—My lord, we have arrived at the capital just before the gates close —said a guard from House Cortés, wiping the dust from his face—. Do you wish to enter immediately, or should we rent an inn on the outskirts?
—Let's enter at once —Giuseppe said with his usual poker face, leaving no trace of any of the emotions passing through his head. If he had any to begin with.
The House Cortés carriage advanced with a rhythmic rattle along the cobblestone street leading toward the capital. They called it the Magna Strada, a stone road that had been under construction for thirty years, a Herculean effort to connect the kingdom's capital with its main commercial arteries.
From the Cortés territory, one would take the Magna Strada about three days before reaching the city, as the infrastructure projects heading south had been prioritized by King Frederick V of Antiochia.
Upon crossing the stone bridge that provided access to the outer northern part, the travelers could not help but turn their gaze toward the imposing silhouette rising before them. People could already admire the grandeur of the capital's walls; an impressive defensive formation that took one's breath away.
Bards from distant lands earned excellent tips in taverns when they praised that no such walls existed in the entire world lit by God, describing them as the stone ribs of a sleeping giant.
At least two main walls could be distinguished: the outer one, which protected the commercial districts and the popular slums, and the inner one, higher and reinforced with circular towers. Beyond that, the Royal Palace loomed, which actually functioned as an impassable third wall.
There, the main government buildings, the Council of Nobles, and the Royal Palace itself were located—a castle built on the highest part of the Western hill, watching over the entire city with a granite gaze.
—Halt! —shouted a royal guard—. Stop the wagon for an inspection. You must announce your name, your companions, the house to which the coat of arms corresponds, and your purpose within His Majesty's city.
The tone was professional, almost mechanical, until Giuseppe poked his head out of the window.
—Solomon! —said Giuseppe, catching the man's attention.
The guard froze for a second, blinked, and a smile of disbelief broke through his mask of severity.
—Well, look at that. What strange things the cat drags in. If it isn't Giuseppe Milano himself, ambassador for the Protector of the North —the guard said with a hearty laugh, approaching the wagon to greet his old friend—. Are you still carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders?
—Bad weeds never die, and you are the best example, aren't you? —Giuseppe said with a slight smile on his face, perhaps one of the rarest moments a human being could witness in their life.
—Well, life isn't so bad, especially within the Palace Guard. So, in my opinion, it's worth doing everything possible to keep living —said the guard, stepping onto the side support of the wagon to peer inside with curiosity.
—I'm glad to hear that —Giuseppe replied—. How is the family, your wife and the children?
—The children are getting bigger all the time. There isn't a day I don't see them older than the last. And Sara is very well, thanks for asking. And speaking of which... any lucky lady who has Mr. Giuseppe Milano as her husband?
—No.
—Nothing, not even a mistress?
—No.
—A one-night stand?
—Neither.
Solomon fell silent, staring at his friend's impassive expression. Giuseppe returned the gaze without blinking.
—Typical of you. It seems you haven't changed a bit. I still say you should have joined the order of priests; you're even holier than the saints themselves, or at least more boring. Hahahaha! —Solomon laughed.
—Well, life has also been indulgent with me. I can't complain, I simply haven't seen the right one. It's only a matter of time.
—Yeah, well, if you say so... I have some acquaintances who have unmarried daughters; in case you're interested, I can schedule a date for you to meet them. But do me a favor: at least practice smiling so it looks natural! —Solomon teased, giving a friendly tap to the side of the car.
—But anyway, moving on to more relevant topics... How is the county? News arrived of the Marquis of Narico's attack several days ago, and the city's nobles have been gossiping about the future session of the Council. They are anxious to see blood, Giuseppe. The vultures smell weakness from afar.
—We lost... —Giuseppe said dryly.
—Shit. I'm sorry, brother. I didn't know things were that bad —Solomon lowered his voice.
—We lost only 30 soldiers —Giuseppe continued, enjoying the effect of his words—, while the marquis lost nearly 500, plus a few dozen captives who are now digging our graves.
—WHAT?! —Solomon almost fell off the carriage step, stunned by the figure. Giuseppe let out another tiny chuckle—. But how?! They say the marquis's army outnumbers you at least three to one.
—Well... —Giuseppe said—. It's a miracle, Solomon. There was an assassin infiltrated in the house before the attack; he tried to assassinate the heir, Miguel, to create total chaos before burning down the communal hall and facilitating the attack on the east gate with other spies. They wanted to leave us compromised from within.
—But, and here comes the miracle: even though Miguel was thrown from a third floor and witnesses say he fell headfirst onto the pavement, he didn't die. He didn't even get seriously hurt. It was as if angels had held him in the air.
—Thanks to that, we were able to catch the culprit due to the screams of his maid, who was nearby. The rest is history: we played along with the marquis, ambushed his troops, and tricked them with a weak formation made on purpose. They broke their teeth against our wall.
—God! It sounds like there is a lot of movement in the north as well. I'm glad to hear you're okay, although you scare me with those stories of children falling off buildings.
—I wasn't exactly in battle. Hey, but tell me, what do you mean there's movement "as well" in the north?
—You didn't know? —Solomon asked, lowering his voice and looking around—. The newly created National Army of Antiochia has been reporting border clashes with troops from the Empire. Nothing serious so far, just soldiers from both sides getting into fistfights. But the danger is real when either side, in a fit of rage, draws steel weapons. At least one report of this kind arrives at the palace every week.
—Thanks for the information, Solomon —Giuseppe replied seriously—. I'll stop by your house before I leave.
—Hey, Mr. Guard! They're taking too long and we're not going to make it into the city before the closing! —shouted a spice merchant from back in the line, waving his arms in desperation.
—Yes, yes! I'm coming! —Solomon said with a disdainful gesture—. Hey, see you at my house! I'm there every night now that I have the day shift. Don't be a stranger!
—See you! —Giuseppe said, but not before providing all the protocol details the royal guard had officially requested. Solomon handed back the entry safe-conduct sealed with the red wax of the crown.
Upon crossing the heavy iron portcullis of the north gate, the carriage entered the main market area. Despite the hour, the air was still heavy with the scent of tanned leathers, exotic spices, and the sweat of a city that housed more than 500,000 souls according to royal census estimates. Feeding and maintaining order in the Royal City was a giant challenge.
Although the stalls were beginning to be covered with blankets for the night, tomorrow, even before the sun bathed the golden domes of the cathedral, this market would be a hive of frantic activity.
—Gentlemen, let's head to the Count's residence in the capital —Giuseppe ordered his men.
He leaned back in the leather seat of the carriage, closing his eyes. While the wheels struck the cobblestones, his mind was already walking the halls of the Council of Nobles.
Giuseppe began to mentally review the list of allies and enemies in the Council. He knew the Duke of Sosa would try to use anything as an excuse to intervene, but with the Empire moving on the borders, the King would not want an internal civil war.
Or at least, that's what he thought.