Changes (2)
“Thus, a total of about 320 people have applied.”
The bureaucrat's report. Alberto narrowed his eyes and stared at him.
“How long have you been here?”
Alberto's question. The bureaucrat answered with a baffled look, clearly at a loss.
“It's... it's been two months now.”
“Two months. In Italy, that's not even past the apprenticeship period.”
Alberto furrowed his brow, his irritation plain. The newbie bureaucrat, clueless about his mistake, wore a worried expression.
“It's fine. Everyone slips up at first.”
He gestured toward the massive stack of documents with his hand.
“When reporting to me, don't dump the whole pile on me.”
He pulled a single sheet from his drawer and handed it over.
“You have to use this form for reports.”
A bizarre sheet covered in rectangles of all sorts. The newbie stared at it, utterly perplexed.
“This is...”
“It's a table. My lifeline, courtesy of His great Imperial Majesty... no, the savior of us all.”
The newbie looked blank, not grasping a word. Just then, his mentor—who'd been hunting for him—spotted the bureaucrat late and hurried over.
“I told you to prepare that report for Lord Alberto right away—why are you... Ah... Lord Alberto?!”
Spotting Alberto right there, the mentor startled like a shot deer. Alberto raised a hand calmly, signaling it was no issue.
“I was just explaining the table. No need to fret.”
“I... I'm sorry. I'll retrain him properly.”
Alberto nodded and dismissed the pair. As they retreated, the mentor scolded the newbie. Alberto, who'd witnessed such scenes countless times, sank into his chair with a long sigh.
“I never knew wrangling subordinates would be this exhausting.”
A far cry from his noble days in Reggio Calabria, when a word sent servants scurrying. Here, it was like dealing with fools—you had to spell out every last detail, one through ten.
Suffocating. For Alberto, each little thing piled up into real work, nothing but frustration.
“Mentors can teach them, sure... but that doesn't feel like the full answer...”
No throwing raw recruits into the field, either. Caught in a bind, Alberto racked his brain for a way out.
That's when a knock echoed through his office.
“Come in.”
The door opened to reveal a woman with hollowed eyes, arms laden with documents. Far from her usual radiant poise, this disheveled Theodora screamed sleepless nights without a word.
“Excellency...?”
She glanced at Alberto, then plunked her stack on his desk.
“I pulled a few all-nighters on this. Take a look?”
Her glare promised murder if he didn't. To live, Alberto nodded on instinct and dove in.
Standard fare at first. Page one outlined what an imperial bureaucrat was and their duties.
He flipped to the next—and his eyes widened. Focus sharpened.
“This is...”
“A manual. Everything I've learned from you since arriving, all compiled.”
A manual. Alberto knew tactical field guides, but an administrative one? First he'd heard.
“What's a manual?”
“Simple. It gets newbies field-ready fast.”
Field-ready fast. Alberto shot to his feet, whooping. Theodora jumped, startled. He didn't bother hiding his glee, even with her right there.
“This is exactly what I needed! Thank you, Excellency!”
Genuine gratitude poured out. Theodora smiled, basking in his delight.
“With this, even a two-month apprentice picks it up in no time.”
“Right? And our workloads shrink too.”
Workloads shrink. Their eyes gleamed in perfect sync.
Every bureaucrat's dream—quitting time, early.
“I hope the silk business thrives.”
Zoi and I stood at the harbor. We'd come because the silkworms and sericulture experts—bought at great expense—were due any moment.
“Lord Humphrey and Lord Geoffrey have the mulberry groves ready. Silkworms and techs arrive, and production kicks off quick.”
“Good to know my brothers have it handled.”
Truth be told, this batch was secondary. The first—core stock and basics—had already shipped out with my brothers to Reggio Calabria.
They'd nailed purple silk production there. Currency held steady thanks to it; failure odds were slim.
Still, I fretted. This round aimed for mass output.
“Can silk really scale like that?”
“It can. Worst case, even partial yield hits our mark. Don't sweat it.”
Second phase hinged on volume. Unlike the elite purple of round one, we'd churn lower-grade bolts by the cartload.
The goal? Crush rivals, plain and simple.
“Flood the market with cheap silk, and even Duke Gerard of Lorraine crumbles.”
Back when my brothers and I pushed for Reggio Calabria, the duke had stonewalled us.
Why him, out of nowhere? His Lorraine lands ruled sericulture. Silk profits bankrolled his massive cavalry.
That army ravaged the Italian peninsula, swelling his sway. Modern eyes might blink—back then, Italy splintered into city-states under loose colonial thumbs.
Semi-autonomous warlords like the duke “secured policing” near colonies, bleeding taxes dry.
Even from afar, he spelled trouble for my brothers' southern push. One unified front meant shoving out his shadow.
Max profits, plus bolstering our staunch ally Reggio Calabria—hence the mass-production gambit.
“Can't wait.”
Dumping, in modern terms. Undercut prices, seize the market.
Counter? Tariffs. But the duke couldn't play that card.
Our cheap silk would blanket western Europe via Italy. By response time, it'd be everywhere.
Flawless. Save one hitch.
“Just gotta plug the labor gap.”
Cheap or not, silk demanded hands. Sourcing them was the crux.
“I've got the fix.”
Zoi's eyes sparkled. What ploy from this sharp mind?
“Letter to the Roman archbishop, pitching a full Messina—no, Sicily-wide—reclamation.”
Roman archbishop meant the Pope. Eastern Rome snubbed the title officially, styling him mere diocese head.
Irrelevant. Her pitch floored me: war for labor?
“Moving fast—run it by me again?”
“Sorry. Start from the spark.”
Zoi eased in slow. My chat with Archbishop Asporos had seeded it, she said.
“...Biggest hook? The Crusade idea.”
“Crusade?”
She nodded firm.
“Cheap silk hits, duke crushes Reggio by force. Guaranteed.”
Silk fed his army and coffers. Poke it, get the hammer—obvious.
“So, leverage the Roman archbishop for a Sicily reclamation order. Ties his hands.”
“Duke answers to the Papacy...”
When we stormed Reggio, he'd commanded papal forces, cornering us more than once.
Spotty loyalty, but official rank bound him. Pope commands? He marches, like it or not.
“Won't stop him cold, but no bold strikes on Geoffrey.”
“Got it. Still no labor angle, though?”
Zoi grinned at my prod, arms crossed casual.
“Heard Lord Alberto was kidnapped young, slaved out in Messina—prime Sicilian spot. And Humphrey, Geoffrey? Plunder and snatch pros.”
“...You don't mean.”
Just her smile. Messina—no, Sicily's Muslims. Enslave 'em wholesale. Labor solved.