"...I’ve had my fill of eating these borders, Christopher."

He pointed with his ring-covered finger to the eastern edges of the map. "Look at this. We’ve unfurled our glorious banners across the mountains, we’ve conquered lands as far as Serbia, our armies have marched through the worst mud to secure our hold on the region."

Basil sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "Why does he keep pressing me to take more and more?"

Despite the Byzantine Empire’s immense power, Basil was a wary and suspicious man; he didn’t like things to go too easily. And now, Emperor Louis was making things suspiciously easy.

"This is absurd, Emperor," Christopher agreed. "We’ve conquered Serbia. Our armies hold undisputed and complete control over the eastern lands. Yet the Frankish border fortresses near Italy are practically empty."

"Exactly," Basil whispered, gripping the edge of the table. "Louis should have fought us fiercely for every inch of ground. Instead, he withdrew all his elite cavalry and explosive powder from us. He’s begging me to send my men directly into his southern lands."

Basil paced the table, his mind racing. "It seems like a trap," he muttered, biting his lip. "A huge, well-thought-out bait. If I march fifty thousand men to Naples tomorrow... will he suddenly turn his massive army and crush me?"

Hearing this, Christophoros slowly shook his head. "He can’t turn his army, my lord. Because we won’t march tomorrow. We’re defending our current positions with all our might."

Basil stopped fidgeting and frowned. "Defending? Why the hell are we defending?"

Christophoros sighed. "Our armies are in complete control, yes. We’ve won battles. But the men are exhausted. We swept through Serbia with them at a mad rush."

Christophoros tapped his finger along the meticulously drawn supply routes on the map. "We’ve halted our massive advance for three weeks. The men have consumed all our basic rations. If we march into Frankish territory now, we’ll be fighting on empty stomachs. We must replenish our wheat stores completely before crossing the border, or the army will starve to death in the mud. I didn’t want to warn the few peasants who were here a few hours ago about this."

Basil stared at the map for a long moment. "Very well," he muttered, picking up his wine glass. "Three weeks to gather wheat." Three weeks to give the men a rest..."

"A very wise decision, Your Majesty." Christopher nodded respectfully.

Reaching into his belt, Christopher produced a small piece of parchment, badly crumpled and sealed with bright red wax.

"There is a very troubling matter that we must discuss, Emperor," Christopher said, holding out the letter.

Basil raised an eyebrow, refusing to take the parchment. "What is it?"

"A very desperate letter of alliance," Christopher replied, "arrived this morning. It is from the ruling princes of Sicily."

"Sicily?" He frowned. "Are you joking with me?"

Christopher laughed. "I wish I were, Your Majesty. The messengers have begged me to deliver it to you directly. They are offering us gold, ships, and loyalty if we march our armies to protect their island from the Franks."

Basil didn’t reach for the letter. "Throw it in the fire. I ignored their last three letters, and I’ll ignore this one too."

Christopher didn’t hesitate.

He tossed the letter into the flames. The paper curled and blackened completely in seconds, shattering the hopes of the Sicilian nobility.

"They’re fools in every sense of the word," Basil muttered. "They thought they could manipulate us, but they seem to have forgotten who holds the power in the south. They had a public falling out with the Pope only two months ago. They stopped paying tithes altogether, insulted the bishops, and completely broke their treaties."

Basil gave a grim laugh. "And now they realize they’re completely isolated. Louis may have left his southern borders weak, but the Pope still has his fanatical armies. Sicily will be utterly crushed this month, and I absolutely refuse to tie my glorious empire to a sinking ship."

"Exactly, my lord," Christopher nodded. "Let the Pope slaughter them; that will save us the trouble of doing it ourselves later."

Silence and complete satisfaction filled the room... the Byzantine Empire was playing the game brilliantly.

They had conquered Serbia, were amassing vast quantities of wheat, and were letting their southern rivals fight amongst themselves. What did they have to worry about?

Yet, as Basil stood by the window, he was preoccupied with one thought.

He turned slowly. "Christopher."

Christopher frowned. "What is it, Your Majesty?"

Basil returned slowly to the table, staring at the map.

"We will halt our armies for three weeks to collect the wheat?" Basil murmured.

Christopher nodded, looking confused. "Yes, my lord, we have agreed."

"You think three weeks is a short time, don’t you?" Basil asked. "I’m afraid it’s an eternity for that Ragnar. For a man like him, fear is the greatest motivator. Do you think he will just sit idly by for that long?"

The Emperor approached Christopher. "We’ve all seen what he can do with gunpowder and cannons. But what if, driven to the brink, he invents something even more lethal? A weapon that surpasses even the heavy artillery he boasts of now? Fear works wonders, and if he manages to create a new destructive force in these three weeks, the balance of power will be turned."

Basil thumped his fist. "With the numbers of our armies, Ragnar’s kingdom is nothing, even with its weapons. But my imagination paints a hellfire raining down upon us, and then we will become abject subjects, subservient to his every command.

Neither abundant wheat nor a mighty army will avail us if this man reduces our fortresses to ashes."

Christopher swallowed hard, struck by the Emperor’s stark realism.

Basil sighed. "That message you were going to send... alter it. Also, order the minister to maintain the utmost silence and to double the number of spies to monitor any activity in his camps."

Christopher nodded, "What should I change in the letter, my lord?"