Suddenly a voice called out and Chloe glanced at the doorway. She saw a middle-aged man in a white consul’s tunic peering inside the villa. When she saw the man’s slicked-back dark hair, sharp eyes, and narrow face, she immediately recognized Consul Gaius and exchanged a panicked glance with Liana and Sophia. She wondered what he was doing at the villa, but then she remembered what Amos had said. Her heart began to race.
She looked around. The reception was tidy enough, but no doubt the kitchen was a mess. ‘Sophia, quickly,’ she hissed. ‘Go to the market and get some food and wine. Take the servants.’
‘I’ll go with her,’ Liana said.
‘Thank you.’ Chloe gave her friend a grateful look. ‘On your way send up old Haemon with whatever wine he can find.’
‘We’ll go out the back.’ Sophia took Liana’s hand and led her away.
Consul Gaius made a sound of acknowledgment when he saw Chloe approaching. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think no one was home.’
‘Please, come inside,’ Chloe said. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
She led him to one of the recliners that sat clustered around a low table. Gaius settled the folds of his tunic; he glanced around, appearing ill at ease. Chloe knew she should offer him something and hoped that Haemon would come soon.
‘What can I help you with?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ he harrumphed. ‘To be frank, I am not certain if you can help me at all.’
‘Try me.’ Chloe smiled.
Gaius scratched at his cheek. ‘Is there a point? It is well known where you stand on slavery, lady.’
‘Slavery?’ Chloe frowned.
‘There is not enough labor in the city. Every set of hands is turned to making arrows and javelins, bows and shields, but it is not enough. Some of the work is menial, but the craftsmen’s guild says that whether a craftsman makes arrows or costly ceramics, he still deserves the same pay. At this rate, the treasury will soon be exhausted.’
‘What about the unskilled laborers? Can’t you use them?’
‘They’ve all been conscripted into the army.’ Gaius spread his hands. ‘If we bought some slaves from Sarsica or Koulis, we could work them far harder, and with much less cost.’
‘The first consul believes as I do,’ Chloe said. ‘Slavery isn’t coming back.’ She tilted her head as she pondered. ‘I do, however, think I may have a solution for you.’
Gaius raised an arched eyebrow. ‘And that is?’
‘What about asking if there are any women who want to work?’
The consul leaned back, almost recoiling, as if Chloe had said something shocking. ‘Women?’
‘They . . .’ Chloe began. ‘That is, we . . . are all anxious to do our part. Women can weave, sew, and craft. Who is to say they can’t make arrows, once they know how?’
Gaius’s mouth was open. He looked more puzzled than anything else. The elderly servant, Haemon, finally arrived with wine, placing two cups in front of Chloe and Gaius. The consul was pensive as he took a sip.
‘Consul Gaius, do you have a wife, a daughter?’
‘Both,’ he said, setting down his cup.
‘And I would wager that both can do whatever they set their minds to.’ Chloe knew she had struck a nerve when he smiled.
‘You may have the right of it there,’ he said.
‘Then you know that this isn’t a complicated idea.’
‘But women, working alongside men? It would be disruptive.’
‘Then separate them, if that’s the problem. Try it. If something isn’t working, change it a little.’
Gaius abruptly stood. ‘I will give it some thought.’ Something occurred to him. ‘Your suggestion has the first consul’s support?’
‘Of course.’ Chloe knew she would have to get to Amos before Gaius did.
The sharp-faced consul was shaking his head as he left. ‘Times certainly are changing,’ he muttered to himself.
After Gaius left, Chloe sipped her wine, thinking. She was glad to be helping, but she wanted to do more. She kept returning to the conversation she’d had with Liana at the emerald pool. She was afraid to go to Athos, but it was the only place she might find answers. Zedo, her teacher, had said there was a flaw in the ancient Aleutheans’ magic. What was it? Was it something she could exploit?
There was someone she could turn to for advice. He still loved her, she was sure of it, even though grief had built a wall around his heart. She came to a decision. As soon as she could, she would go to Dion. He would know what she should do.
She looked up as Sophia and Liana returned with stuffed vine leaves, olives, hard cheese, and herb-crusted bread.
‘Gaius is gone already?’ Sophia grinned. ‘No matter. There’s another consul climbing up the stairs.’
‘Good luck,’ Liana whispered. ‘I’m going with Sophia to see Balion.’
Chloe shook herself, returning to the task at hand. She hurriedly laid out the food and then went to the door to welcome her next guest. She recognized Consul Felix, a tall, lanky man with bristling black hair that darted in all directions from his crown and his chin. He carried a scroll of papyrus under his arm.
‘It is good to see you again, lady,’ he said. As he stooped to kiss her hand, meeting her eyes, he gave her a mischievous smile. ‘What did you say to Consul Gaius? I tried to ask him, but he kept mumbling and shaking his head.’
‘Nothing as bold as he seems to think,’ Chloe said. She led Felix to the recliners and the tall consul seated himself, placing the scroll on the table. ‘And you, Consul Felix?’ she asked. ‘How do you feel about working with a woman?’
Felix sobered. ‘I am shocked, to be honest, that the first consul would ask this of me.’ He reached for his cup of wine and dramatically drank it in a single gulp, before slamming it down on the table. ‘I don’t see how you, of all people, could help me with these supply allocations.’ Felix tapped the scroll he’d brought with him. He was now scowling, while Chloe didn’t know how to respond. ‘You cannot read or write.’
Chloe’s eyes shot wide open. ‘I can—’
Felix held up a hand. ‘You have no experience of politics. And you know nothing of the city’s administration.’
Chloe opened her mouth to retort, but then she saw the twinkle in Felix’s eyes. She tried to stifle a smile, and then Felix was grinning too.
‘Show me what you have,’ Chloe said. ‘And I’ll try to think what my father would have done.’
‘That is a question I often ask myself when I have a difficult problem,’ Felix said. ‘He was a good man.’
‘The best,’ Chloe said.
‘Now . . .’ Felix began to unfurl the scroll. ‘The new conscripts are putting a strain on our reserves of grain . . .’
5
‘And this is where the last stage in the process takes place,’ Xenophon said proudly. ‘The lever is connected to the winch wheel and, finally, the stays are attached to the arms.’
Dion and Xenophon stood a little away from the long bench and watched as a sturdy woman in a leather apron deftly slotted the wooden lever into place. Her movements were swift and sure; she had obviously done this many times before. As soon as she was finished, she slid the ballista to the right, where an older man immediately began to attach the treated cord to the arms jutting out at both sides.
They were at one of the workshops recently repurposed to produce ballistae. It was a sprawling structure, filled with room after room of people working side by side. Boys with red armbands took the ballistae away as soon as the last worker at each bench called out to them.
Dion watched the bustling workers with something close to awe. Like all good ideas, it was so simple that he wondered no one had thought of it before. His composite bow had been made by a single craftsman over several weeks. This was far more efficient. The city’s blacksmiths, carpenters, and tanners could concentrate on making the individual parts and making them well, leaving the task of assembly to the less-skilled laborers.
‘Do not thank me yet, King of Xanthos,’ the old philosopher interrupted. ‘You still have a war to win.’
Dion gazed around him. He and Xenophon were the only people standing motionless in a room that hummed with activity. The air smelled of leather, wood shavings, and sweat. He sniffed. There was another odor . . . something sharp and unfamiliar.
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Ah . . .’ For once Xenophon looked a little unsure of himself. ‘It is a personal project of mine.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘It is far from ready.’
‘Then let me ask you another question. Am I paying for it?’
‘I suppose you are.’ The philosopher’s long beard wagged as he laughed. He hesitated for a moment, and then nodded to himself. ‘Just remember it is a work in progress. Come.’
Xenophon led Dion to the back of the workshop, through a doorway to a smaller room located far from all the activity. The strange smell grew stronger as Dion neared. He followed Xenophon inside and stopped in surprise.
Dion saw a fire pit in the center of the room, framed with bricks, and an iron pot containing a thick brown liquid resting on the hot coals. The morass in the pot bubbled under a metal hood apparently designed to capture the rising steam. A copper pipe connected to the hood performed a series of loops and then emptied into a bucket sitting on a table.
Something about the nature of the air stung Dion’s eyes, causing them to water. He coughed; the sharp odor was overwhelming. He watched as Xenophon checked on the contraption, first inspecting the hood and the copper tube, then peering into the container that appeared to be the end result of the process.
‘What in the names of all the gods is it?’ Dion asked.
‘Distillation of tar,’ Xenophon said, lifting his head from the bucket. He smiled. ‘At least that’s what I hope it is. Some call it naphtha. Others Galean Fire.’
Dion came over to join Xenophon and stared down into the container. Three inches of perfectly clear liquid looked like nothing more than water, if it weren’t for the smell. Seconds passed before he saw the tiniest droplet fall from the end of the tube.
‘Naphtha?’ Dion asked. He suddenly realized what the old philosopher was talking about and jerked away from the table. ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘I believe so.’ Xenophon grinned. ‘That is the point, is it not? To be honest, I am better suited to engineering than alchemy. I wasn’t going to show you until I had produced more. Well? Can you find a use for it?’
‘Definitely,’ Dion said. ‘I won’t turn down anything we can use to defend ourselves.’
‘I can’t promise you quantity,’ Xenophon said. ‘It takes a great deal of time to distill. But I suppose one should never put off beginning a project in the fear that there won’t be time to complete it. As the philosopher Arturo said: “The best time to plant a tree was ten years ago. The second best time is today.”’
Dion nodded in appreciation. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’
Xenophon turned away from his project to meet Dion’s eyes. He stood in silence for a time, considering, before he finally cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of advice, young king, may I give you some?’
‘Go on,’ Dion said apprehensively.
‘A lot of processes take time. Take wounds, for example. They say time heals all wounds, even wounds of the soul. Do you believe that?’
Dion’s eyebrows came together in a frown. He knew what Xenophon was referring to. ‘I’m not certain all wounds can be healed.’
‘People talk,’ Xenophon said, ‘and I have ears to listen. You lost your young bride, who was carrying your child.’ The old philosopher’s voice was grave. ‘It is no easy thing to go through. But I am older than you are, and, yes, wiser. Believe me. You will heal.’
The Royal Palace was always busy. Tall and grand, with a large terrace facing the sea in the east and a smaller terrace gazing at the hills in the west, it was the scene of constant comings and goings. Officers gave reports and overseers delivered updates. Almost everyone made requests for money.
Dion was in his throne room, standing in front of a copper urn that occupied a niche in the wall. He tilted the urn to look at its underside. The design was relatively plain, but it had been fashioned by Lentos, who was a famed craftsman in his day. Dion wondered how much coin the urn might fetch. He sighed and gave up; the answer was that it would barely be worth the effort.
There were dozens of empty niches around him. Every item of gold or silver had been sold to fund the war effort. Dion had plundered the rings that once belonged to his father, King Markos, as well as the necklaces that his mother wore long ago. He had kept only the ivory comb she’d once pulled through the dyed tresses of her secretly silver hair.
Hearing voices, Dion turned away from the wall.
His uncle, Glaukos, was approaching with Finn by his side. The two men were often together: Glaukos was Dion’s most senior adviser, and Finn was his master of trade and treasury. Glaukos hated being an administrator, and was far more comfortable in his role as Xanthos’s largest landowner, but Dion depended on him far too much to let him give the responsibility to another. He was a tall, slim man, with neatly combed gray hair and sharp, patrician features.
Finn, with his garish taste in clothing and theatrical manner, was a rogue and former pirate, and couldn’t be more different from Glaukos. But they were the two men Dion relied on the most in all things. He knew he was fortunate that they were as close as they were.
Finn had told Dion about Chloe’s success in forging peace between Tanus and Sindara. She was in Phalesia now, he knew. He could count on Amos to look after her. She was never far from his mind, but the important thing was that she was safe. In his experience, safe meant anywhere away from him.
‘You will remember our conversation from last night,’ Glaukos said. ‘Here he is, so that he can explain to you himself.’
Finn spread his hands. ‘In simple terms,’ he said, ‘we’re broke.’
‘Then borrow,’ Dion said, scowling.
‘We have already borrowed all we can,’ said Finn. ‘And yet the lists Xenophon sends me grow longer day by day.’
‘He told me he found a way to simplify the new citadel at Fort Liberty,’ Dion persisted. ‘That should save money.’
‘We could not afford the citadel in the first place,’ Glaukos said. ‘We have even sold our reserves of winter grain.’
Dion turned to Finn. ‘How much grain do we have left?’
‘Barely enough to last six months.’
‘Then sell two-thirds of it.’
‘But Dion—’ Glaukos protested.
Dion raised a hand when he saw three newcomers approaching. They were priests of Balal, dressed in black robes. One of them, stick-thin and older than the others, carried a scroll.
Glaukos and Finn turned in surprise. ‘What’s this?’ Glaukos demanded.
‘Finn,’ Dion said, ‘do you mind leaving us?’
Finn looked from face to face. ‘With pleasure,’ he said, giving a deep bow before fleeing the area.
‘This is it?’ Dion held out his hand.
‘As you requested, sire.’ The old priest gave Dion the scroll.
Dion immediately unfurled it and looked it over, quickly reading the text. It was simple enough to follow. He nodded in satisfaction and handed it to his uncle. ‘Here.’
Glaukos was perplexed as he held the scroll at the top and bottom and read. His expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. ‘Dion, listen to me—’
‘I’m making you my heir,’ Dion said. ‘If I die, you will be king of Xanthos.’
He took the scroll from his uncle and looked around the chamber, finally setting his sights on the raised wooden throne. He motioned for the priests to follow as he strode over and laid the scroll out on the throne. He then beckoned for one of the younger priests to pass him
a stylus.
Dion swiftly signed before glancing at his uncle. ‘We both need to make our marks.’
Glaukos walked over slowly; his expression hadn’t changed. ‘Listen, Dion. The heir should be your son, or a younger man. You need a wife. Share the burden. Bear a son.’
‘After Isobel, I doubt I’ll ever marry again. Do it, Uncle. Please.’
Glaukos scowled, but he signed where Dion indicated. Dion shook the scroll to dry it and then handed it to the priest.
‘Thank you all,’ he said to them, before turning back to Glaukos. ‘I have to go to the barracks. Sell the grain. Find the money.’
It was late at night and Dion was too fatigued to work, plan, talk, or even to sleep. He sat alone on a bench on the Orange Terrace, smelling the sweet scent of citrus and leaning his elbows on the stone table as he gazed out to sea. Summer was always dry in Xanthos, and there wasn’t a single cloud to obscure the swathes of glittering stars. They glittered like faraway campfires, as if the armies of heaven were encamped on the black expanse and preparing to make war. Dion shook himself; he needed to think about something other than battle plans.
He started; there was a sound, at the limits of hearing. It was like fast breathing or the panting of bellows at the forge. It reminded him of a sail snapping as it caught the wind, but the sound was repeated, time and again.
It grew louder. Soon it was undeniably the sound of dragon wings.
Dion shot to his feet. If they were coming, surely the alarm would have been raised. Could it be that Palemon had chosen to raid his palace at night?
Finally he saw silver scales reflecting the moonlight and breathed a sigh of relief. He slumped, putting a hand over his heart. He realized that he should have known who this dragon was; now that he could see her, he could also sense Liana’s presence. Fatigue had clouded his mind.
The silver dragon descended and slowed on the terrace, wings fluttering before coming to a complete rest. By the time Dion had walked toward the decorated stone rail at the terrace’s end, Liana had changed back to her usual form. She stood side by side with a beautiful, dark-haired woman in white. Dion didn’t mean to ignore Liana, but he couldn’t look away from Chloe.
Iron Will Page 4
