Fallen Eagle

2nd Week of June, 1460

Belbek’s riverbank carried the smell of mud and fresh water through the morning breeze, pushing it toward the commotion gathered upon a low rise of churned earth, trampled grass, and punishing sun.

In Suyren’s shadow stood a multitude of tents of all shapes and sizes, their patched cloth and uneven lines betraying the different origins of the two groups gathered here today. Some were low, felt-covered nomad shelters staked close to the ground against the wind. Others were the taller canvas tents preferred by Theodoran herders, marked by straighter ropes, cleaner rows, and stockier animals.

Theodorus stood in the middle of the mayhem, speaking with the men who had made this whole arrangement possible.

“They actually showed up…” Theodorus said, half in amazement as he watched a small tide of men and women moving through the encampment, their guttural, harsh Tatar tongue rolling through the air around him.

The nomads had not arrived with much, but what they had, they laid out with careful pride. A few boys drove lean sheep away from the more crowded paths with quick clicks of the tongue and small flicks of willow switches. Women in worn headscarves unpacked rough wool, skins, smoked meat, and small bundles of dried curds from the backs of tired ponies.

The goods were poor in finish and modest in quantity, but that was to be expected. These were not wealthy clans riding in strength beneath proud banners. They were exiles, outcasts, and scattered families clinging to whatever margins they could.

“It was quite a battle to convince the stubborn bastards to come,” Ilnur complained, though the old nomad chief could not quite keep the satisfaction from his voice. “But a good number of them agreed, aye.”

Theodorus could not help but notice that the man’s Greek had improved since they had first met, though the words still came out blunt and heavily accented. Had he been practicing? And if so, with whom? The thought was strangely touching, though Theodorus wisely kept that observation to himself.

“Not everyone came,” Nikos, the half-Tatar captain of Probatofrourio Fort, said quietly. He seemed to take it as a personal failure that a good number of clans had refused their overtures to join them here today.

“More than enough did.” Theodorus placed a hand on his shoulder. “These are almost as many as the original families who agreed to the first Market Day. That is a monumental feat, given the circumstances.”

Nikos had been the one to speak with half of the more maligned and distant clans, using his position as captain of the northernmost Theodoran outpost to reach those far-flung families that inhabited the no man’s land between the Principality and the Khanate.

So while many clans had refused outright to negotiate with the Principality after the debacle of the northern rebellion, Nikos had personally drawn in several outlying groups with little to lose and much to fear. Families in precarious positions, pressed between stronger neighbours and old grudges, had at least been persuaded to gamble enough to come and hear the Theodoran offer.

“Not to mention the other groups we managed to entice.” Theodorus gestured to the other side of the large communal gathering.

There, the Theodoran Greeks had arranged themselves with a very different sort of caution. Shepherds in rough linen tunics and dark wool cloaks stood beside their flocks, speaking in low voices while keeping wary eyes on the nomads across the rise, mingling with the few cowherds and goatherds who had come as well. Their stalls looked humbler but neater than the nomadic counterparts, laid out with cheeses, coarse wool, tallow, hides, and clay jars of milk or curd.

“That took surprisingly less effort, Commander,” Nikos said with some relief.

As proper subjects of the Principality, they had not required much convincing to answer a summons that might see their position and circumstances change drastically. Duty had done much of the work before Nikos ever opened his mouth.

“Certainly not as much as this meeting you were so keen on calling is bound to be, Karga,” Ilnur said. The old chief looked toward the Greek shepherds with open displeasure.

“Karga?” Theodorus raised an eyebrow.

“It means crow, Commander,” Nikos supplied, and the two darker-skinned men shared a hearty laugh between them.

“Couldn’t you have come up with a fancier title than that?” Theodorus asked, joining the laughter despite himself.

“The crow is a bridge between sky and earth,” Nikos explained once his amusement had settled, though the smile lingered at the corner of his mouth. “A creature that lives along the line between the two worlds. It is not a bad title.”

“I thought eagles were the sacred animals meant to serve that function.” Theodorus brought a hand to his chin, trying to recall what half-remembered fragments he knew of Tengriist belief.

“They are our standard-bearers,” Ilnur said, and he exchanged a brief, surprised look with Nikos at Theodorus’s knowledge. “But other birds serve that function in their own way, even if they are not revered in the same manner.”

“Any other roles the crow is known for?” Theodorus asked with mock seriousness. “Just so I am properly aware of all my capabilities.”

“Oh yes,” Nikos said, his voice lowering into the tone of a man telling a story meant to frighten children around a low fire. “You are the bearer of death and ill will. Quite clever too. One should not praise a crow too much. It steals shiny things from honest men.”

Theodorus could only roll his eyes, though the joke drew another snort from Nikos.

“Do not spit upon fortune,” Ilnur said with surprising seriousness, and the words doused the joviality. “Bridging two worlds is not a thankful task, nor an easy one. Sky and earth rarely meet on level ground.”

He gestured with a weathered hand toward the two sides of the gathering they meant to join. Both peoples had come, yet a clear line still divided them, as visible as any ditch or palisade. The Tatars kept close to their own tents and animals, while the Greek herders lingered nearer their wagons and stalls, eyes moving toward the nomads with a suspicion they did not bother to hide.

“We all have our role to play,” Ilnur said, his voice low enough that it seemed meant only for the three of them. “And yours is one that could spell either fortune or doom for us all.”

…

Unlike the banquet held in the great hall during yesterday’s meeting, the feast arranged for herders and nomad clansmen was a very different affair. This one belonged to open air, yellowing grass, animal musk, and the restless movement of people who did not like being seated too long.

Large cauldrons steamed over tended fires, filling the rise with the smell of boiled meat, onions, herbs, and fat. Tables had been set across the grass in a neat arrangement that separated both groups without making the division too obvious, allowing each side to reach the food without being forced immediately into one another’s elbows, while the dishes themselves were a deliberate mixture of the Greek thick stews and flatbread together with tangy yoghurt and the traditional mare wine familiar to the Nomads.

Theodorus’s tactic of handing out small servings of beer and cheap wine remained unchanged from the village meeting the day prior. Few things were as useful as alcohol for making men pliable, but he did not go overboard with the dosages. He wanted loose tongues, not drunken quarrels.

Theodorus glanced toward Zeno, seated beside him, and noted the calculated look in the man’s eyes as he assessed every detail of the open ground. Things were still far from amicable between the two, and, in some ways, it was made worse by the fact that they had to pretend they were as often as they did.

Around them, however, the people were beginning to loosen, and Theodorus judged the time had come. It was time for another speech, though this one would have to reach a very different sort of people.

“Friends,” Theodorus said, raising his voice over the din. “I hope the food has been to your liking.”

A soft cheer answered him, growing warmer as men lifted cups and called back their approval. In matters of hunger, the herders of the Principality were just as desperate as the farmers and villagers had been. A full belly was a language everyone understood.

“And the companionship as well,” he added.

The cheers faded into a more careful silence. Men glanced across the tables, smiles thinning into guarded expressions.

Bridging the two peoples would take far more than pretty words.

One of the headmen in charge of the nomad clans barked something across the tables.

“The food is good, but what is it you want with us, pale man?” Nikos translated, standing off to Theodorus’s side.

He was a broad, well-built man, thick through the shoulders and lean in the way of someone who spent more time in the saddle than beneath a roof. Several families had clustered around him, attention turning whenever he spoke. More telling still, he stood opposite from Ilnur.

That division had not happened by accident. The old chieftain had lost much of his support among the exiled families after the northern rebellion. Many blamed him for ever entangling them with the Theodorans.

“A very simple matter,” Theodorus replied. “At present, several nomad families inhabit the northern Theodoran frontier, using our hills to forage, hunt, and graze their flocks. Some of you trade with our villages as well, all of which happens without our oversight.”

The last phrase landed poorly. Theodorus saw it ripple through the gathered nomads in narrowed eyes, shifting shoulders, and cups set down too carefully.

“So you want to start taxing our stay?” the broad chieftain asked. He wore a heavy moustache that thinned down his chin, giving his mouth a severe cast.

“There is a need to start accounting for your presence in our lands,” Theodorus answered. “You yourself have experienced the tensions this creates with the locals. Villages need those fields for expansion, and our own herders share many of the same grazing grounds. Every season without rules turns another pasture, well, or crossing into a dispute waiting to happen.”

“And what can you do about that?” the man challenged, almost arrogantly.

He could afford to sound brazen only because Theodorus had mandated there would be no violence here and had held the meeting with a light guard outside Suyren’s walls. Ilnur merely shook his head at the performance.

“We have done so in the past,” the chieftain continued, “and you have done nothing to stop us, because you cannot.”

“You are correct,” Theodorus said, which drew a few startled looks. “Theodoro cannot pursue every errant clan that continues to live lawlessly along the frontier. We do not have the men, the horses, or the time to chase every family from hill to hill. But we can lock you out of the benefits given to allied tribes.”

He turned slightly, drawing the attention of the gathered clans and herders with him.

“Our plan with this meeting is to formally establish a ruling body for the disparate nomad clans living in our midst,” he said to the darker-skinned Tatars, “and a separate one for the herders who roam our countryside,” he added, turning toward the Greeks. “Two confederacies, each with its own ruling council and a sizeable measure of self-governance under the Crown.”

Confusion greeted the phrasing. Theodorus could see men trying to untangle the language.

“In practice, that means you would be obliged to follow a shared code of conduct,” Theodorus explained. “Respecting one another’s pastures, coordinating migrations and grazing grounds between your peoples, and handling petty trials among yourselves according to your own customs and laws.”

That caught them. A few eyes lit up, not with trust exactly, but with interest.

“You would also be better able to pool resources among yourselves,” Theodorus said. “For example, when it comes to breeding and intermingling herds to yield stronger stock, or deciding which families should move first into a pasture so it is not stripped bare before the next arrives.”

“You would also be better able to represent yourselves.”

Zeno spoke into the brief pause before Theodorus’s next words, his voice calm and perfectly pitched to carry. Theodorus struggled to contain his surprise. Zeno was not meant to speak for the assembled crowd. Theodorus knew these people more intimately, and by now his face was familiar in the nomad circles.

“What do you mean by that?” the broad-shouldered chieftain asked.

Zeno rose at the cue, sparing Theodorus only a brief glance. “We plan to hold a seasonal gathering here at Suyren, timed around the most important parts of the herding year: spring transhumance, summer high pasture, and the return to lower ground. During such gatherings, you may petition us over grievances or disputes that require the Crown’s intervention.”

His voice took on the smooth force of a trained orator. “This is a powerful boon. Any agreement you make with another tribe, family, village, or household will have weight behind it. If another party breaks the law or violates a sworn arrangement, you will not stand alone. You will have the Crown’s protection and, when necessary, our intervention.”

“That means anyone who steals your grazing spots would face punishment and retaliation from Suyren itself,” Theodorus said, trying to seize the thread of the conversation again before Zeno could turn the whole gathering into his personal stage.

It seemed the man had no intention of remaining a passenger in the background. Zeno wanted his name attached to this endeavour, wanted the nomads and herders to remember him, perhaps even over Theodorus.

As if he would let that happen.

“The main advantage granted to the herders and nomads who join these confederacies,” Theodorus continued, pitching his voice so it carried across both sides of the gathering, “will be secured grazing pastures and protected channels of migration. Roads, crossings, hills, and seasonal routes safeguarded under the authority of the Theodoran Crown.”

The gathered nomad families looked thoughtful now. This was the first benefit they had heard that truly mattered, and everyone present seemed to understand its significance.

“How many times have you had to give up a good hill because another flock had already taken residence there?” Theodorus asked. “How often have you found yourselves driven away from water by men who were no better off than you, except that they arrived first and were ready to defend the spot with violence? Or worse, found yourselves attacked by kin who were not cruel by nature, only desperate to survive winter by taking what they could?”

This story originates from NovelPhoenix. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He let the question settle among them, pulling at the everyday tragedies suffered by families living outside the rule of law.

“Living beyond the law is a treacherous slope,” Zeno said, forcing himself back into the conversation, earning a brief glare from Theodorus. “One where you can rely on no one, and every stranger must be treated as a possible enemy.”

“And your produce can be sold nowhere for valuable goods on the market,” Theodorus countered, raising his own voice and placing himself ahead of Zeno, as if to hide him from view. “There is no ready way to spend the excess of a good year, nor to supplement yourselves in a bad one. A family might have wool, hides, cheese, or animals to spare, and still lack the means to turn them into the tools and coin that would keep them secure.”

The gathered men’s heads turned from one speaker to the other, trying desperately to follow the quick-fire exchange.

“That is the other great advantage we can grant you,” Zeno said, sidestepping him while meeting him almost blow for blow. “A place to gather peacefully under our rule of law and sell your produce for the things you would otherwise struggle to acquire. Not by raiding, but through trade, conducted openly, and with the Crown’s guarantee behind it.”

It was a battle of arguments and counterarguments, each man trying to steal the stage from the other without making the contest too obvious. Ironically enough, the clash only seemed to enrapture the audience further. The herders and nomads appeared to think the two of them were working in tandem, their quick back-and-forth carrying the strange fluidity of men who had rehearsed every line beforehand.

“And for the privilege of having our rights protected, what would be expected in return?” the broad nomad headman asked, cutting through the spell before the nomads could be swayed away by it.

His tone carried the contrariness of a man who had already decided this scheme would not be worth his while and had only come to convince others of the same.

“A flat tax levied on the herds,” Theodorus answered. “Payable in animals, fleece, hides, dairy, or other produce, proportional to the size of the herd.”

It was a simple form of proportional taxation, one that would press more heavily upon the larger and more prosperous clans while leaving smaller families with enough room to breathe.

“So we would be punished for our success?” the nomad asked, narrowing his eyes as he stroked his sizeable moustache. “Those who worked for the size and wealth of our herds would pay more for the privilege of protecting our own grazing flocks, something we already do ourselves.”

Several men around him nodded, and Theodorus finally noticed that many of the better-off families had clustered near this man. Their animals were healthier, their clothing less worn, their belts better furnished. They were not here to be saved from lawlessness. They had learned to profit from it.

“What is your name?” Theodorus asked. “You have not introduced yourself yet.”

“I am Davut, of Clan Baranjar,” the man said proudly.

A great many things suddenly began to make sense.

“The tax would be low enough that greater herds would still remain a benefit, Davut,” Zeno explained, squaring himself toward the man as though accepting a formal challenge. “We would take something on the order of one animal in fifteen from the flock, or one in ten from produce. It is not so much that it would make success pointless.”

He let the numbers settle, then pressed on before Davut could twist them further.

“You also gloss over the fact that larger herds require better pastures and more reliable access to them. Those are precisely the kinds of locations we can guarantee. At present, you must often quarrel for them with our own people.”

Zeno nodded toward the Greek herders, who had occupied many of the best available lands by the simple virtue of being subjects of the Principality. Any conflict with them risked drawing the attention of Suyren or Mangup, even if that attention had become increasingly inconsistent in recent years. A Theodoran shepherd could appeal to a village headman, a local lord, or a fort captain. A nomad clan on uncertain ground could appeal only to its own strength.

“This is your chance to negotiate for better available ground,” Zeno said.

“So we’d hafta share our good grazin’ land with these damn nomads?” one of the herders called out, affronted by the idea. He was a wiry, sun-reddened man with a voice made harsh by dust and years spent shouting after sheep.

Theodorus took advantage of the confrontation to lean closer and speak to Ilnur, who sat nearby with his small cadre of poorer and older nomad chieftains. Their faces had tightened at the outburst, but none spoke yet.

“The quality and size of the land allocated would be based on the size of each herd,” Zeno answered, softening his tone with visible effort. “If a family does not possess a large enough headcount, it may not require the most extensive land.”

“What if I like my sheep nice'n fat, huh?” the herdsman challenged, spit flying through the gap in his teeth.

Zeno wanted to say that would be a gross misappropriation of resources and a system that favoured lazy and incompetent herders who could not even grow their flock, like this idiot likely was.

“In cases of similar-sized herds, preference will be given to Theodoran herders for the better-quality land,” He said instead, but Theodorus saw the strain in Zeno’s face to keep his temper hidden.

Zeno had the polished discipline of a court speaker, but it was one thing to debate nobles in a hall and another to be heckled by a foul-mouthed shepherd over grass.

“So in the end you will tax us merely to ignore us and favour your own people?” Davut barked.

Several nomad chieftains frowned heavily at that. Worse, some of the neutral families began to grumble openly, the noise spreading through their side like dry grass catching fire.

“That is not what will happen,” Zeno countered, trying to keep hold of the situation before it slipped from him. “You will still have access to green pastures you might not have secured otherwise, along with the benefit of predictable seasonal grounds.”

“Useless!” Davut surged to his feet. “And insulting besides. You would have us pay you predictably and be disappointed predictably, just so we can trade in your little market.”

He turned toward his fellow countrymen, spreading his arms as though calling them back from the edge of a cliff.

“Do you not see what they are trying to do? They would have us throw away our origins for this bargain. Do you think it will end with pasture rights and markets? They promise land in the beginning, but before long, we will be trapped behind stone walls, told to bow to their little lords, and made to farm tasteless grain like men who have forgotten the open steppe.”

He spat in Zeno’s direction.

The insult drew a hiss from the Greek side of the gathering. Zeno did not rise to it. He was far too careful for that, and had, by now, begun to realize that something lurked beneath the surface. But neither could he let the gesture pass unanswered. He took a few measured steps toward Davut, jaw tight, ready to respond.

Ilnur beat him to it.

“And what do you think is the wisest course, Davut of Clan Baranjar?” the old chieftain asked, cutting across the discussion. “To go back to the Khanate, which exiled all of us and our families?”

Davut, to his credit, did not blink at the accusation.

“To stand our ground as we have,” he claimed. “Free and unburdened, living on our own terms. Something you seem to have forgotten after so many years with your back crooked, staring at the miserable ground instead of the road ahead.”

“Is that what you call this?” Ilnur laughed, though there was no mirth in it. “Living on your own terms?”

He leaned forward, and the old chieftains around him seemed to draw strength from the movement.

“Because it is quite interesting that you say so when your wealth comes from the Khan himself.”

Davut stilled, his eyes turning deathly.

“You dare make such an accusation?”

“Tell me, Davut,” Ilnur said, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly attentive gathering, “how did you come by such wealth and such fat herds when only a few scant years ago you were as miserably poor as the rest of us?”

He turned from Davut to the nomad families, letting the question settle among them before driving the blade deeper.

“Because you have whored yourself out selling information to the Khanate,” Ilnur said. “You tell them where we are, when we make the crossings, which families have grown bold, which clans are weak, and which camps can be struck without much risk. You spy on us for the Khan, so we do not trouble him too much.” Every word rang with sincerity and sharpness in equal measure. Theodorus could feel the mood shifting by degrees, suspicion finding old memories to cling to.

Of course the Khan would not leave former disgruntled subjects to roam his periphery unattended. Yet neither would he waste the effort to hunt every exiled family down and drag them back into obedience. Not when they served perfectly well as a buffer between the Khanate and the Principality, and as convenient scapegoats whenever raids struck Greek territory.

“I gained my wealth through acumen and good decisions,” Davut snapped. “You sound like a bitter, destitute old man desperate to explain why he failed. Whose example do you think they will follow? Yours, or mine?”

Ilnur ignored the insult entirely.

“Why do you think one of our larger families is always struck by a crushing raid when it starts speaking too poorly of the Khan?” the old chieftain asked, his gaze sweeping across the nomads. “Why are our forays into deeper Khanate pasture discovered so quickly, even when only a few men know the path? Why do the same families bleed while others grow fat beside them?”

He was no longer speaking to Davut. He was speaking solely to the scattered families, using the gathering as an opportunity to expose Davut and his circle while there were so many of them here to hear the truth, and while he lay under the protection of Theodoran soldiers.

Theodorus saw Davut weighing the matter with his men. A few hands drifted too close to belts and sword-hilts, testing distance, measuring courage. Theodorus gave Nikos the smallest signal, and the half-Tatar captain shifted closer, as did a handful of armed guards.

Davut saw it and thought better of whatever impulse had seized him.

“Do not be misled by this scheming viper,” Ilnur continued. “I know many of you dream of returning to the Khanate. I know many still look north and think of old homes, old pastures, old graves. But the Khan will not welcome you back as sons. You are disposable pawns to him, useful only so long as you can be spent. This may be our last chance to find a home before everyone around us decides we are easier to crush than tolerate.”

Several of the nomads had begun to waver; they no longer looked at Davut first after every statement. Ilnur was a seasoned elder despite everything that had happened, and his words still possessed weight. He needed only a final push.

“Have Davut and his clan members escorted from the premises,” Theodorus commanded, turning to Nikos and pitching his voice loudly enough that both sides of the gathering heard him. “The Crown stands behind Ilnur in this matter. Clan Baranjar is hereby barred from joining the confederacy. They may not participate in any coming market fairs, nor graze on Theodoran soil.”

Davut’s face went dark with fury, his mouth twisting as though every curse in his body had crowded his tongue at once. For a moment, he looked half of a mind to draw his sword and force the matter into blood. His own clansmen held him back, not out of loyalty to Theodorus, but because even they understood what would follow if steel came free here.

Nikos’s men surrounded them with disciplined firmness. Davut was not defeated in battle, only removed like a dangerous animal that had strayed too close to a feast.

Zeno watched the display, calculating. With this move, Theodorus had done several things at once. He had removed an insurgent voice from the meeting, lent the Crown’s authority to Ilnur’s bid for leadership, and made Davut’s exile from the proceedings look like proof of the accusation rather than political convenience. If Davut truly served the Khan, then the decision was necessary. If he did not, the spectacle still made him appear compromised.

The Khan would not want such a confederacy to bear fruit. It would deprive him of a loose buffer population, but neither could he easily resort to open war over exiled clans and grazing agreements on the Theodoran frontier.

Theodorus had clearly prepared for resistance. Zeno could only grudgingly acknowledge how neatly the encounter had been arranged, or at least how ruthlessly Theodorus had used the moment once it presented itself. Something close to respect flickered in his gaze before he smoothed it away.

“The unequal division is not ideal,” Theodorus said, taking advantage of the lull left behind by Davut’s removal. “But you must understand you have been living outside the law for many years, and because of that, you have not had reliable access to the best places in any case. This is not the loss of freedom Davut claimed it to be. It is an entryway to a better life, should you choose to take it.”

He gestured for Nikos, who stepped forward and produced a small block of carved wood. It was simple at first glance, no larger than a man’s palm, but its face had been marked with careful cuts and sealed with the stamped sign of Suyren.

“Each family that joins the confederacy will be issued passes of safeguard,” Theodorus said, holding the carved piece where all could see it. “These will denote the grazing grounds assigned to you for that season, the roads and crossings you are permitted to use, and the protection granted to you under the Crown’s peace. In exchange, you will be required to keep a running count of your herd size and transactions, and to pay the tax already mentioned.”

The nomads watched the token with an attention that was almost hungry. A piece of wood could mean nothing, or it could mean safety, depending entirely on the power standing behind it.

“However,” Theodorus continued, feeling the gathering tip toward him and using that momentum to the hilt, “part of that tax can be waived through service. Border patrols. Setting up your camps along the frontier between the Principality and the Khanate to serve as reconnaissance. Sending men for occasional militia work when called.”

He motioned for Nikos to step forward, and the half-Tatar captain obeyed.

“This is not bondage,” Nikos said, speaking now with the steadiness of a man who was living proof of the fact. “And it does not have to become a sentence passed down to your children. It can be a chance for them to learn, to rise, and to acquire a station higher than the one they were born into.”

The fact that he himself was proof of it stood plainly before them. A half-Tatar captain in Theodoran service, with authority to be trusted to speak at such an important meeting.

“One child from every clan and herder family may be sent to Suyren,” Nikos continued. “They will not be trained as common foot soldiers to be thrown into a line and forgotten, but as potential officers. It will be a position of prestige where they can learn letters, discipline, command, and accounting. Skills that will return to you with them.”

Theodorus watched the proposal land with mixed force. Some men stiffened, hearing only the ‘hostage’ part of the speech. Children fostered at Suyren would serve as guarantees of good conduct, and Theodorus had no intention of pretending otherwise.

Those children, along with the militia obligations attached to the confederacies, would become the first thread by which the Crown could gradually bind nomadic and migratory families into northern Theodoro.

Most states made the mistake of trying to fit herdsmen into neat little boxes. They wanted them counted like villagers, taxed like farmers, and fixed to a place as if a flock could be forced behind stone walls. One could not simply restrict the freedom of migratory people and expect obedience. The key was to meet them at the points where movement naturally slowed: crossings, seasonal gatherings, wintering grounds, market fairs, and mountain passes. Tax them at intervals they already understood, at roadblocks they could not easily avoid, and keep the burden low enough that evasion was more trouble than compliance.

“The main requirement for your allegiance,” Theodorus said, gesturing to the canopy they sat beneath, “will be the mandatory sale of any major produce and livestock through official market days held once per month here in Suyren. There will be no other sanctioned place for large transactions between clans, herders, merchants, or villages.”

That produced grumbling from both sides. The Greeks disliked being told where to sell what they considered theirs by right, and the nomads disliked any rule that narrowed their choices.

Theodorus let them mutter.

In truth, the market days were already the best opportunity most of them would have to sell their goods at a decent value. Whatever trade existed before this had been small, scattered, and unprotected, conducted through personal arrangements, roadside haggling, and the occasional village exchange where one side could always claim ignorance or strength as excuse for cheating the other.

Unlike farmers, who only had two or three meaningful harvests each year, herders produced constantly. They were, in many ways, ideal candidates for a recurring fair, which would allow Suyren to keep tabs on them through smaller monthly fairs, as well as the mandatory seasonal gatherings.

The herders began to debate among themselves first, Greeks turning inward in tight knots, their arguments blunt and practical, circling around pasture rights and taxes. The nomads did the same in their own tongue, voices lower but no less heated, hands moving sharply as they counted grievances and benefits on their fingers.

“How long did you have that little scheme cooked up?” Zeno asked in a whisper as they returned to their seats.

“I knew there was a distinct possibility the Khanate would not let us proceed with the integration of nomad families along the frontier,” Theodorus answered just as quietly. “After asking around, I narrowed down the most likely candidates to be the Khanate’s agents.”

His gaze moved to Ilnur. The old chieftain stood at the center of the nomads once more, the nomad losses in the rebellion no longer hanging quite so heavily around his neck. This incident had likely restored some portion of the renown he had lost, and he was using it ruthlessly, preaching to his people that this might be the last chance for them to find a new home away from the Khanate.

Just as they had agreed upon when they hatched together this plan. Theodorus would hand the old man back a position of relevance. And Ilnur would steer them towards the confederacy.

It was not an honourable arrangement, but great things were often achieved on the back of ugly building blocks.

“After that,” Theodorus continued, “it was only a matter of staging the right situation to throw them back down.”

Zeno considered the matter in silence for a moment. “And you did not think to inform me?”

Theodorus could hear in the careful flatness of his voice that he was not pleased.

“I did not know you intended to speak during the assembly,” Theodorus shot back. “That was not something we discussed.”

The two men fell into a simmering quiet. It was another grudge to add to the growing tally between them.

Eventually, the debate among the two groups quieted. A voice rose above the fading din.

“The proposal’s sound ’nough,” said the spokesperson for the herders. It was the gap-toothed, foul-mouthed shepherd from before, much to Zeno’s apparent chagrin. He stood with thumbs hooked into his belt and a look of stubborn reluctance on his face. “We’ll join this little arrangement of yours. Not like we've much of a choice, eh?”

He gave a small bow, and the other herdsmen followed by degrees. Some lowered their heads stiffly, others with visible discomfort, but they did it all the same.

Theodorus accepted the pledge of allegiance with the solemnity the moment required.

“We have also reached a decision,” Ilnur said after the Greeks had settled, speaking on behalf of the nomads. “We will join you in this confederacy you wish to start, Karga.”

He paused, then lifted his hand high, his weathered face hardening into something almost triumphant.

“It will be the rise of a new ulus,” Ilnur declared. “The birth of the Dâg Ulus in these northern highlands!”

Cheers erupted behind him. The tribesmen fell to one knee in quick succession, not with the smooth discipline of soldiers, but with the force of people giving shape to a decision that had already begun to carry them forward.

Theodorus felt the weight of History settle behind the statement.

He had stepped well beyond the path it had originally followed, into ground that no chronicle he knew had mapped for him. The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.

With the ratification of the chartered villages and now the birth of the confederated tribes, he was well on his way to transforming the north.

If nothing barred his way.