Chapter 563: The beauty of money

The morning sun rose like a triumphant banner over the blackened plains, casting long golden rays over a field choked with the dead. Smoke drifted lazily into the pale sky from the gutted skeleton of the rebel camp, its charred timbers jutting up like accusing fingers toward the heavens.

Alpheo’s men moved through the battlefield like ants over a fallen feast. Bodies lay in every direction: some contorted in the last spasms of death, others peacefully still, their expressions strangely calm as if dreaming of better ends. Soldiers stepped around them with practiced disinterest, eyes scanning for glints of metal, buckles, clasps—anything valuable.

Steel boot tips nudged open stiff fingers. Gloved hands patted tunics and jerkins, probing for hidden purses or tucked-away medallions. Now and then, a body was rolled over with a grunt and a squelch, the ground still damp from spilled blood and churned earth.

“You find anything good?” one soldier muttered, crouching over a rebel

“Nah,” grunted the other, tossing aside a half-cracked helmet. “Just piss and prayers on this one. Poor bastard still had a charm of the Mercy-bringer in his shirt.” He held it up—a iron brooch chipped and rusted. “Didn’t help him much, did it?”

A third soldier, limping slightly, huffed and bent beside them. “Ugh. My arm’s killing me.”

“You get clipped?” asked the first, half-turning with interest.

“Yeah, mace to the shoulder. Didn’t even see the prick coming—just wham! out of nowhere like I owed him money.”

“You do owe to lots of people .”

“Not to these dead fuckers!”

The other laughed. “You get it checked?”

“Yeah, went to the medical tent after the fighting. Said it’s just a bruise, no crack. Hurts like hell, though. Think he enjoyed poking it.”

There was an easy rhythm in their movements, a strange mixture of irreverence and grim habit. They searched pouches, pulled off boots, and even occasionally muttered half-heart apologies when they dislodged a particularly mutilated limb.

“Hey, you reckon this one’s got a good belt?” one said, tugging at a wide leather strap. “Mine snapped a long time ago”

“Looks better than yours ever was.”

The banter continued, light and casual, as if they were rifling through haystacks and not fallen men with families or dreams. Every so often, a clerk passed through with some servants pulling a cart behind, where the soldiers threw anything of value they had taken , while the clerks reported what was being thrown in.

A report that would later on be compared with that done back at the camp , to make sure there wasn’t anyone handy in the camp.

The system was a well-oiled engine, and within it, the soldiers moved with the calm of men who knew the battle was over—and the only thing left was to make sure they got what they’d earned.

Even if that meant pulling it from a dead man’s sock.

Looting was a business, and like all business in the White Army, it was done with order.

There was no need to rush or trample over one another in a frenzied grab. After all, whether you were the first or last to stick your blade in some rebel’s purse, all of it went to the same pile. Coins, rings, brooches, anything worth weighing—it was all pooled together and then carefully redistributed according to the regulations of the army’s quartermasters.

That strange blend of military socialism and rigid bureaucracy that made the White Army terrifying not just in war, but in how it functioned afterward.

Not that the temptation of filling one pocked didn’t exist.

Yet few dared try. The clever little system of “soldier-savings” had a way of sucking the thrill out of petty theft. Every man in the army had a ledger, a personal account maintained by clerks who were somehow even more humorless than the army priests. Coins from salary, loot, bonuses—everything was entered, logged, and could be requested for withdrawal at any time , given that the soldier had their head-squad signature.

So, if a man had a few coins in his pocket that weren’t supposed to be there after the body search following the battle? Well, either he was very stupid… or were about to pay a lot out of their own pockets

There were always checks. Always the “quick frisk” before redistribution. If they found you with silver you hadn’t declared, you might as well have stabbed the general himself. There were no secrets in an army where every copper piece had a paper trail, and every officer remembered exactly how much you had in you.

As for the rest—armor, weaponry, saddles, supplies, —those were too bulky to smuggle unless you planned on hiding them in your breeches. The sheer inconvenience of theft meant that cases of smuggling were vanishingly rare. Not worth the risk. Not when you’d get your share anyway , weighed fair and square, and when you had a prince who was known for his generosity over his soldiers and especially hated being scammed.

Of course, this meticulous system of coin tracking and ledgers wasn’t for everyone—it was a privilege, or rather a burden, of the Black Stripes alone.

For the rest of the army,composed of the other lords’ soldiers, however, things were far simpler and much less forgiving.

No ledgers, no personal accounts. Just a swift, impersonal inspection.

After every battle, bodychecks were mandatory. Soldiers lined up in dusty rows, arms raised, pouches opened, boots removed. The quartermaster assistants—often younger boys or injured veterans—moved through them like wolves sniffing out a kill, fingers quick and ruthless.

If something was found—a few silver coins tucked into a sleeve, a gem-studded brooch slipped behind a belt buckle—it was immediately seized. No explanations were accepted. Whether the loot had been found during the chaos or had been in the soldier’s possession since the day before didn’t matter. The rules had been stated before the battle, loudly and clearly, and any violation came with a penalty: a fine cut directly from their share of the spoils once all was tallied.

And of course, accompanying the looting were also those tasked with another much less entertaining job.

“Still breathing, were ya?” A soldier muttered, yanking the blade free from a corpse and giving it a flick. “Not for long.”

“Mercy’s cheap this morning,” said his companion, younger and with barely a scrape on him. He watched another soldier casually end a crawling rebel by piercing his back..

The older one gave a huff. “Mercy’s for priests. We’re just here to clean up the mess.”

They walked on, weaving between corpses and shattered shields.

“You know,” the younger said, giving a spear haft a lazy spin as he walked, “I thought this war’d be worse. I mean—’outnumbered three to one,’ the old fuck had said up when we ambushed those bastards. Thought we’d be bleeding from our eyes. But what did we get? Two battles. And both ended quicker than a whore’s promise.”

He was promptly rewarded with a swift kick to the shin.

“Oi! What the hell, Ardon?”

Ardon narrowed his eyes. “Are you complaining about easy loot and no scars, Merek? Really?”

“I’m not complaining!” Merek yelped, hopping a step. “Just saying—it was easier than expected.”

Ardon snorted. ” You think this happened by accident? It’s all thanks to our prince who thinks three moves ahead while we’re still pulling up our breeches.”

Merek nodded, rubbing his shin. “Yeah, yeah. Prince Alpheo the Magnificent and all that.”

“Damn right,” Ardon said.” I am finally going to retirement a rich and alive, ain’t going to be enough words to express my gratitude for that madman.”

The pair moved on, dispatching the last of the wounded with practised boredom. All around them, others were doing the same—finishing off survivors, looting, dragging the worst of the mess into heaps for the burial crews to deal with.

And somewhere, in the calm heart of it all, the man that had made all of this possible , was fast asleep while everybody else was at work.

Snoring in a silken bed, one arm likely draped lazily behind his head, dreams full of glory he’d already won.

————————————–

A few hours had passed since the battle that ended the war, and while there were some still busy with their task, their prince, was instead standing over a copper basin, splashing cold water on his face and blinking away the crust of sleep.

He cupped his hands, brought another gulp to his mouth, swished it , and leaned forward to spit it out into the dirt .

A voice came muffled from beyond the flap.

“May I enter?”

Alpheo rolled his eyes mid-spit, finishing with a wet ptch! onto the ground. “Do you still really have to ask?”

The flap rustled, and in stepped Jarza, dressed in his usual understated dusty cloak, which he kept even though he now had the embaressement of the choice.

“It’s a matter of courtesy,” Jarza replied, stepping inside. “When entering someone else’s room—or tent, in this case—one asks permission.”

Alpheo waved the basin water at him as if it were proof. “We spent four years in a cell the size of a cupboard. You’ve seen everything I could’ve shown willingly—or unwillingly. What’s the point of modesty now?”

Jarza gave a noncommittal shrug before resuming his business-mode

“We’ve rounded up the prisoners,” he reported, matter-of-fact. “A few minor lords—banner-holding bottom-feeders mostly. But the real catch…” He let the words stretch as if he were seasoning them. “were Lord Gregor and the priest.”

That, at least, woke Alpheo up more than the water had. He straightened, grinning with that smug, sideways tilt of his lips that usually preceded someone else’s misfortune.

“Well,” Alpheo said, drying his hands on his tunic. “We’ve not only caught the loudest dogs but the priest too? ” Alpheo’s grin widened, eyes gleaming. “Then we’ve got our beautiful book, with the list of traitors. names and of course testimonies of which temples aided them and all we have to do is convince the book to open itself. It’s amazing what someone can get out of a priest when they are the one on the other side of the stake.”

Alpheo reached for a goblet, only to stop halfway with a smirk curling at his lips. “You know, none of this,” he gestured to the buzzing tent, and the distant clatter of metal on bodies and camp spoils, “would’ve been possible without dear Robert.”

He let the words hang in the air like cigar smoke. “Perhaps I’ll reward him with a nice mansion… somewhere quiet, with that little daughter , girl , lover of whatever she is to keep him company in his retirement.”

But as he lifted the jug of wine to pour himself a drink, he caught something—a flicker in Jarza’s eyes, like the tail-end of a wince. Not sharp, but not subtle either.

Alpheo paused, jug hovering. “Haven’t seen you like that in a long time. Is there something I should know?”

Jarza’s mouth tightened before he answered, tone cool and level, “Robert is dead.”

Alpheo blinked once, slowly, before setting the jug down with a thoughtful tap against the rim of the goblet. “Oh.” He leaned back in his chair, then gave a little sigh as if someone had ruined a well-written ending. “Then I suppose he’s deserving of a state funeral. Have Agalosios clean the body—dress it up a bit.”

Again, the twitch. Barely perceptible, but there.

Alpheo narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”

Jarza hesitated. Then, with the dry frankness of a man who’d grown too old to pad grim truths:”I think it’ll be difficult for anyone to make Robert presentable. They’d need a shovel just to gather what’s left of him.”

Silence.

Alpheo stared. A long, long look. Then, slowly, with a breath that turned into a quiet laugh, he stood.

He took the wine jug again and poured—one cup, then the other—and handed one to Jarza.

“Well then,” he said, voice smooth like wine itself. “To Lord Robert. A toast is something that he at least deserves.”

He lifted his cup high, the surface of the wine catching the light like a pool of blood.

“He may have died in pieces, but let us drink to him whole. He may have been a traitor to his kin, but he was a midwife to our triumph. To Robert and our long story with him.”

And together, they drained their cups, the taste bitter and sweet, like that of a bad page of a book that they had no choice but to read.