It had taken two long months of planning, hammering, and endless adjustments, but at last it was done.
The new furnace stood like a tower of fire and iron, its belly glowing red, its throat vomiting thick black smoke into the sky. Alpheo stood at a distance, arms folded behind his back, and allowed himself the rare taste of satisfaction. For the first time, the princedom could forge its own iron, feeding its blacksmiths with steel that was not bought at obscene prices from the Achean merchants.
The laborers moved in rhythm, their bodies wet with sweat, their skin darkened by soot. He watched as they raised the steel cap, releasing a torrent of molten iron into waiting molds. The glow spilled over their faces, painting them in the light of a new age, his age. The bars cooled quickly on the earth; soon they would be sent to royal warehouse, which would employ blacksmiths for the satisfaction of their military and civil needs.
