"Cheers for the prince!" bellowed Lord Xanthios of Bracum, raising his cup high enough for the torchlight to catch the wine and set it aflame in red. The call rippled through the tent, swelling into a chorus of drunken voices.
"Cheers for the prince!" dozens echoed, their cheeks flushed with drink and victory, their laughter spilling as freely as the wine.
It had been a campaign for the storytellers, rich loot coming from three conquered cities, the enemy prince broken, the land before them theirs to plunder at leisure. They spoke already of sweeping through villages and sorrounding fields, of swelling the overflowing war coffers back in Aracina, moved there by sea which they would divide at the end of the campaign.
Alpheo wasn't bothered by such talks, the best they could see out of the campaign was fiefdoms and gold to bring back home. For them, any strategic advantage the state won was not really their soup...so give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's.
