wring out as much of the tithe as was humanly possible from the impoverished peasants without sparking open revolt. The outlook for collecting it in full did not look promising, but the Steward did not need that weight on his shoulders just yet. The man needed to believe everything was going to be fine simply to keep his wits. “And I am compiling a thorough assessment of the size of the plots and fields, as well as a rough census of all the main villages in Suyren’s jurisdiction. I will provide the information once I have it all compiled, do not worry.”
Theophylact practically fell back into his seat, his rotund frame overflowing over the arms of the chair. “Oh, you do not know how much it relieves me to hear that, Captain. Please, carry on and collect every dime from the peasants,” he said fervently, as if the words themselves might shore up the treasury walls.
Theodorus inclined his head in a polite half-bow and moved smoothly on to the next point in his mental agenda. He had primed the Steward who, after receiving what he believed to be good news, would prove more receptive to what came next. Theodorus had made no claim that the tithe would be collected in full, but Theophylact had eagerly filled in that comforting assumption on his own.
“I have also been thinking about our problem with the garrison rota, Steward,” Theodorus continued. “I’d like to hear your opinion on the matter.” As he spoke, he glanced meaningfully toward Iadeus, Theophylact’s assistant.
The Steward recognized the unspoken code at once. “Ah-yes. Iadeus,” he said, clearing his throat. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me the… ah… revised inventory of last year’s grain shipments from the records room?”
Iadeus blinked, then groaned softly under his breath. “Of course, my lord Steward,” he muttered, already stacking his current pile into a precarious tower, something he’d become quite adept at. “They don’t pay me nearly enough for this.” He squeezed past Theodorus and disappeared through the door at a half-trot, the grumbling fading down the corridor.
Once Iadeus had left and the door had clicked shut, Theophylact leaned forward, voice dropping. “What is the matter, Captain? Have you found some way to combat our… ‘problem’?” He still insisted on talking in code even in private, afraid to utter Hypatius’s name out loud. The notion of having a powerful, deliberate enemy unsettled him; he’d never had to oppose anyone so prominent before, and the man was utterly adrift on how to go about it.
Theophylact had, thus, been hard at work feeding Theodorus steady news of Hypatius’s latest movements so the captain could help him steer around the man. When Hypatius first petitioned to ‘assist’ with the general stores, Theophylact had, with Theodorus’s encouragement, thanked him and assigned him the duty of overseeing the distribution of supplies for the daily feasts, a task that had long kept the Steward awake, brainstorming ways to magically produce pheasant and duck from thin air until the candles guttered out.
It was a perfectly plausible arrangement, and granted Hypatius a measure of authority. However, it also buried him in thankless labour and, surprisingly, at a personal expense. Theodorus had noticed that Hypatius, much like himself, never left a task half-finished. He leaned on his own contacts and even dipped into his purse to make sure the lord’s whims were met at every feast - a difficult feat in a starving principality.
When Hypatius later suggested he could also “help” with the tithe situation, however, the Steward drew a firmer line. This time he outright refused, pointing proudly to the increased tithe returns Theodorus had brought back from their circuit, defending
his
plan and
his
success. In doing so he cemented some political clout, stalled Hypatius and obfuscated Theodorus’s involvement, even if behind a flimsy screen. It at least bought them some time.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” Theodorus said now, his expression dour. “This problem has been at the forefront of my mind, my friend. We cannot let the leopard gain more power.” He was all too happy to feed Theophylact’s worries; fear pushed the Steward further into his camp of action. It did mean indulging the silly codewords they had invented at Theophylact’s insistence, but if it kept the man cooperative, Theodorus could endure a little nonsense.
“Great, my friend. Please, tell me what we can do,” Theophylact urged. “He has started to speak against me in our council meetings. In his last request he even spoke against you.” His voice thinned with anxiety. The smoke and screens had lasted even less than Theodorus had hoped for.
“What did he say, Theophylact?” Theodorus asked, stepping closer to the overloaded desk so he could drop his voice to a whisper.
“He commented that your company is barely a company at all,” the Steward replied, eyes fixed on the ink-stained clutter before him. “That you have done hardly any drills, that your men work as labourers, not troops.” Theophylact scratched at his wrist and wrung his hands together, fingers twisting on themselves. “I fear he is growing more aggressive in his moves. He is calling your leadership into question.”
Theodorus’s countenance darkened, his grey eyes sharpening to cold steel. “That makes our action even more imperative, Theophylact. They are out to get us both. We must show them something more.” He chose the words deliberately, stoking an attitude of
us versus them
and binding the nervous steward tighter to his side. “I have a proposal in mind to revitalise Suyren’s economy,” he went on. “One you can present to the lord in our joint name, to have it cleared.”
“The plan concerns the Turkic and Alanic nomad families living in our countryside,” Theodorus began, and Theophylact’s mouth pulled tight at once. He would have to choose his words with care.
“There are several spread across the fringes of our towns and villages,” Theodorus went on smoothly. “They camp on land that is not theirs and are despised by the local populace. They also move freely across our neighbours’ lands.”
“I had heard of their presence, Captain.” Theophylact struck a palm to his chin, lost in thought. “But are they really that large of an issue?”
“Men like that can easily sell information about our principality to anyone clever enough to pay for it.” Theodorus let the thought hang for a heartbeat. “Most importantly, tough, they pay no taxes. They contribute nothing to the state. They graze our grass, drink from our rivers, and offer us neither coin nor service in return.”
Theophylact paled, realizing the scope of the issue. “Spies,” he muttered. “Every last one of them.”
“Just so,” Theodorus agreed, though his eyes remained cool. “Thus, I propose we recognize their citizenship and put them to work for Suyren before they are put against it.”
The steward’s head jerked up. “Bring savages into our fold?” he demanded, scandalised. “Of all the unorthodox ideas you’ve pitched me, Captain, this is the most absurd. Lord Adanis will never agree to this. And if the problem is as large as you claim, we should move against them! Drive them out, or kill them all if we have to.”
“That would be a poor move,” Theodorus said, voice turning firmer. “Yes, we would remove a possible danger. But only by spending coin, time, and blood to do it. Why, when we could turn them into a
benefit
for Suyren?”
He leaned forward, holding the Steward with his gaze. “Lord Adanis will see the reason in it if we frame it correctly. We are not treating the nomads as subjects,” he said. “We treat them as wary partners. We do not hunt them down, and in return they give us something of value.”
The steward folded his arms, not convinced. “And how, exactly, will they contribute to the economy?” he asked, suspicion thick in his tone.
“That,” Theodorus said, a faint smile touching his lips, “is the crux of the issue. We can propose a monthly market outside the city walls, in a neutral field - close enough to maintain order with our soldiers, far enough that the nomads will agree. Once per month, we set up a market fair where our merchants can trade with them. This already happens in the marketplaces of the capital, where the Genoese come with their wares.”
“The Genoese are merchants,” Theophylact objected at once. “The Crimeans are raiders.”
A common misconception, Theodorus thought, rooted deep in European prejudice. In truth, nomadic peoples were among the most prolific traders the world had ever seen; the empire of Genghis Khan had once bound the Silk Road from end to end, and even now the khanates wove alternate routes through the steppes, carrying foreign goods further and faster than most caravans on regular roads.
“They have goods, my good Steward. And I can prove it.”
He reached into his cloak and drew out a small clay jar, its lid sealed with wax. He broke it and passed the jar across the desk. Inside, a thick white substance clung to the sides.
Theophylact peered at it doubtfully. “What is this?”
“Try it,” Theodorus urged.
The steward dipped a cautious finger, tasted, and immediately screwed up his face. “By all the saints, that is sour,” he spluttered. “What
is
this, Captain?”
“That is yoghurt, my good Steward,” Theodorus replied, amused. “Made from fermented milk.”
“Fermented?” Theophylact repeated, clearly unhappy with the word.
“It is a process that enriches it,” Theodorus explained patiently. “Well known among the nomadic peoples. It keeps the milk from spoiling quickly, makes it good for the gut, and it is dirt cheap. Their herds make sure it is readily available all year round. And,” he added, tapping the jar, “it has great benefits for our soldiers’ performance.”
“Our soldiers?” Theophylact blinked, thrown. “What does that have to do with this market of yours?”
“This is a miracle food, my Steward,” Theodorus said, letting a note of enthusiasm colour his voice. “It can ease our constant need to dip into the alms to feed my troops. If my men have access to this, mixed with grain or fruit, they will be better fed, fall sick less often, and fight better. Stronger bodies, fewer empty bellies.”
The steward eyed the jar again, more thoughtfully now, even if his tongue clearly still objected. The idea of cheap, nourishing rations sat much more comfortably with him than talk of “savages.”
“And that is only one product,” Theodorus pressed on. “They also have knowledge of fine composite bows, and light, hardy steeds bred for endurance. They can serve as scouts and rangers, especially when it comes to the northern threat. They, better than anyone, understand what signs to watch out for to know a çapul is coming.”
Theodorus’s tone fell, as if sharing a forbidden secret. “These market days would allow them to sell such wares in our villages and towns. In exchange, all we have to do is promise not to hunt them down - something that would be unprofitable and inconvenient anyhow - and grant them a measure of meaningless recognition. That will make them invested in our country’s continued peace. They will work
for
us, not
against
us.”
Theophylact’s brows knitted, but his resistance was thinning. Theodorus pressed the advantage.
“The markets will send coin flowing,” he said. “Our merchants will have new goods to sell onward. Foreign traders may be drawn to Suyren to deal with nomad caravans directly - Genoese, perhaps even Armenians or others. Nomad traders gathering openly in our lands would be a novelty, one not seen since the days of the Golden Horde. Our older merchants still speak, do they not, of how much profit there was then?”
The steward’s shoulders eased a fraction “Yes,” he admitted slowly. “That is true.”
“Exactly, A controlled market, under your watch, with tariffs you set. Have I ever led you astray, my friend?” Theodorus asked softly.
Theophylact hesitated, then shook his head.
“This idea will make you seem innovative,” Theodorus continued. “If the lord agrees, he will appreciate the sudden coin that appears in his coffers and the additional subjects that fill his lands. And everyone will know it was
your
vision that allowed it.”
The steward let out a long breath, fingers drumming once on the desk before going still. “Very well, Captain,” he said at last. “I will… present it to Lord Adanis. Carefully.”
Theodorus inclined his head, hiding the small, satisfied smile that tugged at his mouth. “That is all I ask, my good Steward.”
Theodorus clenched his fist in excitement. This was proof of how far he’d come. Even if it was through a proxy, and weaved between personal favours and shadows, Theodorus was finally bettering the lives of the people he’d sworn to protect.
But he couldn’t help the gnawing feeling that it didn’t matter at all. A great apocalypse was coming, and he was stuck playing cat and mouse games as a minor piece on the gameboard.

Chapter 41: A Foolhardy Heart