Fallen Eagle

Chapter 81: A Stalemate

The silver-grey and black brigandine of the Sideris household felt unusually heavy on his shoulders, Theodorus thought, as he fumbled with the hooks and clasps of the outer shirt of laminated steel. The plates clinked against one another with every movement, chains grinding together like the gears in his head. It was an intact piece taken from a mercenary captain who had fallen on the battle of the Kalamita hills, a particularly good set that Theodorus had chosen for himself, thinking the clean lines of the piece and its solid protection a reasonable upgrade over his own harness.

As a commander involved in the battle he naturally had a share of the loot, as did the other officers of the Crown army, but the Doux’s staff had mostly eschewed their usually generous portion of the spoils to arm the men under their command - a necessary sacrifice to complete the fiction that their army of peasants was something more than it appeared.

Theodorus slid his slim sword into its dark leather scabbard and set his features into a mask of grim determination. Leaning over the water basin in his tent, he raked his gaze over his reflection for any trace of dirt or uncleanliness, fingers briefly brushing his jaw as if he could smooth away any sign of doubt. The armour was a costume, a protection not merely because of its plates and rivets, but because of the message it was meant to transmit - an image of steel and order meant to project confidence onto the Italians, it was a scant advantage, but victory was often accrued by stacking these up until you had enough to control the battlefield.

Theodorus pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out into the pale morning. A squadron of Crown officials waited, already mounted and poised on their horses, postures tense and coiled, bodies angled toward the ivory pavilion that had been raised on an open field nestled in a hill off to the side of the two armies. They looked as if they meant to charge the diplomatic talks with swords drawn, not to broker peace.

He noted the ceremonial cleanliness of the dozen officers chosen for the talks. They had bathed in the Belbek river and scrubbed their bodies with lye soap, their armour had been aired and polished in the days leading up to this morning. They had begun their preparations as soon as they’d sighted the Genoese foe, and the reward was the absence of the grime that had been their ever-present companion while on campaign. They were preparing themselves to project an image of disciplined, professional order to the Italians, to resemble leaders of a hard-edged standing army and not a rabble of mud-stained farmers.

At the head of the ensemble rode the three high commanders. Sir Silvanus looked the picture of a knight, his red hair tied back and swaying with the breeze. Poseidippus, by contrast, looked ready to wage war even at a peace table, his partial plate a heavy crimson set of the Papadoupolos family, the large sword at his hip resting easy against his thigh. The Doux looked almost regal. His chin, after days spent nursing a growing stubble, was as smooth as his scalp once more, his posture erect, his movements sure and economical, every breath measured and deliberate.

The Doux watched Theodorus as he swung himself up onto the back of the large black stallion. His own mount, Boudicca, had been deemed too lithe and unassuming for the spectacle ahead, so he’d been assigned this more imposing warhorse instead. The animal shifted restlessly beneath him, a mass of coiled muscle and bad temper. Theodorus felt off-kilter atop the feisty beast, too high and too exposed, but he did not let it show on his face.

He gave a curt nod and guided the stallion into place at the Doux’s right. The Doux turned then to the small cadre picked for the talks, his gaze raking over each of them. “The time for scripts and theories is over,” he said. “Now is the time for a battle to win back the Principality.” His voice did not invite agreement, it carved the words into the air like a decree. “Move out.”

They trotted in tight formation toward the neutral ground agreed upon through shouted messages and cautious exchanges held at bow range. Ahead, the Genoese tent rose out of the trampled field - a structure so large it brushed the definition of a pavilion, its stark white fabric almost glinting where what little sunlight pierced the clouded sky. Heavy, pregnant clouds drifted in from the southern Crimean hills, dark bellies promising rain or worse.

They hitched their horses to a stout post set there for that purpose and crossed the sheared grass on foot. Servants in fine cloth hurried to meet them, bowing at the waist as they folded back the tent’s entrance and bade them enter with murmured courtesies. A portion of the Theodoran party peeled away to stand guard outside. Around the clearing, soldiers from both sides watched one another warily over spearpoints and arquebuses, a living ring to ensure no “accidental” assault would mar the sanctity of the parley.

Inside, the air changed at once. A thick scent of perfume from a dozen different concoctions hung under the canvas, cloying and close, all but undetectable from outside. It was almost dizzying, heavy floral notes and sharp resins layered one over the other until the air itself felt syrup-thick. Theodorus did not doubt it was deliberate - a little trick to unsteady them, to remind them they had stepped into another man’s house.

The tent was empty of Genoese, but the table at which they were to sit was already laden. Silver trays and painted dishes crowded its surface: pyramids of sugared almonds and candied citrus, figs swollen with honey, dried apricots from the east dusted in fine sugar, and crystal flagons of dark red wine and amber-coloured sweet liqueurs, their surfaces beading with condensation. It was a finer assortment than anything the Prince might ever hope to produce.

It was a display as much as a courtesy. Theodorus could all but hear the message beneath it. Look what we can call here, in the middle of a campaign, with a word and a purse of coin. Look how far our ships range. These were luxuries Theodoro could never have set with such casual abundance in a field tent.

He noted, with a discerning eye, that most, if not all, of the delicacies were either from far eastern markets or from the heartlands of western Christendom. Every plate was a subtle reminder of the reach of the Genoese trade network, a map drawn in sugar and spice and wine. By contrast, their own commerce felt small and parochial, penned in by hostile coasts and choking tariffs.

None of the Theodoran envoys so much as reached for a cup. They did not pause to admire the spread, nor allow their gazes to linger on the shining platters. They moved past the luxuries to their seats along one side of a great hardwood table whose fine carving and ivory inlays spoke of old wealth and patient craftsmanship. It stood in stark contrast to the rough, hammered-together boards that had served as their own council table in camp.

Behind them, some of the men-at-arms unfurled a Theodoran standard and planted it firmly in the packed earth at their backs. The cloth dropped and billowed, its familiar device suddenly vivid against the foreign white canvas. It claimed a small patch of this enemy field as theirs, a quiet assertion that, treaty pavilion or not, they had come here as the representatives of a sovereign land, not as beggars.

On the Genoese side a single man, somewhere in his mid-twenties by Theodorus’ reckoning, stood alone near the edge of the stale-smelling tent with his arms folded neatly before him. His posture was very straight, chin lifted just so, and when the Theodoran entourage entered he offered them a shallow, practised bow.

Once they had settled into their appointed seats, the Doux turned his head to regard the man.

“Is the Genoese high command not here yet?” His tone was curt, almost bored.

The man’s smile widened at that, his face splitting into a mask of polished politeness. “The Consul and his entourage have faced a slight delay. They will be with us shortly, rest assured.” He spoke in perfectly serviceable Greek, the consonants clipped and proper, the vowels drawn out with that high, nasal Italian slant. “If you require anything for your comfort while you wait, I am at your service.” His dark curls bobbed as he bowed again at a precise, almost mathematical angle.

The Doux did not bother to reply. The slight was deliberate, and everyone in the tent knew it. It was a classic power move, a small assertion of the supposed precedence of the Italians over the Greeks: make them wait, force them to acknowledge a servant, see if they would fidget or fill the silence. The Theodoran envoys remained perfectly calm.

For the better part of half an hour they sat thus. No one in the Theodoran party spoke. They did not drink. They did not comment on the heavy hangings embroidered with the Genoese griffon and the red cross. They simply sat implacably in their chairs, postures erect, hands still, as if this flimsy manoeuvring were beneath their notice.

The arrival of the Genoese delegation was finally heralded by a sudden flourish of trombas outside and the clatter of hooves on freshly churned earth. The sound rolled through the canvas like a fanfare at a tourney.

The first to enter the tent were two professional condottieri, men in full harness that gleamed even in the muted light. Their plate was well-fitted and well-cared for, their movements crisp and economical, the easy grace of men who had worn steel since their youth. They took their places to either side of the central chair without a word, visors raised, eyes forward.

Behind them came the Genoese nobility in a small, bright flood. They swept into the tent in layers of colour and perfume - scarlets and saffrons and deep ocean blues, brocades stitched with gold thread, rings winking on gloved hands. Their cloaks flared, jewels caught even the dim light as they arranged themselves with the practised fussiness of people accustomed to being watched.

Last of all came the man who could only be the Consul. He was rotund, wrapped in thick velvet that drank the light, a finely measured beretta perched on his head and framing the neatly trimmed hazel hair that circled his skull in a careful bowl cut. His complexion was pale, almost doughy, and a noticeable double chin was pushed up by the high collar of the crimson robe he wore, its hem and cuffs edged in dark sable.

Were it not for the robe and the fur, Theodorus thought, the man might have passed for some prosperous dockside broker or grain factor. But his eyes ruined the illusion. They were a clear hazel, sharp and assessing, and they moved with the detached focus of an investigator picking over a crime scene. In a single slow sweep he took in the tent, the gleam of Theodoran armour, the untouched plates of food, and the brimming cups of wine.

He advanced to his seat with a careful, deliberate slowness, the slowness of a broker that saw no need to hurry for his debtors. Servants moved ahead of him to smooth the furs draped over his chair, to adjust a fold of velvet, to ensure that when he finally lowered himself into place, the picture he presented would be one of weight and comfort and unquestioned authority.

“May I present to you his august personage, Democrito Lecrario, Consul of Gazaria and representative of the Most Serene Republic of Genoa,” the servant who had been waiting in the tent from the beginning, proclaimed. His voice carried easily through the still air.

“, Eraldo,” the Consul murmured as he eased himself into his seat.

For a moment both sides, enemies on the field, simply stared at one another across the narrow breadth of the table. The air between them felt charged, one wrong word away from an explosion. High-ranking officials of two states that had been at each other’s throats for decades now sat within arm’s reach. A misstep here would not be a mere slight; it would be a blunder with consequences measured in border shifts and mounds of bodies.

“Greetings, friends.” One of the Genoese merchants - a particularly finely dressed man with a jewelled chain over his doublet - spoke up, each syllable weighed and calculated. Eraldo gave the Greek translation a heartbeat later. “We of the Serene Republic of Genoa are gladdened that you asked for this meeting to resolve the dispute we presently find ourselves in.” He spoke of the current military standoff as if it were some minor quarrel over customs duties, something comfortably beneath the Republic’s concern.

“It was you who requested the parlay, honourable gentlemen,” Sir Silvanus replied. He had been chosen as their principal spokesman for this first stretch of negotiation. He looked the very picture of a noble knight: white cape thoroughly cleaned, armour burnished, not a stain or crease to betray the mud and blood of the last weeks.

“Only because you requested talks beforehand, my good sirs,” the Italian countered smoothly, his tone edging toward a challenge as he all but denied that the Genoese had any real need to speak to the Theodorans at all. “We understand your tenuous position and have decided to hear what you might have to say. We understand the cost in blood you would have to pay is high.” The implication hung there, unadorned: Genoa was condescending to them, doing them a favour by even deigning to listen.

Sir Silvanus merely smiled, mild and courteous, refusing to be dragged into the mud of petty point-scoring. He let the silence draw out just long enough to register his disapproval of the statement, then spoke. “We would ask the Serene Republic what reason it has for its unlawful invasion of the Principality’s sovereign territory.”

The merchant’s smile seemed to widen by a fraction. “It was the Theodoran navy that first began the aggressions, in spite of our treaty,” he said, his voice almost amicable. “Peaceful Genoese merchant vessels were captured and raided by pirates funded by state, completely unprovoked.”

Theodorus saw some of the Theodoran officers shift in their seats at that, shoulders tightening under steel. A few fists clenched beneath the tablecloth, knuckles whitening, even as their faces remained composed and carefully neutral.

“That attack was masterminded and carried out by the noble Philemon Makris,” Sir Silvanus replied at once, as if he had been waiting for precisely this line. “A man who rose up in rebellion against the realm and is presently in custody, if I recall.” He let the last words fall with deliberate weight, the double meaning laid on thick.

In hindsight, Theodorus thought, it was obvious. The entire privateer scheme that Philemon had pushed for had been a ploy from the start, a neat pretext to justify the invasion of Roman soil by the Genoese while the Principality was preoccupied with the rebellion. The question was whether anyone at this table would admit as much aloud.

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In this age, the justification for war, the casus belli, was as necessary a weapon as any cannon. The sinking of the privateer vessels had given Genoa its excuse, dooming Theodoro to suffer invasion. The Genoese could have crossed the sea without such a pretext, of course, but then they would have invited scrutiny from the other Christian powers they traded with. To invade a neighbouring Christian state while the East groaned under the weight of the great Ottoman Turks was, in some eyes, perilously close to blasphemy.

“What are you implying?” the Italian asked, his voice sharpening. Around him the delegation grew visibly tenser, shoulders tightening, eyes narrowing. They both knew the truth, and they knew the other side knew it. But here, under canvas, the only truth that had teeth was the one backed by the seventeen hundred armed men outside the Principality’s capital and the rows of cannon dug into the hills. Accusing them outright of fabricating their claim would be worse than useless. It would be conjecture, easily denied, and a diplomatic wound that would only make them dig in.

The only way forward was to offer a sliver of peace and yield a little ground. To signal to the Genoese that Theodoro was willing to let the pretext stand, so long as they were willing to negotiate in earnest. A small concession to draw them properly to the table - and, if needed, a hidden blade they could bare later should Genoa force their hand.

“That the attack was not carried out by the Theodoran Crown, but by a rogue noble who hired privateers out of his own purse. We were not involved in any way with the attack on your ships,” Silvanus said firmly.

The Italians leaned toward one another, speaking in quick, low tones, their voices pitched just below the range of clear understanding.

In exchange for not pressing the obvious fiction of the Genoese grievance, Theodoro was offering them a false narrative that would exonerate both states: a convenient story in which a single rebellious lord was at fault, and crowns and councils remained blameless. Now it rested with Genoa whether to accept that story and climb down with dignity, or to reject it and bare their teeth.

The Consul himself did not move. He sat as he had from the start, hands resting in his lap, his gaze never leaving the Theodorans even as the nobles at his side bent to murmur questions in his ear. When his councillors finally fell silent, the Doux met that steady hazel stare without wavering. Whatever he found in the Doux’s face - strength, or at least enough steel to be worth respecting - it was enough for the Consul to give a small, almost imperceptible nod. He had accepted the story.

“The fact remains that a Theodoran noble assaulted Genoese ships,” the Italian diplomat said at last, seizing on the point they had been offered, “and that this had a harmful effect on the flow of trade and on the security of the sea-lanes that carry the wealth and myriad goods of the Republic” he gave a tiny pause for effect. “which include your Theodoran wine.”

The last words were laid with care, a subtle reminder of the chokehold Genoa maintained over the maritime export of that wine, a grip that had kept Theodoro’s economy weak and mostly agrarian, its vineyards rich and its coffers thin.

“Recompense,” the merchant concluded smoothly, “is to be expected.”

The ground had been set, and now came the time to settle terms. It was time to fight back in the negotiations.

“The Principality is prepared to draft a new treaty of non-aggression between our two nations,” Sir Silvanus said, his voice steady, “and to offer the baggage train and remaining wealth of the displaced, traitorous noble Philemon Makris, the thief who swindled both our states, as a sign of goodwill.”

It was, in essence, an offer of white peace. On paper it sounded like a concession, in practice, however, almost nothing was being given up. The Genoese already held Philemon in custody, and were in no hurry to surrender control of the baggage train. Little of true value would be lost by Theodoro. For Genoa, with its cannon at the gates and its banners flying unchallenged in the east, such terms were never going to be acceptable.

“That is far too little, and you offer us wealth we already possess.” The diplomat’s lip curled in open disdain. “Your capital is under siege. You are outnumbered two to one. A third of your country is currently occupied.”

He ticked off each point like entries in an account book, naming the three great advantages Genoa held over the Principality. Traditionally, the Genoese could not push into the Theodoran heartland without paying dearly in blood. The fortress of Funa existed for the express purpose of barring the road to Mangup from Caffa, and the narrow valleys and steep mountain tracks beyond were perfect ground for ambushes on a slow-moving train of heavy guns. Now, with the eastern approaches opened by their scheming, they had marched their army unbloodied to the capital’s very doorstep.

“It is what we are willing to offer in response to an unlawful invasion of our land,” Silvanus replied, tone still courteous but iron-hard beneath.

“It is unacceptable, given your past transgressions - many of which were also unlawful, like the seizure of Cembalo, may I remind you.” Past conflicts between the two nations provided ample ammunition to hurl at one another, and the diplomat made use of that very fact, hoping to seize the moral ground. “We will not withdraw for nothing,” he countered.

They had brought nearly two thousand troops and half a dozen castle-killers to Theodoran gates. From the Genoese point of view, this was the best opportunity in a generation to rid themselves of their troublesome neighbours, to break the Principality without having to pour the same river of coin into a future campaign. No sane merchant would walk away from such an investment with empty hands.

“We would hear your terms, then,” Silvanus said. He laid the words down gently, but the move was deliberate: placing the ball firmly in the Italians’ court. It was part of the strategy crafted in their own tent: to sound out Genoese ambitions first, to let them name their price and reveal their priorities. A small advantage in the geometry of negotiations, but in a game this tight, even a sliver of insight mattered.

“The transfer of the eastern Theodoran territories and vineyards, along with the fortress of Funa,” the Italian began. Already with his first demand the proposal was unacceptable, but he did not pause. “The destruction of any and all seafaring facilities in the town of Kalamita, alongside a treaty pledging that your state will not engage in maritime activities, be they of a trading or military nature. You will also support and aid in the establishment of a small Genoese garrison to ensure compliance and to strengthen the mutual cooperation between our states.”

Theodorus did not need a map to see what that meant. It was an invitation to assist in a future Genoese occupation of Kalamita, to seal shut the only door through which the Principality might one day slip past Genoa’s chokehold. With Funa gone, the eastern lands ceded, and their harbours razed, Theodoro would be locked inland, its ships broken, its coast watched by foreign soldiers.

“Finally,” the diplomat added, almost lazily, “a modest tribute of five thousand hyperpera - this is your coin denomination, I believe?” He pronounced the name of the Byzantine coin with utter distaste, as if even the word itself were tarnished. Nothing offended merchants more than inflated, debased currency.

The list hung between them like an accusation. If such a deal were to pass through it would be the Principality’s death sentence. With tribute paid to the Ottomans and the Crimeans, paying another to the Genoese would summarily end their state in just a few short years. Which was why the Genoese did not even bother with asking for more than five thousand. That would be enough to end them.

“The Republic would be amenable to spreading out the payment,” the diplomat continued smoothly, “to be delivered yearly in sums of one thousand hyperpera at a time. In exchange, it would pledge non-aggression against your state and protection from any neighbours who would seek to undermine your sovereignty - a sovereignty which we will now recognize.”

Theodorus heard the last line for what it was: a pat on the head. Protection from a weakened Gazaria meant little when the Principality’s true enemies were the Ottoman Turks and the Crimean Khans, regional powers who could crush Genoa’s Black Sea colonies almost as easily as they could crush Theodoro itself, should they ever decide to turn their full weight north.

Silence settled over the Theodoran side like a cloak. Every man at their table fought not to betray so much as a tightening jaw. They had known the Italians would open with a ludicrous offer, something designed to goad them into an outburst and strip away their composure. But this… this was not simply ambitious. It was an insult.

“That offer is unacceptable,” Sir Silvanus said at last, calm as still water, his façade unbroken. "We refuse." Was all he said in response.

The silence stretched thin and wide in the spacious tent, as the Italians waited for an explanation for the refusal, a pushback on the terms, or even an insult directed at them. They grew confused as nothing of the sort materialized.

Eraldo, the translator, blinked, visibly wrong-footed. “My lord… you will not name counter-terms?” he asked in careful Greek.

The Italians watched them with hawk’s eyes, waiting for some hint of desperation, some sign that the Theodorans might yet be coaxed onto the ground Genoa wanted.

“No,” Silvanus replied simply. “Our offer to allow the Genoese army to withdraw with the wealth of the rebels' baggage train would cover many of their expenses in the unlawful mobilization of troops the Republic has undertaken. The counter-offer proposed by the honourable Consul is so far removed from our own that reaching common ground is impossible.”

He spoke in a reasonable, almost conversational tone, his voice pitched clearly, his expression implacable as he regarded the Italian entourage, never letting his gaze linger long enough on any one face to turn composure into challenge.

The Theodoran delegation was trying to tread a blade’s edge. To stand their ground without openly insulting the Genoese, to refuse humiliation without handing their enemies a pretext to storm away.

As Eraldo rendered Silvanus’s words into Italian, smirks bloomed along the Genoese side of the table, thin and mocking.

“Then you are not willing to negotiate for your survival?” the diplomat asked, curiosity threading through the contempt. “You must know your situation is untenable.”

“We are willing,” Silvanus answered, “but only if the Republic engages with us in good faith. And we do not believe our situation untenable.” Silvanus stated with quiet confidence.

Silence plagued the air once more.

“You are making a mistake.”

The voice cut cleanly through the murmurs and the clink of metal, and every eye at the table turned toward it.

The Consul himself, Democrito Lecrari, had spoken - and not in Italian, but in his own heavily accented Greek.

The Theodoran side did not answer him.

Democrito rose from his chair with unhurried deliberation, and his entourage scrambled to their feet a heartbeat later, eyes slightly wide at the unexpected gesture.

Without another word, the Consul turned and walked out of the tent, velvet and fur trailing behind him. His nobles followed in his wake like brightly coloured birds.

The Theodoran contingent remained seated for several long moments, the emptiness on the far side of the table humming with all that had not been said. Only then did they rise in turn and file out, making their way back toward their own camp and the hard decisions that waited there.

“What was the point of any of that?” Sir Silvanus demanded as soon as they were clear of the pavilion and out of earshot. “They raise a flag to parlay, set up an elaborate tent with refreshments, only to make utterly outrageous demands and then walk out?”

The clip-clop of the horses on the packed earth filled the pause before Theodorus answered. “This was them testing the waters,” he said at last. “It may look as if they accomplished nothing, but they have taken our measure - our demeanour, our negotiation style, where they think our bottom line lies.” He frowned, gaze drifting back toward the pale lump of canvas shrinking behind them. “They know they hold the upper hand. They can beat us and sack the capital; it is only a question of time and how much they are willing to spend in blood and coin. Today’s spectacle was meant to unbalance us, to provoke a hasty, impulsive response out of the more martial-minded among us. He never intended to reach an agreement today. He came to float the ridiculous as a starting anchor, or else to drive us into escalating the conflict.”

It was a familiar tactic to any merchant or diplomat: begin at the far edge of the realm of possibility, then watch which parts of the outrage your opponent starts to argue with. It worked well on men unused to such games.

“Why would they want to exacerbate the conflict?” Silvanus asked, still baffled.

“I do not know.” Theodorus shook his head, jaw tightening. “That is what troubles me. We have done everything to make a full assault as unappealing as possible. Our whole strategy hangs on the cost of a total war solution outweighing its benefits.” He exhaled, a thin ribbon of frustration seeping into the warm air. “And yet their tactics suggest they are perfectly willing to keep that option on the table.”

“We managed, at least, to keep the terms from drifting entirely to their side for now,” Poseidippus said with a sullen look, as if forcing himself toward something that might pass for consolation. “It is a small victory.”

“And yet I see no one happy,” Silvanus muttered. He glanced along their line and only saw the Papadoupolos twins grim as carved stone and Theodorus with his brow furrowed and eyes distant.

“The Consul has realized that simple provocation will not serve him,” Theodorus said slowly, tasting the words in his mouth as he spoke them. “He tested whether he could bully us into panic or rage. When that failed, he ended the talks before we could push back or force him to moderate his demands. He will go back to his camp and draft a new strategy for the next round.”

He looked toward the Genoese lines, banners pricking the horizon. “We have survived the initial skirmish,” he went on, “and we have shown that we are neither cowards to bend at the first shout nor hotheads to be goaded into stupidity. But the Consul has also shown that he is no fool. If pressure on the diplomatic front will take longer than he likes, he will not hesitate to try something else.”

For better or worse, they were reacting now, not directing. The initiative lay with the Italians.

As the Genoese delegation made their way back toward their opulent lines and Democrito squinted up at the high sun, he could not quite keep a small frown from tugging at his mouth.

“What did you make of them, Camillo?” he asked his senior diplomat as they neared the edge of their camp.

“Impassive, messere Consul.” Camillo was a thin, willowy man with an uncannily sharp gaze. “They showed considerable restraint. They did not partake of, or even glance at, the delicacies we laid out. They did not speak unless spoken to, did not fidget, did not budge. And when they did answer, they always spoke calmly.”

With the way the man was talking, Democrito almost thought he was praising those provincial monkeys.

They passed beneath the fluttering banners of the Republic, riding into the ordered geometry of the Genoese camp. Rows of tents stood in neat, measured streets: canvas pavilions for the nobles, lower, tougher hides for the mercenary companies, all stitched together by lines of cookfires and stacked powder barrels. As the Consul approached, Italian mercenaries straightened from their idleness, saluting with spear-butts thudding against the ground or gauntleted fists striking breastplates. The guns sat in their park like patient beasts, iron muzzles dark and cold, crews lounging nearby but rising to attention as Democrito’s small procession rode past.

“So?” Democrito prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“So they are trying desperately to show a calm façade,” Camillo went on, licking his lips. “They revealed very little of their hand, and they seem confident they can at least stall us. They refused to be drawn into a more complex discussion of pretext. When I prodded them at the start, implying they had been the ones to call for the parlay, they did not contest it. That tells me they understand their limitations in oratory. They will likely cede on details rather than risk being dragged into debates they cannot easily win. We can strip some concessions from them on that alone. Besides that…” His narrow face pinched in displeasure.

“Nothing else,” Democrito finished for him, having reached the same conclusion. Their diplomatic posture was that of a tortoise: slow, reactionary, withdrawn into its shell, but difficult to crack without breaking one’s own hands. “To claw out large concessions, we must move by other means.”

He turned in the saddle and made towards the great bombards, where his two principal military officers lay in discussion. Both straightened at his approach.

“Baccio.” He called the older of the two.

The veteran leader of the mercenary corps currently in Gazarian service turned to face him, spotless armour gleaming in the sun.

“Turn the cannons around,” Democrito said. “Make them bleed. Test their defences, find their weaknesses. Wear them down in the field so we can pick them apart at the negotiation table.”

He would not rule out a total assault if it came to that. One thing he had learned from a lifetime of bargains and haggling was that a threat of mutual destruction was only worth anything if one actually had the will to carry it through.

Later, in the great pavilion that served as his seat of power, Democrito settled into the fur-draped chair at the centre while his advisers gathered around like lesser stars orbiting a sun. Maps lay spread before him, inked with borders and roads and the stylised double-headed eagle of Theodoro, its wings outstretched over shrinking patches of land.

If worst came to worst, he thought, fingers resting lightly on the painted eagle, he would play his ultimate hand. He would sacrifice rivals and courtiers alike if that was what it took to cut the wings from this tired imperial bird. Their days of glory were long past. Empires faded, but trade endured, and the griffon of Genoa feasted on such birds of prey.