4th Week of June, 1460
The trip back to Suyren’s chapel was a much heavier affair than the first.
Theodorus and Zeno walked as far apart as socially acceptable, treading the narrow line between presenting a united front and the lack thereof. Neither spoke, and the silence between them was not companionable.
Inside the chapel, however, things were much the same, the air drowning in beeswax and incense. Icons stared down from shadowed places, gold leaf catching the thin spill of light that crept through the narrow windows.
Thaddeus was seated in the same pew as before. A corner one near the front, whose back had been warped by age into a shape that seemed designed by someone with a personal grudge against the human spine. Theodorus and Zeno tried to ease themselves into it, but the slanted wood bit into their shoulder blades, making it anything but easy.
Theodorus kept his face smooth, determined to avoid stirring up the hornet’s nest like he had done last time.
Thaddeus, by contrast, looked upset, which tested Theodorus's resolve almost instantly.
He had to hold back the grin tugging at his mouth, schooling his expression into something suitably grave and attentive. From the tightness around the priest’s eyes and the clench in his thin jaw, it seemed matters had not gone the priest’s way after all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thaddeus was a good judge of character. He had to be.
A priest who could not smell greed, vanity, fear, or lust before they walked through the chapel doors was a poor priest in his mind and worse, a fool.
Men came to him with their sins in both hands, wanting absolution cheap and quick, like they were buying a pair of socks at the market. The local fisherman who had bedded his wife’s sister, some village boy dragged in by his parents to repent for not paying attention during lessons. They were mundane issues, petty griefs, varied and multiple, but with two things in common. They all whined. And they all bargained.
And Thaddeus had to sit there with a pious face and listen to the whole spiel.
Still, there was profit in listening. A man learned where people hid their soft spots, and luckily for Thaddeus, he was born with a knack for how to use them. It was also useful knowledge for a man expected to stand before those same fools every Sunday and produce a convincing sermon about how good everyone ought to be.
That was why Thaddeus could tell the little boy serving as his lord was pleased, though making a fair attempt at swallowing it down. He might as well have been grinning from ear to ear. Thaddeus could almost admire the effort to hide it, had he not been so thoroughly pissed off.
“You called for us, Father Thaddeus,” the lordie said, trying for respect. “Have you had time to consider our offer since our last meeting?”
He asked it so innocently, Thaddeus realized the boy already knew the answer.
The bastard.
“I apologize for how our previous meeting went, my lords,” Thaddeus said, bowing his head and keeping his face clean of his true thoughts. “Conversing with the Metropolitan proved enlightening in a great many matters.”
Basically, the old fart had told him to swallow it all up because the Metropolitanate would not lift a finger. Thaddeus still could hardly believe the letter he had received the week before. Since when had the Church tucked its tail between its legs the moment the Crown came knocking? A man spent years gathering influence and concessions from the Nomikos, only to have to toss it aside because a prince’s seal had made an old man nervous.
“Having thought on the matter, and convened with God,” he continued, making the sign of the cross for the heck of it. People usually liked that, and took to what he was saying more easily. “I believe we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
Now Thaddeus had to make the most out of a shitty situation. Story of his life, really.
He would make do. He had built his whole career on making do, on taking a poor hand and squeezing something out of it before the other man noticed he had been played.
“We require scribes for each village under Suyren’s direct purview,” the boy began without preamble.
The little wretch knew he had the upper hand and did not even bother pretending otherwise. Every one of them were ultimately just fish in a pond, a step removed from the true decision makers, and dependent on their patrons for when they butted heads. And Thaddeus’s had lost, so he lost as well. It was as simple as that, really.
“Each village will receive a fixed tax quota based on land, ploughs, mills, livestock, and past obligations, with the village assembly left to divide the burden internally,” the lordie said, settling into a long-winded explanation. “Every year, our officials will tour the villages to hear tax and land disputes, complaints against reeves, and reports of failures to repair roads, bridges, mills, or dikes, and for that, they need to be written down and recorded as they happen.”
Christ above, the kid sure liked the sound of his own voice. Thaddeus had to stop himself from rubbing at his temples.
“We are also of a mind to mandate the recording of current population numbers, along with skills, professions, dates of birth, recent diseases, deaths, and those afflicted by illness,” And people complained that his sermons dragged. At least his had the decency to threaten them with Hell somewhere in the middle to keep the room awake.
“All of this requires accurate recordkeeping and literacy, which the villages do not currently have,” the taller one stepped in. He had the proper noble bearing, that one. Straight back, calm voice, careful eyes, was probably a heartless bastard. “That is the duty we hoped your priests might handle.”
“That is on top of the clerical duties we already perform,” Thaddeus replied quickly, getting his foot in before they shut the door on him. “Our clerics are busy performing baptisms, burial rites, and masses. These tasks take time, my lords. Time you now wish to restrict further.”
“If that is so,” the boy said, giving him no gap to slip through, “then why do most local priests possess land they cultivate? Often they have servants or deacons to assist them in both their clerical duties and the harvesting of their crops, most of which, I believe, are not taxed in any meaningful way.”
Thaddeus could not deny it, which was irritating. Lies were easy. Half-truths could be bent. But denying clean truths without seeming a fool was exceedingly difficult.
“Are you suggesting the Prince should claim what is rightly due to God?” he asked, letting scandalized piety enter his voice. The chapel helped. “And to burden us with secular duties? Our mission is to God.”
“Surely we can find some middle ground,” the tall one said softly.
That tone did not fool Thaddeus. He knew it because he had used it often enough himself. It was the voice used when asking for something unreasonable while pretending the other man was rude for noticing.
“We would not dare trespass upon that which is His,” the nobleman continued, mild. “But perhaps your priests can find the time to note down the records for us.”
He looked at Thaddeus meaningfully.
“What do you suggest?” Thaddeus asked. They had something ready, he could tell.
“You may retain the dues from land directly held by the monasteries and cultivated by your own clergy,” the Sideris boy said, skipping any preamble. “In return, the local priests will serve as scribes in chartered villages.”
Thaddeus considered the matter. He was no fool who grabbed at the first shiny thing waved before him, and this was where the whole bargain showed its teeth.
He was good at spotting tricks, and this one was in the word ‘directly’. Over the years, the Church had dipped a finger into the pie of nearly every Theodoran village, if you counted only the plots under direct ecclesiastical control, and the loss would be substantial.
“That is a steep price,” Thaddeus said, making sure they understood he had seen the hook. “The tithe we collect on outlying villages is crucial for maintaining our current services and functions. We cannot survive on crumbs.”
It was a ridiculous request, really. Thaddeus was not about to give up all the progress they’d made.
“A fixed amount, then,” the boy suggested. “Equal to a third of the dues we are demanding from the villages, applied across all of them in the north, yours being exempt from this clause.”
Thaddeus went still. Now that was a different sort of game.
The estates held directly by the Church were not small. By drawing the line there, the boy was handing them a neat little shelter from the Crown’s fingers, promising not to take from Church-owned land. Normally, both the Crown and the Church took their bites from these villages.
Yet for all the Church had grown in recent years, there were still villages where they got almost nothing.
Thaddeus counted it up quickly. The grain would dip, yes, but not badly. Not nearly as badly as he had expected from the crackdown this little Sideris brat seemed so eager to bring down on their heads.
“What’s the catch?” Thaddeus asked.
He could smell one. There was always a catch when a man offered you a clean-looking purse. Better to ask before your hand was already inside it.
The two looked surprised, and Thaddeus had to hold back a snort. People rarely expected a priest to step straight into ugly business without first wrapping it in three layers of holy smoke. But Thaddeus enjoyed catching people wrong-footed.
“The monasteries would have to take on additional duties,” the boy said, without missing a beat.
“Such as?” Thaddeus asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“As you know, the north has recently been subject to small-scale raids from our northern neighbours,” Theodorus said, settling back into that lecturing pace of his. The boy really did like speeches, it seemed, so long as he got to give them. “These raids have caused destruction in Crown and Church lands alike. Villages burned, storehouses ransacked, and families left without a home.”
Thaddeus knew that well enough. Every few years, some monastery was harried or some outlying chapel robbed. Never enough to be catastrophic, but enough to be irritating.
“We require your monasteries to serve as proper safe havens for the general populace,” the lordie finished.
“We already do that,” Thaddeus replied, confused.
Monasteries were usually tucked into lonely places where the paths were bad and the slopes worse. Mangup’s ravines made such places easy enough to find, and defensible besides. When raiders came, villagers usually ran to the closest safety, and what was safer than God?
“But in an informal and unsystematic way,” the boy said, leaning forward. “You open your doors to those who make it, yes, but most monasteries cannot withstand a serious raid, nor support many people for long. This system works only because plenty of villages are easier targets, and enough of those are undefended that they don’t bother going after you.”
Thaddeus felt offended righteousness rise, but the boy lifted a hand before he could use it.
“I am not accusing you of doing this deliberately,” he said. “ But that is what I want changed. We intend to mandate certain standards for monasteries, using the coin and resources already at your disposal.”
He shifted slightly. Thin light from the chapel windows caught in his grey eyes, making them look almost colourless.
“Each monastery should have an enclosure large enough to shelter at least one hundred people and a few dozen animals, a working cistern or well proportional to that number, a small watchtower capable of sending and receiving signals, and grain reserves sufficient to withstand a siege lasting several weeks.”
“These are already things many monasteries possess to varying degrees,” the thin one added, gesturing with his hands. “What we wish is to standardize them. To build a system instead of relying on custom, panic, and luck. There must be a plan of evacuation that can actually be carried out when riders are sighted.”
He spoke more smoothly than the boy, a velvet glove to the boy’s fist.
“Records of grain stores and facilities will also be necessary for each monastery,” he continued. “To calculate which monasteries are prepared, how many villages they can receive, or where additional work must be done.”
“More duties and more recordkeeping,” Thaddeus said, making himself sound put-upon.
The idea intrigued Thaddeus, but he would not show it, of course. No man with sense took the first offer.
The Church had suffered from northern raiders as much as any noble estate. If the Crown wanted monasteries made harder to burn, Thaddeus wasn’t necessarily against it.
Still, there was one giant problem with this little plot. “This entire endeavour, while well-meaning, has a steep cost,” Thaddeus said, folding his hands into his sleeves. “Spending coin and resources to improve these houses is not something the Church is keen to embrace. Not when defense of the Principality is supposed to be undertaken by the Prince.”
He gave them a knowing look, leaving the bill on the table without touching it.
“This will benefit you as much as us,” the lordling said, making his first real attempt at persuasion rather than instruction. “Think of the Church’s image if you become the first line of defense against slavers and raiders, the place common folk turn to in need.”
That had some meat on it. The Church's currency dealt with faith as much as it did with coin. And this was sure to inspire plenty of the former.
“And let us sweeten the deal,” The lordie straightened slightly, a small movement too tidy by half, like a merchant about to show the good side of a mule while keeping one foot near the bad leg.
“I assume you have heard of our bond investment scheme with the local nobility?”
“A most radical idea,” Thaddeus confirmed.
“We are prepared to offer you a similar arrangement. The Crown will handle the outsourcing of work, the administrative headaches, and the securing of labour, supplies, and materials. With our connections, that should come at a lower cost for you.” The boy leaned forward. “And for every village that falls within the protection of a monastery, we are prepared to raise the tithe to a fixed amount worth half of the tax we are levying for that village. Proportional, of course, to the number of villagers you are able to shelter.”
“You will raise the taxes on the village?” Thaddeus asked, narrowing his eyes.
“We will take it out of our own share,” the boy revealed and Thaddeus’s eyes widened before he could stop them.
Thaddeus ran some calculations the only way he knew how, quick and dirty. They could probably refurbish enough monasteries and chapels cheaply enough to cover about a third of the villages, if the tithe rose by that number across them, the Church would take in something close to what it made now. If more villages could be captured, they’d actually make more.
There would be higher maintenance costs, of course, but that was money being spent on keeping their sanctuaries safe and their grain and coin more secure from those pesky raids. Ultimately, it would be spending money to improve the church’s position. Not a bad deal at all.
“Consider me intrigued,” Thaddeus said, carefully keeping the eagerness from showing too brightly. Did these fools know what they were giving away? “Perhaps we could even hire a few guards to ensure that our monasteries are sufficiently prepared for incursions.”
He tossed it out gently, as though it were a small thing, a harmless little crumb. A guard paid by the Church today became a guard loyal to the Church tomorrow, and tomorrow had a way of arriving faster than cautious men expected.
“No,” the lordling replied at once, catching the hook before it sank in. “Village militias will provide that service. You need not trouble yourself over that, Father.”
Thaddeus harrumphed. A pity. If he had slipped that through, the Church would have gained more than just walls.
“I assume you want us to build new monasteries, then?” he asked.
They had a few in the north, but not enough to cover every village worth covering. Thinking further on it, however, building too many would be a fool’s game. It would eat their coin like a starving dog ate scraps, and the return would take years, perhaps decades, assuming the villages stayed productive, obedient, and unburned. The offer had a leash hidden inside it, neat and short. The Church could profit if it chose carefully, but if it lunged at every village in sight, it would spend itself poor while building the Crown a nice little defensive net.
It was a clever scheme, Thaddeus could give them that.
Greedy or careful, the state won either way.
“That is up to you,” the boy said. “Though you may also make use of previously abandoned monasteries.”
Plenty of small clerical estates had been left to rot after the Black Death, some had been recovered, but not all. There was still easy fruit hanging low enough to reach, and Thaddeus had never been the sort to leave fruit alone just because it grew beside a grave.
“I must say, this is a complicated proposal,” Thaddeus said, rising from his seat with careful dignity. "I will have to think on the matter deeply.”
The two nobles followed suit, easing themselves away from the cursed pew with more restraint than comfort. Thaddeus noticed the slight tightening in their faces as the warped wood released their backs, and took a small, private pleasure in it. A man enjoyed his little victories wherever he found them.
“I hope your communion with God grants you an answer,” the boy replied.
Thaddeus searched his face for mockery and found none he could openly prove.
Both nobles inclined their heads and turned toward the chapel doors. They kept the same formal composure they had worn on the way in, but Thaddeus thought the distance between them had widened. Only slightly, barely enough to notice. Unmissable for Thaddeus.
There was something there. He knew it.
Thaddeus was, as he had always said, a good judge of character, especially when it came to weakness, loose seams, and the little things people hoped no one else would ever see.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Walking through the streets of Suyren, one could almost be fooled into thinking they had entered a different town. Not because the houses had changed, or the crooked lanes had somehow straightened, but because the usual foulness had receded from the air.
When they had first arrived, the settlement had possessed the ordinary stench that clung to crowded habitation. That of waste left too long in the sun and animals penned too near streets, the general sourness of people who had decided that the street was a perfectly acceptable place to discard what they did not wish to keep indoors. Zeno had never enjoyed such smells, though he understood them as one of the countless degradations common folk simply accepted as the natural shape of life. Most men did not look at filth and see failure. They saw inconvenience, if they noticed it at all.
Their program of paying by the bucketful of waste had changed that with remarkable speed.
Every household now seemed to hand its buckets to the poor vagrants hired to collect them at dawn and dusk with something approaching religious devotion. In the early days, several more enterprising men had even taken to scraping old refuse from potholes and alley corners, dragging up half-dried muck that had likely been lying there since the previous winter. There had been more than one dispute between families who swore that another had stolen from their personal pothole, as if a patch of dung-rutted street were ancestral property.
Zeno had been pleasantly surprised by it all. Not by the petty quarrels, but by how little expenditure had been required to make the townsfolk police one another and, in doing so, clean up after themselves.
Nowhere else, he was quite sure, would people fight over literal dung with such offended seriousness.
“That meeting certainly went better than the last one,” Zeno remarked, probing gently as he cast a sidelong glance at his co-ruler.
“I am certain Thaddeus will take the deal,” Theodorus answered, watching his footing as he stepped around a pothole in the beaten earth road. “With this, we will have enough coin for now to keep the administration afloat in the short term, thanks to the dues the Church has given up.”
Zeno avoided the same pothole with rather more grace. Theodorus swore that the gathered refuse would become useful soon enough, though Zeno remained skeptical of that particular claim. Hiding it away had certainly made walking through town more tolerable, so he was willing to call the expense worthwhile. Still, tolerable was not the same as acceptable, he thought, glancing down as he tried, with limited success, to keep mud from clinging to the edge of his boots.
They truly needed to fix the main road. It was disgraceful. A lord’s authority began long before he entered a hall. It announced itself in the gates, guards, and even in the ground beneath a visitor’s feet. And if that was the case, Suyren’s main street currently displayed only poverty and neglect.
All they needed was coin, which only reminded him how little of it they had.
“When the Church brings its monasteries up to standard, our share will dwindle in the long term,” Zeno said.
They were already cash-strapped, even after he had finally managed to sell off the gaudy decorations and trinkets the Nomikos family had stowed away. That effort had been more delicate than most would appreciate. Anyone could sell gold by weight. It took actual skill to coax value from pompous, subpar objects whose only real virtue was that some dead fool had once paid too much for them. Zeno had scoured the connections he had made in the capital, drawing buyers out as if pulling water from stone.
And had not merely found purchasers, he had matched the pieces to them. Certain artisans had been more than willing to alter, embellish, or quietly improve the works to suit the tastes of particular customers Zeno had in mind. People rarely bought objects. They bought the version of themselves those objects promised to display.
“And by then we will have found other ways to supplement our income, I am sure,” Theodorus said as if money were a problem that could be persuaded into solving itself.
Their current arrangement was clear enough. Zeno drew coin from the most obscure cracks he could find, and Theodorus found new, expensive, and deeply unorthodox ways to spend it.
“The north will be better secured in the meantime,” Theodorus continued, utterly oblivious to Zeno’s concern as they reached the castle gates.
The new recruits posted there gave a hurried salute when they recognized them, the movement so poorly timed that one man nearly struck the haft of his spear against the shoulder of the fellow beside him.
Zeno allowed his gaze to rest on them for a moment longer than required. These were the men now meant to bolster Suyren’s militia, and though they had clearly been chosen from the stronger villagers rather than the usual assortment of boys, cripples, and unlucky fools, they still had the unmistakable look of people who had only recently discovered that standing upright with a weapon was hard.
“Imagine it like this,” Theodorus said, as though explaining a sum to a dull clerk. “If you could spend a handful of hyperpera per month to reinforce a large part of the northern defensive line against raids, would you not do so?”
Zeno’s expression remained composed, but only because he had spent most of his life around people who mistook composure for agreement.
“I understand well enough the need to make the north safer against raids,” he said. “I also understand that, measured against the return involved, this is a modest investment. But it is coin in perpetuity, and power handed to the Church, which will soon possess better-built, better-supplied monasteries across the north. In the end, what did we use our stronger position and political backing to secure? A flat tax for the peasantry and tidy little records?” His voice had an edge, an uncomfortable one. “We could have gotten more.” And had Zeno led the negotiation, they would have.
Theodorus eyed him, his manner growing more serious at the challenge. His gaze moved past Zeno and across the courtyard, where other recruits were running through their weapons drills, which amounted to being taught the most basic lesson of soldiering: how to remain in formation and not skewer the men next to them while doing so.
Stronger, older peasants meant more strength, but the same lack of discipline, and they looked a shambles. One man held his spear too high, another shuffled half a step late, while a third kept glancing toward the instructor with the air of someone utterly lost. Had these men learned nothing from previous militia duties? What were the Nomikos doing woth the military service? One would at least expect past levies to be passable in basic formation work.
“That is another measure to curb the Church’s less saintly desires,” Theodorus said, not quite denying the charge. “And though we did not press our advantage as far as we might have, we also avoided making them an enemy by leaning too heavily into threats. In the end, this is about making the most of the resources available to us. The monasteries are already built but inneficiently managed. This way we can quickly co-opt them into serving the state. There is no magical solution that reinforces the north at no cost. The flat tax will yield dividends later down the line.”
“You are quite enamoured with that idea,” Zeno said. Personally, he did not see the great revelation in it. “I am not sure why you believe it will bring in more coin than the present arrangements.”
“You shall see, Zeno.” The smile Theodorus gave him was unbearable, like he had already solved a problem others had not even recognized. Zeno disliked being treated as one of those others.
He turned away before his displeasure could show too plainly.
He could understand the reliability of the arrangement. Even he would not deny that simplicity had value, especially in a half-broken frontier administration where every reeve, headman, priest, and petty notable seemed to possess his own interpretation of what was owed and when. A flat tax would make records easier to monitor, reduce the opportunities for petty fraud, and perhaps even quiet the common folk by making their burdens predictable. These were not worthless things.
But with all the low taxes Theodorus wished to introduce, Suyren would bring in less coin than it had under the Nomikos administration. Though it was also true that they had cut away much of the pompous waste the Nomikoi had favoured, it was barely enough to break even when they could have a sizeable surplus if they had maintained the previous tax arrangements and squeezed the church.
Zeno often wondered how the Prince would react to the reduced tithing in the north, but then he remembered Theodorus had clearly struck some arrangement with the Doux, the Prince, or both, granting him unusual freedom in the management of the unstable frontier. Otherwise, Zeno doubted he would be so reckless with his policies.
For now, they had been given an allowance of a year to normalize the situation and remain afloat, with less surplus required to be paid to Mangup as part of their cement arrangement. But that indulgence would end. And when it did, it would be Zeno who would have to find the coin.
“They are too few,” Zeno said as they crossed into the keep proper, choosing to move past the matter to not get angry. He pointed toward the militia drilling in the courtyard. “Delaying the arrival of these new recruits until after the initial tour allowed us to gain a rough estimate of the available populace, letting us know how many men can be called without setting the villages to panic or resentment, but it also means Suyren has been nearly defenseless for a month, and will remain so for another.”
Only one hundred recruits had been drawn in this first levy, half of what Suyren usually kept.
“It was the best we could do with the losses the north suffered during the rebellion,” Theodorus answered, his frown deep with worry.
“And because those who survived fled their villages to turn to banditry,” Zeno said, unable to keep the derision entirely from his voice. “The roads are more unsafe than ever, and we need as many troops as possible to patrol them.”
He gestured again to the shambolic display before them. One recruit lifted his spear too late, another stepped on the heel of the man in front of him, and the instructor looked as though he was beginning to reconsider every choice that had brought him to this courtyard.
“You want these men to patrol the roads?” Zeno asked. “At least give them enough numbers that their incompetence may be hidden inside a larger mass.”
“Our plan is to use this first, smaller batch to select the best sergeants and captains, then build a proper structure around them,” Theodorus said, his eyes tightening. “You agreed to this, you know we-”
“Have to demote and promote the right men for the work, yes, yes.” Zeno waved the point away.
The rebellion had scattered titles about like seed in poor soil, rewarding men for surviving, swinging harder than their neighbours, or having the good fortune to be noticed at the right moment. Some of them might become soldiers. A smaller portion might even become leaders. The trick was separating those men from the brutes who had been promoted merely because they could split a skull faster than the next fool.
“We must be patient,” Zeno said, though the words tasted stale even as he spoke them.
His irritation did not come from ignorance but from being forced to play a role beneath his abilities. From seeing his promotion revealed as a trap rather than his long-awaited reward. He had been one of the crucial reasons the Principality had survived, and this was his reward? Trapped behind a teenage boy who ruled over Suyren as if Zeno didn’t exist?
“Come,” Theodorus said, turning toward a more secluded entryway into the keep.
Zeno’s eyes narrowed. And now he was being commanded so casually? How dare he-
“Please,” The word was quiet, but it turned the command into a plea.
Zeno followed after a beat, because refusing would have been childish.
They passed beneath the shade of Suyren’s cool stones, the passage swallowing the barked corrections of the militia instructor. “I have to apologize to you, Zeno,” Theodorus stopped at a floral garden hidden in the northern part of the castle. Zeno was surprised by the lushness of the green loggia around him, but not as surprised as he was by Theodorus’s statement.
“In truth, I was not in my best judgment the last time we met with Father Thaddeus, and you were right to chastise me,” Theodorus spoke carefully. It did not escape Zeno’s notice that he had chosen a time when they were alone to admit it. Public humility, apparently, remained beyond him. “Our talk afterwards…it was unnecessary.”
He looked to the side, and for once there was something almost abashed in the gesture. Zeno studied him in silence. Theodorus was many things, but he was not usually a man who dressed himself in contrition.
“There is a reason the Prince appointed both of us, and not only one. We are meant to rule together, and I recognize matters have been difficult lately in that respect.” He turned to face Zeno squarely, sincerity plain on his face. “You are intelligent and resourceful, and you have shown it time and again, most recently by cushioning our coffers through the Nomikos sales.”
Despite himself, Zeno felt a small bloom of warmth at having his competence properly recognized.
“I am foolhardy and stubborn, and I often attempt to do things alone." Theodorus admitted But I think it does not always have to be that way.”
He extended a hand.
“I would like to propose a truce,” he said, his voice taking on a mock solemnity that made the offer less awkward than it might have been.
“A truce?” Zeno asked, and had to suppress the laugh that rose in his throat.
“A proposal for us to honour,” Theodorus nodded, eyes serious. “A treaty between two rulers of equal footing.”
Zeno looked at the offered hand, then at Theodorus’s face. The phrase was theatrical, yet the meaning beneath it was not small. Theodorus was not merely apologizing. He was elevating him, placing Zeno beside himself rather than behind him, and doing so deliberately.
Zeno looked at the offered hand for several seconds, then at the boy who had extended it. Theodorus wore sincerity well, and Zeno had always believed that a convincing performance deserved to be answered with one of equal quality.
At last, he smiled and let out a measured sigh, allowing just enough relief into his expression to make the moment feel earned.
“Honestly, I am glad you brought it up, Theodorus,” Zeno said. “I had been thinking much the same, though perhaps I was also too stubborn to say it plainly. I guess that is something we share in common,” both men shared a slow chuckle, “I will sign this treaty gladly.”
He took Theodorus’s hand in a firm clasp, matching the pressure precisely. A nobleman learned early that even a handshake could be made to speak.
“Despite what I have said before, I do think your radical ideas possess enough merit to be revolutionary,” Zeno had to admit at least that much. He had seen the brilliance in them from the start, which was why he had tolerated so many of their rougher edges. “I suppose I was too eager to be part of it as well. To claim some of the glory for myself.”
The admission was not easy, but Zeno rarely lied to himself. He knew it to be true, and it was enough to ease the tension that had gathered between them over the past weeks.
“But as they say,” Zeno added, “let it pass beneath the bridge.”
“Perfect,” Theodorus said, smiling contentedly. “I have to finish the training regimen I am looking to implement for the new recruits. Perhaps we could discuss it together later?” It was a peace branch, offered with almost touching earnestness.
“Of course,” Zeno said. “I will see you later,”
They parted soon after, on amicable terms at last, as the matter between them had been settled by good sense and mutual respect.
Zeno kept his pace light as he moved through Suyren’s keep and out toward the chapel, his mood buoyed by a clean certainty he had been lacking as of late. This talk had finally made a difficult matter that had eaten away at him seem rather simple in hindsight.
By the time he entered the chapel, Father Thaddeus was still seated in the exact same pew, his brow creased in deep consternation. The priest looked like a man weighing matters of God and conscience, though Zeno suspected the matter had more to do with grain, coin, and how much could be skimmed.
“Back already, Lord Zeno?” Thaddeus asked, lifting his head. “I was deep in prayer. I have not yet had time to think on our matter.”
Zeno walked toward him with unhurried steps, making sure to pause near the centre of the chapel, kneel, and cross himself with appropriate reverence. He knew how to move beneath painted saints and candlelight.
Thaddeus watched him carefully.
The priest was not a fool, and there was use in that. A stupid, honest man was often more troublesome than a clever, corrupt one. Honest men had principles, which made them unpredictable.
That was what made Theodorus so dangerous. He was both.
On the one hand, the boy was exceedingly shrewd and a savvy political operator who navigated intrigue, blackmail, and the game of thrones with exceeding ease. On the other he seemed to be guided by a moral compass that placed him against what many would call pious, noble dignity in favour of siding with the common folk.
What Zeno needed was someone who understood price, leverage, and the practical value of a discreet conversation.
“I wished to speak with you in private, Father,” Zeno said, matching the priest’s measured tone.
Thaddeus’s eyes sharpened.
“I believe we have a common problem we would both like to be rid of,” Zeno said, face cast in the chapel’s grey-dark shadows. "A problem called Theodorus Sideris." Zeno was surprised by the venom he spat it with, hearing it echo dangerously from the walls of the empty chapel, as though God were judging him for his hate.
As if Zeno would truly believe Theodorus had come to him in good faith. As if a few compliments tossed like coins to a beggar and a handshake dressed up as a treaty were enough to settle the balance between them.
Zeno had lived in Mangup’s nest of intrigue for most of his life. He knew a performance when he saw one, and from the first moment he had met Theodorus, the boy had been playing a part convincingly enough to make lesser men mistake it for truth.
Perhaps Theodorus had meant some of what he said. That hardly mattered. Sincerity did not make a leash less binding, nor did praise make subordination more dignified.
Zeno was done waiting patiently for his turn.
He was not some meek piece to be moved around the board, praised when useful, and brushed aside when inconvenient.
Not anymore and never again.
And he would make sure to remind them all of that.
Author notes:
One of the things that I have heard a few times now is the lack of religiousness showcased by the characters in Fallen Eagle, which is a fair point to make given the deeply religious 15th century context the story takes place in.
I guess my thought process is that I have very clear ideas about each character and want their personal voices and motivations to be very clearly different so readers aren't constantly confused about who everyone is. Having everyone extremely religious (which is historically accurate) would dilute a bit how distinctive each of them felt and their personal POVs and voices, but maybe I'm reading too much into it.
Let me know your thoughts down below!