The Path to Power (4)
“Congratulations on becoming a noble, my lord.”
Alberto rubbed his hands together with a fawning smile. Instead of basking in his congratulations, I turned the question back on him.
“I’ve never lived as a noble before, so everything feels strange and awkward.”
A noble of the Eastern Roman Empire. Heir to the great house of Uranus, no less. Of course, Robert Guiscard had noble blood too. He hailed from the Hauteville family, counts from Normandy. But compared to Eastern Roman nobles, it was a title barely worth the name—embarrassingly modest. Even within that house, he’d been a low-ranking son without land of his own, no different from a commoner in practice. So the life of a noble was utterly foreign to me.
“Don’t worry, my lord. I’ll help you through it.”
I nodded at Alberto’s words. As a native noble of Reggio Calabria, he knew this world far better than I did. We chatted like this as we made our way to the manor.
Inside lay a wide open courtyard. I’d heard this had once been the barracks where the house’s soldiers were quartered. Originally, I’d planned to set up the mercenary company’s headquarters here and house the troops who’d joined us. But my foster father, Lord Nikephoros, had opposed it. Too much attention from the other nobles, he’d said.
“It’d look too much like private soldiers.”
Building barracks in the manor and raising a private guard. Every noble house in the Eastern Roman Empire did it, but for me—a fresh adoptee into House Uranus just yesterday—it was too conspicuous. I had no intention of picking fights with the nobility or the court just yet, and I hadn’t fully secured my influence within the house. It was filled with my foster father’s retainers. I needed to win them over or replace them with my own men. Both would take time, so playing it safe now minimized restrictions on my plans.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll sit idle.”
With those thoughts in mind, I watched the workers bustling in the courtyard. Three of their leaders—the heads of our mercenary company and commanders of the elite companies—spotted me and bowed in greeting.
“You’ve arrived, my lord?”
“The buildings you ordered will be finished soon, Lord Uranus.”
“The materials for production are due to arrive shortly.”
Alton, Bachana, and Halvar. The company’s top officers were building a warehouse here in our manor alongside the mercenaries.
“Nothing else you need?”
“The warehouse is one thing, but for a proper factory, we’ll need a real architect,” Alton replied, rattling off the requirements without hesitation.
To build something solid, architects were essential. Yet these mercenaries were pitching in on construction as a smokescreen—to make the nobles see them not as soldiers, but mere laborers. The sharp-eyed ones would see through it, of course; these were mercenaries, practically private troops in all but name. But on the surface, they were hired workers for House Uranus, so the nobles couldn’t complain outright. That was the point. I was deliberately having them erect warehouses and such facilities right here in the manor.
“I’ve already spoken to Lord Uranus about an architect. We should have one soon.”
Alton nodded, and Halvar stepped forward from behind with a question.
“More importantly, are you really planning to build an olive oil factory here?”
“Yes. Constantinople has the highest demand for olive oil anywhere.”
It was the plan I’d pitched to my foster father: build a factory right here in the manor to produce and distribute olive oil.
In the modern world, olive oil evokes Italy, but in ancient and medieval times, Greece consumed the most. It was used in food, medicine, cosmetics—everywhere. The Eastern Roman Empire was dotted with olive groves. Farmers pressed the harvest on-site and sold to merchants, who outsourced to guilds or factories with presses, then wholesaled or retailed to customers. Inevitable for the medieval era: unstable demand, unreliable distribution. Margins piled up, driving prices twentyfold by the time it reached Constantinople.
That was my angle.
“We’ll produce it ourselves and deliver directly, slashing prices in half.”
Bachana looked puzzled. “Even matching the market price from merchants would yield solid profits. Why go lower?”
He was right. The market was set; we’d still profit. But I wasn’t after scraps. I wanted massive gains—enough influence to dominate the market. That demanded shockingly low prices.
“To drive the other merchants out of business.”
Monopoly. I aimed to control every drop of olive oil flowing into Constantinople. History had precedents: the philosopher Thales bought presses cheap in famine years, then monopolized production in good times for huge profits.
“What’s a monopoly?”
“It means no one gets olive oil without going through me.”
Simply put, though monopolies came in varieties: demand monopolies (many sellers, few buyers), supply monopolies (many buyers, few sellers), bilateral (few of both). Mine was supply.
“So you plan to buy up every olive press in Constantinople?”
I shook my head at Bachana’s question. “I don’t want olive oil prices rising—or presses becoming scarce. That’s not the goal.”
That would invert priorities. Scarce presses might enable monopoly, but oil prices would soar, hurting buyers’ wallets and creating an oligopoly of press-owning merchants.
“I want to boost demand for explosive profits—then devour it all ourselves. That means eliminating rivals first.”
Higher demand maximized revenue, granting leverage on raw materials and cheaper inputs. But monopoly was key to that power.
“Fresh-pressed premium olive oil at half price, delivered to your door at dawn—what would people choose?”
Cheaper, fresher, doorstep delivery. No merchant could compete. Modern hypermarkets thrived on private-label goods like this—exclusive manufacturer-distributor deals. But in this era, quality control was tricky, so we’d handle production ourselves.
“Have the mercenaries handle delivery, and even thieves won’t touch it.”
Halvar’s Viking insight cut straight to it. Night travel was risky, but mercenaries deterred crooks better than severed hands—they’d lose heads.
“We start with olive oil monopoly, but…”
The profits would fund expansion into other goods.
* * *
“Fine silk, cheap!”
“Gorgeous Arabian jewelry!”
Merchants from East and West hawked their wares amid the crowds.
“Pretty gems, but…”
Most couldn’t afford jewels or silks. Even in wealthy Constantinople, where the empire’s elite gathered, few bought luxuries daily. Like anyone, they needed basics to survive: flour for oven bread, meat and vegetables to go with it, olive oil for flavor.
Daily necessities outnumbered luxuries, with flour leading—fuel for labor. Olive oil came next.
“My rosemary hair oil’s run out…”
“Need some body oil.”
Not just food, but beauty and grooming too. Olive oil dominated daily consumption by volume.
“Good oil here! 8 as takes it away!”
“Olive oil! 9 as!”
The copper as. Sixteen made a silver denarius—cheap for staples.
“Two jars.”
The merchant flashed a eager smile, producing two man-sized amphorae.
“One denarius total.”
Olive oil was heavy; the buyer summoned porters, who grunted as they shouldered the load and followed him off.
The merchant pocketed the silver and returned to his stall.
“Sales are slower than usual…”
Something was off. He’d normally sell thirty jars a day; today, barely ten. Then he heard a buzz from the corner. His regulars were clustered there.
“What’s got my customers over there?”
Curious, the merchant headed toward the crowd to uncover the mystery.