There probably wasn't another prince in all the lands who spent so much time dealing about people who toiled in shit.
That, at least, was Alpheo's first thought as his ears trudged through the latest reports from the royal mines , half of whose output he had, by decree, redirected into the agricultural programs now scattered across his princedom.
Pontus, ever the eager steward, was rattling off numbers beside him , ore yields, smelting costs, projections for the next quarter if manpower is increased, his hands flapping like a bird trying to escape its own excitement. His enthusiasm was genuine, loyal even, but the sound of it faded to a dull hum in Alpheo's ears.
His mind wandered.
I wonder how my life would have gone if I had become a merchant as I had meant instead of grabbing the crown I now have through blood.
The thought almost made him smile. I'd probably have bought an island by now, filled it with warehouses and docks, and made it the Venice of this world.
