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Looking for employment(2)

The wind whispered across the open plains, tugging at the fluttering banner of House Yarzat as it trailed behind the fifteen riders. The sigil—a falcon soaring the sky, sorrounding by close fists—rippled in the air like a restless spirit.

Seated at the makeshift table, Sir Robert and Alpheo engaged in an unspoken duel of scrutiny, each measuring the other's intent. Alpheo, however, remained thoroughly unbothered, nonchalantly munching on bread and cheese as if this were a mere afternoon respite rather than a mercenary negotiation.

Behind him, Jarva, Clio, Egil, and Asag stood in relaxed vigilance, hands resting near their weapons but making no move to draw them. They doubted steel would be necessary here.

Alpheo broke the silence first, tilting his head slightly as he studied the man before him. "Robert is an uncommon name in these parts," he mused, drumming his index finger against his nose as if sniffing out something foreign. "Are you from the north, by any chance?From the Empire perhaps?"

Sir Robert's gaze flickered ever so slightly at the remark, as if it had stung his pride. "My father hailed from there" he admitted. "He brought me south when I was young, and I entered into service under Yarzat's father. But enough of that. We have more pressing matters to discuss."

With a swift motion, he produced a blank parchment and ink, ready to commit terms to writing.

"Let's start with the basics," Robert began, dipping his quill. "How many men do you command?"

Alpheo took his time answering, as if savoring the weight of his own words. "Five hundred and twelve in total. Five hundred and forty, if you include the cooks and support personnel." A hint of pride crept into his voice.

A brief silence followed. Robert's brow furrowed, absorbing the number. Over five hundred? And yet I've never heard of them... A new company, then? And this boy—how in the hell is he their leader?Hells he looks half the age and half the muscles of those behind....

Alpheo caught the flicker of surprise in Robert's expression and smirked. He relished that reaction.

"Are they all armed?" Robert pressed after a moment, masking his unease behind a neutral tone.

"The men, yes. The women, not so much,unless you count pot and spoons as weapons " Alpheo replied dryly, flashing a grin. The joke, however, fell flat—Robert's expression remained unimpressed.

Shrugging, Alpheo continued. "All my men are equipped with chainmail, with 125 also wearing breastplates. Each one has a helmet. They're trained, prepared, and ready to fight for your liege… assuming, of course, we reach an agreement."

Robert nodded, his quill scratching across the parchment as he recorded the numbers. Outwardly, he remained composed, but his thoughts were in turmoil.

Five hundred armed men? How in the name of the gods is he maintaining such a force? His eyes drifted back to Alpheo, the boy who sat before him with the confidence of a seasoned warlord. Whatever the case… my prince needs them. Whatever the cost.

As Robert weighed his next words carefully, his gaze drifted over Alpheo, scrutinizing the young leader with a mix of wariness and intrigue. His black hair, sleek as polished obsidian, cascaded to the nape of his neck, catching the light with each subtle movement. A sharp jawline framed his face, softened only by the lingering traces of youth—a ghost of childhood that clung stubbornly to his features. His high cheekbones and smooth, unblemished skin gave him the look of the kind found in the statues of long-dead gods. 

Alpheo's lips, sculpted and expressive, curled into the faintest of smirks as he studied Robert in return. His dark brown eyes, deep as untouched wells, held a glimmer of amusement, as though he were indulging in a joke that only he understood. Even his closest companions had long since recognized his magnetism, though whether it was a blessing or a curse, they could not say. Beauty in a slave was often a cruel gift, a thing more dangerous than valuable.

Robert exhaled, pushing such thoughts aside. "I believe this is as good a time as any to discuss the cost of your services," he said, keeping his voice even, careful not to betray any sign of unease. He could not afford to let the boy think he held the upper hand.

Alpheo nodded as if he had been expecting this, idly bringing another piece of cheese to his mouth. "By all means, Sir Robert, let us hear your proposal. My brothers and I are eager to listen."

Robert pressed on, forcing himself to ignore the casual arrogance in Alpheo's tone. "We are prepared to offer five silverii per soldier per month—a quarter more than the standard wage of a common soldier. I trust you will find this generous."

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Robert's neck, though whether from the midday sun or the quiet pressure of the negotiation, he wasn't sure.

Alpheo clicked his tongue and spat a hardened bit of cheese onto the ground before fixing Robert with a bemused stare. "Sir Robert, you insult me," he said, his voice rich with mock disappointment. "Five silverii? Are we mere peasants to you?"

Robert bristled, but before he could reply, Alpheo continued, his voice laced with smooth confidence. "I will be frank, as I do not believe in wasting time with pleasantries. That offer is laughable. Do you see my men?" He gestured lazily over his shoulder, toward the soldiers standing at attention behind him. "They are not farmhands forced into battle, nor city rabble outfitted in borrowed mail. These are warriors—skilled, hardened, disciplined. ''

It was a lie, of course. But he spoke it with such conviction that Robert found himself second-guessing what he knew.

Alpheo leaned forward, his smirk widening slightly. "And do not think I am blind to the state of your prince's army, nor the war effort itself. You need us, Sir Robert. You need us far more than we need you. Without my men, your levy will crumble at the first real charge. But with us at your prince's side? We could tip the scales."

His voice lowered, turning almost conspiratorial. "Now tell me, does that sound like something worth a mere five silverii a month?"

Robert's grip on the quill tightened. The boy was toying with him, stretching the limits of what he could demand. And the worst part? He wasn't wrong.

Alpheo leaned forward, his dark eyes locked onto Robert's with an intensity that made the older man shift uncomfortably. "If you wish to secure our allegiance, you must offer a fair wage, worthy of our capabilities. Anything less will be met with scorn and rejection. Your prince may be losing this war, but with us at his side, victory is within his grasp. The question is, will he be wise enough to recognize the value we bring?"

Robert exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. "What is your price, then?" he asked, his tone laced with frustration. The gall of this boy

"Ten silverii per month for each soldier," Alpheo stated coolly, leaning back in his chair with an air of effortless confidence. "And, of course, the right to claim whatever spoils we acquire in battle. We fight for gold, Sir Robert, not for glory."

Robert's brow furrowed as he weighed the demand. "Ten silverii? That is a considerable sum—too much to spend on mercenaries."

Alpheo's smirk deepened. "Consider what you are buying," he countered smoothly. "With our skilled warriors at your prince's disposal, victory is all but assured. And with the promise of rightful loot, my men will have motivation unlike any common levy. Any other sellswords would run at the first sign of trouble, but we will not. This is our first contract, and our reputation is worth more to us than any purse. If we flee, no lord will ever hire us again."

Robert let out a slow breath. "Even so," Robert said, his voice measured, "we pay our own soldiers far less than what you ask. Ten silverii is too much. We can offer you six."

Alpheo clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, no. That will not do." He turned his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder at his men, as if contemplating whether this negotiation was worth his time. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned back. "If we are to be treated as common rabble, then perhaps we should seek employment elsewhere."

Robert clenched his jaw. He could not afford to lose this deal. "Eight silverii per month," he said at last, his voice firm. "And the right to claim your spoils remains . However, to ease my prince's burden, I propose this: in the event of defeat, he will only be obligated to pay half of what is owed."

Alpheo considered this for a moment, tapping a finger idly against the table. Then, finally, he nodded. "That," he said with a smirk, "is acceptable."

Robert exhaled, relieved yet exhausted, as the last terms added were more than acceptable. 

After all history had no shortage of mercenaries turning against their masters when coin ran dry. The fate of Carthage after the First Punic War being the perfect example—a once-great power, forced to choose between paying Rome its tribute or paying its sellswords. They had chosen Rome, and their unpaid mercenaries had risen in rebellion, plunging the city into one of the bloodiest wars in history.

So across time and even worlds, there was always one rule, simple and yet hard to follow, keep enough coin for your mercenary.

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