Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 311

Chapter 311: An honest day work Chapter 311: An honest day work Outside the city of Yarzat, a vast swarm of workers toiled under the hot sun, their figures scattered across the barren earth like ants in a field.

Over 2,500 men, employed underthe princess , dug with shovels, sweat dripping from their brows as they labored to carve a path for progress.

The massive construction were the preparation for the aqueduct-and their current task was to dig a canal to channel the flow.

This canal, stretching far into the horizon, would eventually run from Yarzat to a lower point of dislevel where the pontini-stone arches to carry the aqueduct-were planned to rise in the coming winter months.

For now, their orders were clear: a trench two and a half meters wide, half a meter deep, cut precisely into the earth.

Among the workers was Rahim,an humble men with sun-darkened skin, his tunic stained with dust and sweat.

He stood deep within the canal, shoveling dirt in rhythmic motions, the heavy weight of the earth thudding as it landed to the side.

His muscles strained with every lift, his shoulders burning, but he moved with a quiet determination, each stroke digging deeper into the trench that would one day carry water to the whole city, and from whom he did not know he would greatly reap many benefits in the future.  Another dozens of men worked alongside him, some shoveling, others carrying the accumulated dirt away.

Rahim’s shovel bit into the earth, the rich brown soil peeling away with every thrust.

He grunted as he tossed another load to the growing pile above the trench, sweat slicking his brow.

Yet, for all the toil and heat, Rahim was content.

More than content, he thought, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Hard work it was, yes, but good work.

The overseers-men with sharp eyes and coiled whips-rarely made use of their cruel tools.

Most times, they merely stood watch, shouting the occasional order.

And every twelve turns of the hourglass, which was equivalent to 3 hours , the men were granted a break, precious and consistent.

An hourglass of rest to drink, to stretch, and breathe before the shovels resumed their bite.

The food was good too-three full meals a day, hearty enough to keep the body moving, with bread, salted meats, and even fruit when the carts came full from the countryside.

Then there was the silver-three silverii a month.

Honest pay.

A man could feed his family and still have some coins left to tuck away, something Rahim hadn’t been able to do before this princess and her husband had taken charge.

A year and a half ago, things had been different.

He remembered the whispers, how they spread through the alleys and market squares like an oily fire.

Their new prince-some mercenary, they said-had taken the throne in blood.

Rumors swirled that he’d murdered their last ruler, cutting his way to power with sword in hand.

A tyrant, the voices hissed.

A blood-drinker, cruel and insatiable.

Men like Rahim had spoken in low tones, uncertain of what this Alpheo would bring to Yarzat.

But now, as Rahim’s shovel struck soil again, he almost laughed at the absurdity of those tales.

Bloodthirsty?

A tyrant?

The truth was far different.

The prince had fought two wars, that much was true,quite a lot in a year and half for anyone , but no men had been dragged from their homes and pressed into service against their will.

No new taxes had come, nor had soldiers stomped through the streets demanding coin and grain.

In fact, Rahim thought, there seemed to be more coin moving through Yarzat now than ever before.

He didn’t know where it all came from, but work-steady, paid work-had poured into the city like rain after a long drought.

What Rahim didn’t realize was that every time the army marched out, its soldiers returned with purses heavy with coin, wealth taken from faraway fields and foreign hands.

And when those soldiers came back, they spent freely, their hard-won silver flowing into Yarzat like a tide.

The effect was unmistakable.

Coins passed from soldier to merchant, from merchant to craftsman, and from craftsman to laborer.

Shops bustled with trade, and the city thrived in ways it hadn’t before.

If a man brought home just enough to feed his family, the coin stopped there.

But if he returned with extra-enough to feed his children and have some to spare-he might buy a new pair of shoes to replace his threadbare ones, or an urn to store salt and grain.

Those small luxuries, once purchased, filled the pockets of shoemakers, potters, and artisans, who in turn found themselves with more silver than they were used to.

And what did they do with it?

They spent too-on better tools, on finer clothes, or on a warm meal from the tavern.

Coin, once stagnant, now flowed through Yarzat like a living river, touching every hand, from the baker to the blacksmith.

In short as long as the coins remained inside the city everyone gained from it.

None knew the reason yet it happened…

He had been a simple laborer before, scraping by on odd jobs here and there.

Now, with Alpheo seated beside the princess, there was always something to be done.

He smiled to himself as he hefted another shovelful of dirt.

Whatever they said about the prince, Rahim didn’t care.

All he knew was that his family had done fairly well in recent months , he was paid decently, and his back, though sore, worked for something more than bare minimum.

And if this trench would carry water to Yarzat’s people, he would dig until his hands bled, then praise the princess a bit, and then dig some more.

A sharp voice broke through the rhythmic clang of shovels striking dirt.

“Supper’s ready!

Move on, lads!

Let’s go!” The overseer’s shout carried across the canal, prompting a collective sigh of relief from the workers.

Rahim straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

The midday sun had left him drenched, his muscles aching from hours of hard labor.

Gratefully, he leaned the shovel against the trench wall and climbed out of the canal, shaking loose the dirt that clung to his boots.

The smell of food carried on the breeze-simple, but enough to stir a growl in his stomach.

Rahim joined the others, his steps brisk but measured as he made his way toward the eating camp.

He fell into the line, where workers shuffled forward in silence, each clutching a tin bowl.

When his turn came, the cook ladled thick porridge into Rahim’s bowl, the steam curling up into the cool air.

Alongside it, six ounces of bread-a dense, warm loaf that still carried the scent of the oven-and a small strip of jerky meat were handed to him without ceremony.

It wasn’t luxurious, but it was hearty, enough to keep a man on his feet through the next shift.

Rahim nodded his thanks and made his way to one of the long wooden tables set up under a canvas shade.

Sitting down with a groan of relief, he placed the bowl in front of him and tore off a piece of bread.

He dipped it into the porridge and began eating, savoring the warmth of the food.

Soon other people sat with him, and after exchanging greetings they all started eating As Rahim tore another piece of bread and chewed, he glanced up, his gaze wandering toward the edge of the camp where a group of men eating under quieter supervision.

They were easy to spot-their broad frames, worse cloth, and angular features bearing scars marked them as outsiders.

The prince’s personal slaves: Herculeian prisoners of war from the last campaign.

 Yet, despite their captivity, they didn’t carry the haggard, beaten look Rahim often associated with slaves.

There was no gauntness to their cheeks, no trembling from exhaustion or hunger.

Instead, they moved with steady purpose, shoulders square and steps firm.

Like the workers, they were given three meals a day-Rahim had seen it himself.

Porridge in the morning, bread and jerky in the afternoon, and stew come nightfall.

It wasn’t a feast, but it was more than enough to keep their strength up, and they looked better for it.

There were no lash marks on their backs, and their overseers rarely lifted their whips.

Rahim had even heard whispers that their high morale came from a promise made by the prince himself-a vow that after four years of service, they would be freed and sent back to their homeland.

None of the workers, however, understood the true reason behind the prince’s treatment of the Herculeian captives.

By all rights, they were his personal property, and it would have made perfect sense for him to waste their lives on a whim or work them into the ground.

Yet that never happened.

What no one realized was that the prince despised slavery at its core, for obvious personal reasons.

Above that he held no hatred for the Herculeian soldiers, either-after all, they were just men given weapons and orders, no different from anyone else caught in war.

In his eyes, they were not enemies to be destroyed, but tools to be used efficiently.

So he chose to extract every ounce of value from their labor as long as he would need them.

And when their four years of service were complete, he would keep his promise.

Whether they realized it or not, the prince would make sure that their freedom would still lie within the borders of his domain.

After all in Alpheo’s eyes and hopes, Herculia in the future would no longer exist as a independent princedom.