The journey from Caudiceum to Arqa along the Amber line was widely known to be the fastest of all routes possible between those two ports; even then, it would normally take about week and a half to make the crossing. However, lucky sailors would once in a blue moon come across a very rare phenomenon, one that presented itself when certain conditions where met: at the height of summer, right after the seasonal storms had washed over the southern coasts and the currents of the northern sea had seen enough turmoil, wind would blow favourably throughout seven days and seven nights, with no major rains and a water so calm the crystalline ocean floor would be seen below. It was in that weather that the lucky ship would find itself sighting the shore in no more than five days, with no effort from its crew required.
Hyperion, Phobos and Aristides knew they would not be lucky enough to see it happen this time around, but they were lucky enough to be travelling with someone who could make it happen. Ophelia jumped at the idea, surprised it hadn't come to her before: she couldn't say that she was looking forward to spending week and a half in a ship.
It was a task easier said than done: it turns out her mysterious Byzantine powers weren't as miraculous as one might think. A wind would blow as long as she focused hard on it; it took her several hours of ever-increasing frustration to get it to manifest the way she wanted to. It started small, like a breeze; it would die out, it would blow in the wrong direction. If it was too strong, it could destroy their sails, or sweep the crew off the ship. She needed to carefully control it through dedicated exercises of concentration – which she could only hold for so long.
So it was devised in the end that she'd summon the winds during the day, with certain intervals allowed for her rest. When she wasn't seeing to it, they'd put the crew to work. That way they alternated wind and mechanical power – and it was enough to get them to Arqa by the seventh day.
"Finally," she had exclaimed with a sigh when one of the men announced that land was in sight. She collapsed backwards onto the deck where she'd been sitting, allowing the exhaustion of the previous days finally pile on top of her.
"We shall take you first thing to my villa; it's better if you rest there for a few days," Hyperion offered with a worried look. "I feel guilty that I suggested this in the first place. I didn't imagine it'd exert this much."
"Of course, that'd be the last thing in your mind," Phobos snorted. "As long as others get the work done for you."
"It's fine, I can't say I was looking forward to staying at sea for much longer," Ophelia quickly defused the incoming argument. "I just need some rest."
It wasn't just rest that she needed in the end. Soon, the shock of her exhaustion took a hold of her body and she began to feel the tell-tale aches of a fever. It came on strong, stronger than she'd ever felt since she was a child, and she deteriorated quickly. They arrived at the port after sunset, and by then she could only lay helpless on top of the skins in Hyperion's chambers, comfortable beyond belief but too miserable to appreciate it.
"Keep drinking water," Phobos had stayed with her, going back and forth between the large jar with fresh water and her. Aristides, thankfully, had easily prevented an argument between then prince and the merchant by suggesting that the former stay by her side to take care of her, "as her husband, real or not". That kept the honourable man entertained, while Aristides negotiated with Hyperion the finer details of their agreement and what was to happen once they landed.
"Please don't go without saying goodbye," Ophelia mumbled at some point, half delirious. Phobos looked at her almost frightened, as if she'd uttered a terrible augury.
"I'm not going anywhere yet," he replied.
Ophelia would not be able to tell exactly all that happened the rest of the night, other than the vague memories of her descending the ship holding onto Phobos for dear life and the uncomfortable bumps of the carriage they rode to Hyperion's villa. She clearly held on to the moment when she was finally able to fall asleep in a bed; around her she heard the bustling of the maidservants who had helped her bathe, but all she really cared about was the sweet fragrance of the orange trees coming from the garden, and the sea breeze that'd hit her face every so often.
The fever broke at some point during the night; by the morning, all she had left was her exhaustion. After washing her face and dressing up in the loose, fine cotton robes that Hyperion had left for her, she slowly made her way to the garden, where she'd been told the Chaldean merchant was having his breakfast.
"I told them to bring you the food," he said with a frown, getting up to help her. Ophelia smiled, waving off his concern.
"I insisted; I need the fresh air. Rest assured that I will go back to sleep after this."
"How are you feeling?" he made a gesture towards the attendants, who were waiting by the edge of the garden. They hurriedly brought forth another cup of tea for her, and another set of cutlery.
"Better," she helped herself to some of the fruit. "The fever is gone. My body still feels heavy."
"You're welcome to stay and rest here as much as you want," Hyperion repeated his offer. "My servants will attend to you as if you were their master."
"All I need is somewhere to rest my bones," she said, intimidated by the other's hospitality. "But thank you."
She was served some tea; the hot, savoury liquid worked wonders, breathing life back into her. She closed her eyes, sighing contentedly. "One wonders how people can do without this."
"Indeed," the merchant eyed her amusedly. "Although you'd be the first of your kind to say so; it's not so popular with your lot, I've noticed."
"I'm my own person," Ophelia said, and none-so-gently decided to change the topic of conversation. "Would you happen to know where…?" she searched for Phobos' fake name in her memory, but wasn't able to find it. Hyperion knew about his identity, but she wasn't quite ready to drop his real name like that: she darted nervous glances about, unsure if she could trust the attendants.
"Our friend is resting in the guests' annex," Hyperion winked. "I was told he quite dutifully woke up at dawn to perform the due diligence of a warrior, and I believe that he's probably now at the baths. He sent his companion away. From my conversation with him yesterday, it seems like his plans are to stay here until you've recovered."
Ophelia didn't hide her sigh of relief. "What's that you mentioned? A warrior's diligence…?"
Hyperion paused for a second at her question, and she had the inkling that she'd somehow revealed something without meaning to. He chose not to speak to it, replying instead "oh, he does his sword routines, honours his training."
Ophelia nodded, thinking that he'd probably come to see her later in the day. "Is Eon about? It's strange to see you without him."
"He's taking care of some business. I'm afraid that once I arrive at a port, things become quite hectic for me. And these days as well, the city is abuzz with the preparations for the Council," Hyperion stood up. "This should be my cue to leave. Please stay and enjoy your breakfast; I'd have loved to give you a tour of the villa but that can wait until you're feeling better."
With a slight nod of his head and a small curtsy, he departed. As Ophelia munched on some bread and cheese slices, she pondered over the finer details. It didn't escape her notice that she was being given a royal treatment: well, perhaps something more, given that the actual crown prince of Phrygia was in the guest quarters while she was most likely in the main building. She didn't think it was just gratitude or guilt after she'd fallen ill; her perceived status as an Elysian surely meant something to the merchant.
As promised, she fell asleep the moment she reached the chambers she'd been given. She woke up during the afternoon feeling more refreshed, and with a nervous attendant standing by the side.
"Is something wrong?" she asked in Chaldean, having used the language with Hyperion earlier. The young woman, however, did not understand her, and instead murmured something in another tongue, which she was able to pick up as an apology.
"Ah, sorry," Ophelia switched tongues, earning the now-familiar surprised stare of someone who recognizes a native speaker. She asked once again if there was anything she should know.
"My lady, the Phrygian guest came over earlier, and demanded we let him in. We were told by our master not to allow anyone without your explicit permission. He put up quite a fuss, and he had to be escorted away."
"Oh, I'm sorry about that. Could you please send for him and let him know I'm awake?"
The woman didn't look too thrilled at the prospect of dealing with Phobos again, but nodded and left. Ophelia wondered how long it had been since he'd visited. It seemed to be enough that the impatience brought him back within minutes.
"Are you all right?!" he rushed into the room, eyes frantically searching for her. He stopped a foot or two from the bed before doing a double-take. Ophelia was dressed in the loose robes that were common for noblewomen in Arqa and the Free Cities; in Phrygia, however, cotton clothing was considered intimate wear. The prince looked away, embarrassed, confusing the woman that was only casually sitting on the bed.
Ophelia checked her clothes, thinking that perhaps something had slipped and she'd revealed more than she'd ever intended; finding no fault, she frowned in confusion. "What's the matter?"
"Is… this appropriate in Byzantium? This clothing?"
Ophelia sighed. "Yes, and so it seems like it is here. Would you like me to wear something else to make you feel more comfortable?"
The man nodded, but then caught himself. "I'll try to keep… your customs in mind."
He slowly turned around, but his eyes still evaded her body. Every now and then they would focus on her face and her eyes, and would stray away to the rest of the room when possible.
"To answer your questions yes, I'm feeling a lot better now. I had some sleep after breakfast, and that helped," Ophelia answered the initial question. "I heard from one of the attendants that you were causing a ruckus earlier. What's the matter?"
That seemed to ignite a fire in him. "Did he tell you where you're staying?"
Ophelia shook her head.
"This is where his harem lives. I thought the sneaky fox would've tried something… while you were unable to defend yourself," he checked her over once again. "He didn't, did he?"
Ophelia once again denied him. "I might understand your reticence to associate with him; he is a sneaky fellow. But aren't you going a bit far with the accusations?"
"You don't understand the position you're in. He thinks you're from Elysium; even if he were to find out the truth, there would be a lot to gain if he were to gain control over you. And in Arqa, just like in a lot of the kingdoms he moves in, a woman must do as the husband says."
"Is that why you wanted me to be your wife?" she bit back cheekily. Phobos' face paled, and he desperately shook his head.
"Heavens, no!"
"Maybe he's trying to do the same. Play-pretend."
That seemed to do the trick; Phobos deflated against the strength of her argument. Seeing him slightly crest-fallen, she couldn't help but feel guilty. "Thanks for looking out for me," she said. "I feel like I'm arguing too much with you over Hyperion, but I appreciate your intent."
"It's the right thing to do," he replied, but he seemed pacified that his efforts had been appreciated in one way or another. He'd once away turned away, and was looking over towards the garden. The villa's buildings surrendered themselves to their environment: there were no doors to speak of. A big arch led outside, decorated with crawling, flowering vines; inside, some privacy was afforded by having a small reception connect the room and the hallway, with a wall blocking direct view into the bedroom.
Ophelia could plainly see then the building's purpose and its synergy with its design. Everything there felt lavish, infected with a soft, elegant hedonism. Exotic flowers decorated the place, inundating the inside with aromas; lush tapestries covered barren walls, and the floors were tiled in colourful mosaics. It was almost like the place was suspended in time, clearly not knowing anything but the pleasant, moderate heat of an everlasting summer.
She felt slightly self-conscious. Phobos' tall, broad figure seemed quite imposing, exciting parts of her she hadn't explored in some time. She wondered if she dared cross a line that had not yet been drawn; she hadn't really thought about romance in a while, but now that she was in that strange world where she wasn't invisible things might go differently.
She stood up and walked over to the Phrygian's side. "The villa is big," she commented. "It seems like it's full of little passages, secret compartments, tunnels..."
"The palace in Gordion is a lot like that. It doesn't have large gardens like these, but it has a number of large courtyards, and then a maze of chambers and passages connecting them," Phobos wistfully commented. "As a young boy, I'd often escape from my lessons and go wandering. It felt like stepping into an unknown world."
The topic animated Ophelia. "I loved exploring back at home," she said. "The city I lived in, London, was full of little great secrets. You could get in all these abandoned places, discover the other side of the streets you walked every day. It made me feel at home, when I didn't feel like I belonged."
"Do you miss it?"
"London?" Ophelia cocked her head. "I miss some of the comforts of the life I had there… but I'd rather not go back. It didn't want me there."
"What about your friends? Your family?"
"I have none," Ophelia smiled meekly. "I'm not that brave, you know?" she referenced an earlier conversation. "I just don't have anything to lose."
"I…" Phobos looked down, something haunting the back of his mind. When he spoke again, it was a doubtful whisper, as if he was afraid he'd admit something shameful. "Sometimes I wish I was someone else. Perhaps, if I'd been born a page boy, I wouldn't have had to leave my country; I wouldn't have made an enemy of my brother. And it's not just him… there were people I considered family, friends, mentors who turned their backs on me when I protested the Elysian invasion. They said I was playing with fire, they told me I was endangering them. They said I was a madman. I… had to choose duty over them, choose the honour I've been taught to uphold. And the only reason for that was that I was a prince… perhaps, if I'd been a scribe or a blacksmith's son, I could've chosen them instead."
"If you… if you were to win the war, what would happen to them?"
Phobos closed his eyes. "Execution."
"Can't you imprison them?"
"Treason can only be paid one way. Although the same would be said for me; should I be apprehended, it's my brother who will have to behead me to quench the Elysian's thirst for blood."
It made sense to think that it was the weight of his responsibilities that had frozen every fibre in the prince's body with tension; even when casually sharing a peaceful moment, one could not shake off the sensation that something always had Phobos on edge.
Ophelia remembered her conversation with Hyperion, and decided to extend an offer. "Would you like me to help you?"
Phobos shot her a confused look. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I have these… strange abilities. I'm sure they'd be useful if you wanted to take the throne back by force."
Something glassed over his eyes for a second before he looked away. Ophelia thought it looked like annoyance.
"If it were something that could be achieved by battles alone, I would've stormed in already. But even if I did, I have no allies outside of my own kingdom. The Elysians control the nations friendly to us, and everyone else just doesn't see the point in supporting us at the moment. I could very well take the throne, and have to deal with a siege or a blockade."
He turned to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'd be no king if I let you fight my battles for me. You should enjoy peace, find your place here. Be happy. I'd not forgive myself if I were to drag you into this mess."
Ophelia's eyes turned sharp. "If I were a man, would your answer be different?"
Phobos' eyes flickered again with that annoyance she'd seen earlier. Clearly, she'd hit the nail on the head. The prince sighed, and taking her by surprise, enveloped her in a hug.
"We are what we are," he said, his head resting on top of hers. "And just like I can't be a blacksmith's son and act like one, I can't have you do the duties of a man."
"Have it your way, then," Ophelia said bitterly, squirming away from his embrace. "Keep this delusion to yourself. If we are what we are, then it should bear remembering that I'm no Phrygian woman, but a Byzantine one."
She turned away and went looking for the attendants. A silent Phobos followed her around as they sat down for dinner. It began as a tense affair, but comment by comment they wandered away from their argument, and let the matter rest. Ophelia put her annoyance somewhere in the back of her mind; more than anything, she was upset that Hyperion was right. Phobos was too set in his own ways; if she were to follow him, she knew that she'd have to fight for every right to do what she wanted to do. He was familiarly old-fashioned, and she had never had to deal with that sort of rigidity before. It had been long gone by the time she was born.
The next few days were spent as if nothing had happened; together they explored the villa in Hyperion's absence, wandering about the buildings where they were permitted to wander, and enjoying the lush gardens the master of the house was so keen on. In the timeless, relaxed atmosphere it was easy to leave the real world behind the walls that surrounded the complex, and so they let themselves be carried away. They would take turns teaching each other games they'd played as children, using the gardens as a backdrop for different iterations of hide-and-seek and tag. When the servants around the property were properly coaxed, they'd join in (which allowed Ophelia to learn that world's version of cops and robbers, something they called pigs and priests).
In her world, Ophelia thought, Phobos would be very much like the stock jock character of every high-school drama. He was athletic, but given his military training he was also good at forming and leading teams. When one of the servants proposed to play a ball game that apparently was very popular in that region, he quickly picked up the rules. He was competitive, more so than her, who just enjoyed the feeling of being part of a team. Those differences became more evident as the afternoon wore on; after her team's fifth loss, he came up to her with a strange expression in his face.
"You seem to be really enjoying losing. Why is that?"
"Oh, I'm just enjoying the game, that's all. Win or lose, it's fun to play with so many people."
That seemed like a foreign concept to him; he seemed ready to argue against it, but some of Ophelia's team mates appeared to bring her some water. They were all very excited to talk to her: "it's fun playing with you, even if this is the first time you've played this. You seem to be enjoying it so much, it makes me enjoy it as well!"
The games led to a particularly friendly atmosphere, which culminated in a peregrination to the servants' quarters for food. It hadn't been expected; for the servants themselves, used to the strict rules of a house where the absent master ran a tight ship through discipline, guests were to be served, not approached like equals. Even if there was no enmity between classes, they still existed: and those the master considered guests were not servants, and could not mingle with them.
But Ophelia's friendliness and Phobos' enthusiasm had put any concerns about propriety away for the moment. The latter was keen for a momentary respite from the weight on his shoulders, and the former wanted to experience what she'd never had. It felt almost dream-like to her, the eternal foreigner, to have one of those nights she'd only seen in movies, where she was part of something and laughed along strangers who looked at her like one of their own.
It also hadn't escaped the servants' notice that she had a gift with languages. They all brought forth different folk who spoke one tongue or another, and watched amazed as she was able to respond to all, engaging them in conversation like they were back in their own native lands. "You must be blessed," said an old lady to her, "that you can speak to everyone as if you were their blood. You were meant to have a place anywhere in this world."
As the moon began its descent, the merriness was slowly replaced by fatigue. As the mood died down and everyone migrated to their resting places, Ophelia found herself following Phobos back to the guest's quarters. As they walked through a row of columns, the lush garden revealed itself to be particularly eerie at that time of the night. With no wind to tickle its leaves or cicadas to play their buzzing songs, it felt almost like it was holding its breath.
Phobos stopped behind her. Ophelia turned around, but she could not see much of his face. "Aristides should be back tomorrow," he said. "Its my time to continue my journey, and meet with my people."
She knew why everything was so silent then; it was time for them to say their goodbyes. "I don't know what awaits me; I'll either walk into glory or death. Either way, it'll be a bloody, fiery path. I know what I said the other day hurt you… but it's better if you hate me for it than if you end up trampled in the war path."
Ophelia's expression softened. "Even if we don't see eye to eye, I won't hate you," she said. "You're right that it's not my fight to fight; but it could've been, if you wanted me to. That's all."
He took a step towards her, and she almost skipped a breath at how close they were. "You shouldn't be so ready to follow someone into hell like this," he said bitterly. "If you do this with a man, it could be misunderstood."
"A man should not be so naive to think that everything a woman does is without desire," she looked up. She could've sparked thunder from her hands and the result would've been the same: Phobos trembled, and almost fell back. In case he hadn't got the hint, she reached out: a single hand looking for a cheek to rest on.
Feverish hands grabbed her shoulders, and she was pressed against the man's body with a sense of urgency that made something spark inside of her. "I can't be a Phrygian wife," she murmured against his chest; "all I can give you is the little I know from my own world. But if you want to do good by me and pay me back, say goodbye to me like this."
She felt two hands search for her face, and then the prince's lips were on hers. It was a foreign sensation, one that she almost observed like a stranger forced to watch a movie of their own life: she'd given up on the idea that she would ever find companionship, but now that it was happening she felt strangely numb to it. Her body was in autopilot, enjoying the physical sensation but not feeling anything beyond that.
He pushed her against the nearest pillar, his mouth leaving a trace of kisses around her throat. She felt hands roaming around her legs, parting the fine cotton away from the skin with a delicacy that felt reverent, and very strange coming from a warrior like him. She could feel the texture of his callouses scratching the soft surface of her belly, and his heavy breathing ignited a desire for abandon that she had never felt before.
"If I say goodbye to you like this," Phobos said, his low, husky voice against her ear. "Do not blame me when another man's greetings make you yearn for this moment again."
Ophelia laughed at the cheek, and let herself be carried away to his chambers. "I thought my request would disappoint you," she said as she was being lowered onto his bed. He took his outer robe off, showing her the extent of the artwork that adorned his skin.
"Just because I don't visit brothels doesn't mean I don't enjoy it," he answered. "I'm only disappointed it's only now I get to do this..."
The night grew old before it was able to see them softly entwined around each other, asleep. By the time Ophelia awoke, the sun was already midway through the sky, and she was alone in the chambers.
"The guest left before the morning bell rang," said one of the attendants, as she made her way back to the room she was supposed to be staying in. In her hands she carried a small wax tablet that had been left next to where the water jugs were; it had taken her some effort but she'd finally deciphered the elegant Akkadian, which read "I'll look forward to the next time we say goodbye".
Hyperion was either none the wiser as to what had transpired or chose not to comment on it. She had a full day to put her thoughts in order before the merchant called her for dinner the next evening, and they finally discussed the details of her employment. She couldn't quite say that she felt like a schoolgirl yearning for her crush every time her eyes fell onto the tablet she kept next to her bed, but that her and Phobos had at one point been one filled her with a sense of contentment. It was almost like a rite of passage, something that now tied her to that world.
She now felt a sense of confidence in her own path; she was convinced that she could walk the actual roads under her feet, that they weren't just the empty illusions of a dream. She had touched something real – Phobos' passion- and now she was one of them, away from Byzantium.
-
"Why are they being like this?" murmured Hyperion in frustration one day, resting his face on the scrolls he'd been brought by Ulyx, his Arqan accountant. "Why is it that they retroactively want to apply this tax?"
"They most likely want to target the tin and lead merchants, since they're all from Axum," Eon replied. "After the queen decided to tax the Free Cities, they want to get some revenge."
"But this affects all the products made of tin and lead as well…!"
It had been two weeks since Phobos' departure, and Ophelia had slowly got used to the easy routine in Hyperion's house. She was first and foremost a translator, but she carried out her duties the way that the Chaldean merchant instructed: with a dash of cunning, and in a way that wouldn't make it immediately obvious how useful she was.
She also had begun to see another side to the man: although normally composed, he was also capable of anger and frustration, and it manifested in the most curious of ways. His beautiful features would turn almost dejected, closer to disappointment than anything else: the result was not intimidating or worrying, just incredibly cute.
"The delegate from the Council is here, master," an attendant announced. Hyperion sighed, and made a gesture towards Ophelia. "He'll enter through the western garden."
"Who am I?"
"Hmm he doesn't quite like us, so maybe pretend you're an Arqa native who doesn't like working here."
The game they played was simple in set up, but rather elaborate in execution. Given that her accent would pass for a native speaker, Ophelia would bring different characters to life in front of the envoys that crossed the villa's gates. They'd pick and choose based on who the person going through the gate was, and how well informed he'd be on who was working for Hyperion. It wasn't meant to be a long-running strategy, just something that gave them the upper hand while Ophelia's abilities were not as well-known. It was a perfect opportunity to gain information and favour from the people who came in ready to try and thwart the Chaldean's business.
When she wasn't seeing to guests, she was receiving lessons from Lyra or Diana, two of the head maids of the villa who also happened to be well-educated orators. They'd been taught in the academies of the Free Cities as daughters of wealthy gentry, but after their families had lost their standing due to political upheavals, they'd made their money through manual labour. They told her about the different kingdoms, empires and principalities; geography and history were their main subjects. She used their lessons to more confidently create the personas she was playing; a more elaborate version of what she'd done in Caudiceum with her pretend-play of being an Iceni princess.
Armed with her knowledge, she knew that deep in Arqan culture there was a natural mistrust of Chaldeans, who were seen as money-hungry scammers. That a man like Hyperion would rise so high would be seen with some reserve by an Arqan of certain predispositions, as it was the case with the man they were to host for the afternoon.
On her way to the western garden she traded robes for a shirt and a small skirt of linen, which were embroidered with the traditional patterns of the region. She took a small bucket, and some iron shears, and walked over to where four fig trees surrounded the intersection of two paths. A fountain stood in the middle, offering to the wanderers the serene view of beautiful lotus flowers floating in the water. She heard footsteps approaching hurriedly, and began to angrily look through the figs hanging from the trees, pretending she was trying to select some for picking.
"Of course he'd have to ask for figs today," she talked to herself in a frustrated Arqan. "It's not even the season yet, but for him they of course have to be fully mature. Prick."
She picked one of the fruits and threw it none-too-gently in the bucket. The footsteps were now closer to her. "A maid to a Chaldean… my old ma would be furious if she saw me!"
A laugh stopped her. "An understandable emotion, lady."
Ophelia turned around. An older man dressed in a heavily decorated red kaftan and cream-white pants was making gestures for her to get closer. "I heard that the master of this place kept very few Arqans in his staff," he said in a whisper. "He doesn't quite like us, does he?"
"In this city we suffer no fools, do we? And he's a sly one, he doesn't bother with niceties. It'd be easier to like rotten fish than him, I say."
"Have you been working here for long?"
"A few weeks. I've picked up a language or two as me da was a sailor, and I heard he was looking for a translator. But it turns out he just wants a maid!"
Ophelia frowned. "Are you a city principal? I see you have the Arqan coat of arms," she pointed to the man's chest, where a heavy chain of gold showed his status.
"I am, child," he said with pomp. It seemed like bureaucracy was one of those constants regardless of time or space. "I'm here on official business."
"Hope it's to get some money out of this fox."
The man winked. "Hopefully. The Tripartite Council is upon us and we need some, uh, help with the expenses. We're counting on the generosity of this city's most illustrious gentlemen – and between the two of us, we could do with them paying back for our generosity."
"Aye, right you are on that, sir. But I should warn you he's been complaining all week about the new tax – he's not going to be too interested in dishing out more money for the city."
"Tax? You mean the new levy on tin and lead?" Ophelia nodded. "Of course he would be. These Chaldeans, they'd rather sell their mothers if that meant they didn't have to pay tax."
"I see it every day," Ophelia sighed and got closer to the man, looking around them to see if anyone was around. "But sir, if I may, and this is purely the concern of one who was born and raised in this city, and has to see leeches like him come over and make their fortune out of the generosity of this port; this Chaldean has found a way around the wisdom of the Preceptors. I was asked to talk to one of the Axiam advisors; their intention is to change the route of the tin and lead so that it'll enter through Siam and be carried through caravan into Arqa. This way, the levy won't be applicable since the origin port is the city, not Axium."
"That's outrageous!" The man blanched, and Ophelia made gestures for him to quiet down. "Sending it through caravan? That's not possible! It's too dangerous, and it takes too much time!"
"I heard mentions of the Nabatean kingdom, sir. I'm not sure what they agreed with them…"
"If they used their rivers it'd be more feasible, but still a mad enterprise… they've been at war for ages," the man cleared his throat and composed himself. "Well, never mind all this. Perhaps we'll lend them some more rope to hang themselves with. But this is good to know; I commend you for your loyalty to the city."
Ophelia bowed her head. "I better get on with this meeting," the bureaucrat said to himself. "Perhaps I shall see you later. Have a good day, if I don't."
And she did see him later, when she was called in to sit next to Hyperion to act as a mediator between the two. She'd come in with the refreshments: fresh figs and fig chutney to be spread on cheese and flat bread, as if to underscore the character the city representative had seen earlier. She practised her familiarity with the man when they spoke; she dropped little innocent jabs at Hyperion as if she and the Arqan were old time friends who had a lot of inside jokes to share with each other. She made him think that she was on his side; what Hyperion spoke, she added bits and pieces to.
Finally, he went away: Hyperion had agreed to contribute to the Council only if he got a yearly relief on the tin and lead taxes, and a seat on the forum – something that would give him access to all the representatives that were coming in to take part, an excellent opportunity for a merchant to close new deals.
"What do you think?" Hyperion asked Ophelia as they both watched the man depart.
"He thought the route change idea was outrageous, but seemed to think it was plausible."
Ophelia wasn't entirely sure of the size of the five-dimensional play that the merchant was trying to pull, but as far as she'd been briefed, it involved making the City believe he'd collude with the Axum merchants to create an alternative trade route.
Arqa and the other Free Cities had made their fortune and power from several big trade routes. It was a natural mid point for the networks that carried goods from the east into the west, and also served as the last stop for the caravans that crossed the desert bringing wares from the southernmost kingdoms in the region. All sorts of raw materials and manufactured goods passed through their shores, but a significant part of their economy relied on metals produced in the south (tin, lead, bronze and iron) and textiles (particularly, silks and cotton).
Hyperion's network used Arqa mostly for the metals and some manufactured household goods, however, this constituted a small portion of his overall trade. A larger portion of his business relied on fine silk textiles, none of which ever saw the Arqan port, as they were brought entirely through land routes. His fiercest competitors relied on the cheap manufacture and taxes of the caravans that used Arqa to bring the goods north.
His final game, then, was to coax the city authorities to believe he was fuming over the tin and lead tax, and use that as a way to manoeuvrer them into increasing taxes that would disproportionally affect the competition that worried him the most: those who used the caravans to move goods into the port. It wasn't something that a simple conversation with one city official would solve, however; Ophelia had been told that the game would be slower, and required feeding the wrong information to the right people at different times.
"I'm sure he'll babble on to his friends," Hyperion said with a smirk. "Now, we let the rest do the work."
"The rest?"
"Customs officers, advisors, jurists… if you drop some influence here and there it's easier to manufacture a certain version of reality," he answered. "It's not enough for one person to say it; multiple mouths have to say something similar."
"What if nothing happens?"
"It will," Eon commented. "We have jurists we can pay off to introduce the proposals."
"But it's better to make it seem more natural," Hyperion clarified. "So that when they bring it to the forum, it'll not seem such a novel idea."
To Ophelia, it had seemed like she'd switched genres. With Phobos, it all felt like an epic adventure movie; with the Chaldean merchant, it was more like one of those political dramas. "Lobbying," she said in her native English. "That's how we call it back home. Comes from standing in the antechamber of the forum waiting to ask one of the preceptors for favours."
Hyperion rose from his seat, tightening his tunics around him.
"How dreary," he commented, walking slowly towards the gardens, "the idea of having to parade around those dry bureaucrats. Should we prepare for dinner?"
A week later, the man in the red kaftan and the pompous city seal came back. He was, however, in the company of someone who Hyperion held in higher esteem: the city's Lord Protector, which Ophelia had come to understand was a function not too dissimilar to a governor.
"He's no fool, that man," the merchant had said to Ophelia during breakfast. "He knows that to be competent at his job there's a certain level of functional corruption he must abide by; everything else should be pure honest work. As such, he makes sure to keep the big ships like me in check. I have no doubts he's come to sniff out what I'm up to this time."
With that warning in mind, Ophelia prepared herself to search for unspoken tensions in an otherwise cordial meeting. The initial greetings were pleasant: the merchant had received the two politicians in one of the gazebos in the garden with nothing but smiles.
Blossoming cherry trees surrounded them: the delicate pink petals quivered as the wind blew, charmingly falling onto silk or cotton as they looked for somewhere to rest. The servants had prepared some fragrances, which they'd left burning in the censors that hung from the delicate iron structures of the gazebo. It was all an inviting, alluring set up: a feast for the eyes, another for the sense of smell; as the refreshments were brought one could hear the song of birds in the distance, and that covered the other two senses that could be entertained in such occasions.
On their side, herself and Eon stood to either side of Hyperion; on the other's, a scribe had been brought, and had been given a small stool to sit on while he took his notes.
"I wish I could've come to see you sooner," the Lord Protector said once they had exchanged the initial pleasantries. "I'm keen to ask you about the events at Caudiceum. With the Council approaching, it has set a very concerning stage for us."
"Ah yes, the Phrygian matter. Eon, whatever came to be of that? We heard that two of the men who'd come into the city with the victims had been escorting an Iceni woman. The lords at the forum were quite nervous when she declared."
"Who wouldn't be? Those savages will look for any excuse to attack," the bureaucrat in the red kaftan commented with a snort.
"The Phrygian envoys arrived three days after we left, sir," Eon answered his master. "Caudiceum opened its borders again, and it seems like no other suspects have been found. The Phrygian diplomats are claiming it was a politically motivated crime: the victims were supporters of the current king."
The Lord Protector leaned forward, hand pensively stroking his long beard. "This civil war is spilling everywhere, isn't it? I've got Deimos and Ulysses sending me missives every couple of days asking me what we should do. We've got a bad stew brewing here… You know we have plenty of rebel Phrygians here, in Philistia and Latil the same."
"They came here for a reason," Hyperion commented. The governor barked out a laugh.
"Indeed. They will find plenty of sympathy. No one wants to end up under Elysian boots; the Lord Sun knows we've managed to escape their grip so far, but I fear this situation will end up spilling into this side of the pond, forcing us to take sides."
The merchant decided to draw a line. His indifference came through with simplicity:
"A difficult political situation to be in, I'm sure."
This earned him a smirk from one man, a scandalized stared from another. Behind them, the scribe wrote away.
"How many Phrygians do you know in the city?" the Lord Protector cut to the chase, but didn't care to hear a response. "Tell them to quiet down during the council, or else I'll personally kick them out. I'm ceasing all distribution of ore for weapons in the week leading to the arrival of the envoys. Thought you should know. I'm not taking any risks."
"How cruel of you. This poor merchant wants to keep eating his pomegranates."
"You want a tax relief? I'll give you that for a year."
"Five years."
"We might not be here then," another dry laugh. "You have access already to the envoys; make something happen so that you don't have to worry about your business after this year."
Hyperion's face soured, but he nodded. "It's just for a couple of weeks," said the Lord Protector in a tone that intended to be pacifying, but felt more patronizing than anything. "That is, unless we run across some issues…"
"I'll talk to the few folk I know," the merchant replied dryly. "Hopefully they'll listen."
"Everyone listens to the folk with the singing pockets."
The politician's eyes then sharply focused on Ophelia; it was clearly he was the type of man not to beat around the bush, and only do what he had set out to do. "I hear you have a translator, a new one. What can she speak?"
"Arqan, Drusi, Iberian and Elysian," Hyperion quickly replied. "Quite the combination, isn't it?"
"Indeed," the man assessed Ophelia, and whatever he searched with his gaze he seemed to have found, as he reclined back contentedly. "Lend her to us for a few weeks. We're running low in interpreters."
"I'll be glad to," Hyperion replied flatly, although it was clear the ask was not welcome, "as there will be little trade to do then anyway."
The Lord Protector didn't seem to care. Shortly after that their conversation ended, and the two men went back the way they came.