Change (1): Welfare
Welfare. The dictionary defined it as policies focused on raising standards of living and ensuring the entire populace could live happily, with an emphasis on protecting basic human rights. In essence, welfare was about safeguarding fundamental human rights.
Such a concept was exceedingly rare in the medieval era—and for good reason. The very notion of a nation-state hadn't fully taken root. People didn't see the state as something composed of society's various classes. Instead, it was largely viewed as the personal property of its leaders. The Eastern Romans were a slight exception; they thought of it as owned by a small elite. Thus, Rome leaned toward oligarchy. For that reason, there was almost no state intervention to guarantee the basic rights of the common folk.
That said, it wasn't as if welfare was entirely absent. As mentioned several times before, most welfare in this age came through the Church. This created a division of roles between state and religion. Of course, this wasn't entirely accurate—just the view of certain scholars, as one might learn in school. But that wasn't the point.
What mattered was that the very idea of the state protecting the basic rights of its people was nonexistent. In an era dominated by such thinking, Zoi possessed a mindset that transcended it all.
"From the nation's perspective, poverty is debt. The more poor people there are, the harder it will be for the country in the end."
In a modern world where human rights were enshrined, such words might draw criticism. But in this world, where human rights weren't firmly established, even mentioning them was absurd. Perhaps that's why Zoi, drawing from her experience as imperial treasurer, explained her rationale for welfare.
"Why do you consider poverty a debt?"
"It's simple. Take Glyke Mou leading soldiers to suppress bandits as an example."
Zoi cited me directly. Intrigued, I nodded.
"They say it's to circulate the new imperial currency, the nomisma, but recruiting soldiers requires money. Right?"
"Right."
"And as they march, military supplies are constantly consumed."
An undeniable fact. An army on the move was like scattering gold across the ground. Even if, as Zoi had said, the goal was to introduce new currency into the market, it was fiscal waste from a financial standpoint.
"After driving off the bandits, restoring the villages requires money too."
"Restoration costs money."
"And since bandits might return, stationing troops in the villages costs even more."
"Everything needs money."
"Who caused all this? The bandits. And bandits usually form when desperate commoners band together."
People backed into a corner. Not all arose that way, but most bandit groups came from the destitute taking up arms to plunder others.
"Without bandits, there's no need to dispatch troops, no need to restore villages, and no need for extra garrisons to protect them."
Zoi paused, then met my eyes to drive home the point.
"If we prevent the people from falling into desperation, we can cut costs on all of that."
"So that's why you call poverty a debt."
Zoi nodded at my words.
"To eliminate that debt, the state must provide support."
"I get it. But why at the national level, not through local lords?"
In the medieval world—and in the Eastern Roman domains, where dukes held great sway—local lords wielded immense influence. That made me curious why their power should be sidelined.
"If dukes implement policies independently, they'll exploit them."
"Exploit?"
"If we order local governments to enact them, they'll use it as an excuse not to remit taxes properly."
Zoi had pinpointed the flaw in welfare policy. England's Elizabethan Poor Laws under Elizabeth I had run into the same issue: local lords issued begging licenses excessively to claim tax benefits, handing them to their own serfs or freeholders instead of real beggars and pocketing the gains. Even in modern times, this happened often, so selecting welfare recipients had to be done directly by the state.
Her insightful answer left me inwardly impressed.
"And direct state management lets the people check the dukes."
"Check the dukes how...?"
"Solving poverty improves lives, which naturally boosts the people's influence. Dukes won't be able to act freely then."
The reason tribunes had emerged in the Roman Republic. It wasn't because the citizens of that era were superior. As the people's influence grew, so did their voice—nobles had no choice but to heed the masses.
"But empower them too much, and it could spark rebellion."
Excessive power led to uprisings, as history proved.
"Since dukes control the troops, we can have them respond immediately to any bloodshed."
It was obvious, but dukes held command authority, so they could suppress revolts. A system of mutual checks. Of course, things might not go as predicted, so safeguards were needed—but for now, this sufficed.
The heart of the Uranus-Macedon dynasty, Trapezunta. Alfrando had been staying here, participating in several bandit suppression missions. Naturally, he'd grown somewhat friendly with the local mercenaries.
"Hey, Alfredo."
"It's Alfrando."
"Same difference."
Grumbling, Alfrando sat beside Deril. An Irish-Irish-Viking mix from Ireland, he shared his ancestors' temperament. Deril barely remembered him outside of battle—which was why Alfrando stuck in his mind: from slashing enemies beside him during a few bandit hunts.
"Anyway, how's life here treating you?"
"Seems fine."
As the two chatted, Mark from northern Germany and Janssen from the Netherlands joined them.
"What are you two doing here?"
"Enjoying downtime is fine, but beer from midday?"
At their chiding, Deril pointed to his mug in rebuttal.
"Breakfast. Breakfast. Common in Ireland."
Thick clumps floated in the beer—practically "drinkable bread." Greeks rarely drank it, believing wine was divine creation while beer was man's. Wine fermented itself; beer required stirring malt with additives. Plus, wine wasn't as environment-sensitive. That's why northern mercenaries like Deril, Mark, and Janssen favored beer.
"Can't argue with that."
"No choice. Can't move on an empty stomach, so we'll join you."
They promptly ordered beers. The Italian Alfrando stared at them in disbelief.
"We need rest too."
"Right. What's the point if we're busy every day? Gotta take it easy."
"Understood."
Janssen smiled at Alfrando's reply, then shared something that had come to mind.
"By the way, anyone see the proclamation at the fortress gate?"
"Proclamation?"
"You can read?"
Deril and Mark's questions prompted Janssen to wag a finger.
"Of course I paid someone to read it."
Most mercenaries were foreigners; many spoke but couldn't read, so paid readers handled proclamations.
"Anyway, it said..."
Lazica, freshly wrested from the wilds. Its vastness meant recovery and normalization would take time—many areas weren't even restored yet. The Uranus-Macedon house had no intention of abandoning it.
"So, settle in Lazica and get land and livestock?"
Alfrando's question drew a nod from Janssen. But Deril added indifferently,
"That's been around forever. No big deal."
Mark grunted agreement. As he said, resettlement policies for Lazica had existed since recovery began—nothing new.
"Nah, it's different this time. Mercenaries qualify too."
"Mercenaries?"
"We foreigners can settle?"
Janssen nodded again.
"Prove guild membership and a few bandit missions, and you get benefits. Sure, a few years' regular service after, but still."
Deril and Mark leaned in. They'd left home for lack of land. Like landless Norman nobles raiding Italy to settle, their second or third sons inherited nothing and wandered. Mercenary life was all vagrants could do—leading them to Anatolia's edge. For the landless, this was huge news.