Although she had been travelling for the last bazaar, it had passed without incident. At least, not with any incident significant enough to warrant being called an incident, that naturally nothing went perfectly. What mattered at those times was simply that there were those whose job was to react appropriately, and that they fulfilled this job.

To that end, she greatly appreciated the mayor, someone reliable. Of course he was—and always had been—that the Nelli family did not prosper on hard work, nor on trickery. The kind of "empire" they had built depended on reliable persons more than anything else. Indeed, she knew well the difficulty of moving one thing from a place to another.

That was also why she felt more justified in her distaste for merchants than others. This was not a time for unpleasant thoughts, though.

"Who's next!"

A loud shout amidst the bustling field, one that reached her as distant as she was. Still, from her place in the box seating, she could see clearly that event.

There was a stone fence beyond which were some sacks of dirt, and atop those sacks were clay pots. She watched as the next man took his turn. It was not easy, that he took the length of slow-burning rope, then the arquebus, then had to awkwardly go about pouring the powder and all the other steps. In all, it took him well over a minute before he raised it with purpose.

The closer pots, she knew, were at a hundred strides, which her husband told her any competent man could strike more often than not. Farther, the pots reached to twice that distance and naturally promised greater rewards.

With the stone fence as a rest, the man carefully aimed, still for a long moment, then—

Smoke billowed—crack!

Compared to the firearm's thunder, a clay pot shattering was a whisper, shatter it did. Her curiosity fulfilled, her attention drifted from the man now cleaning the fouled firearm to the other field.

Out there were many men, all in lines of six, as they opposed another group while pulling on a rope. It was a simple thing, the sort of thing even young children could do. A deeply unfair thing as, ultimately, the competition was decided without strategy or wits. And yet, those watching found it deeply compelling. Shouts and cheers drifted over to her, and the ferocious roars of some, that, even in a test of strength, one still needed the nerve to fully use one's strength.

"I doubt these little things will make much of a difference for spring," he said, followed by a sigh.

For a while, she said nothing as the distant sounds blended with the nearby chatter, their box, although private, near to other such private boxes. Eventually, she spoke. "When does dear think I began to build this army?"

He did not answer quickly, rare that she asked a simple question. "I would say it began upon asking me to take command of it."

"A decade," she said, neither sharp nor soft, an ordinary fact clearly stated.

It took him some time to tease out what she alluded to. As always, he never took her words simply. Not that he had, back then, been at all aware of her affairs—other than the incident which set everything else in motion.

That was the answer to "why", though. The "what" was more subtle. "Is that when darling first wrote to Charles?"

Although he could not see her face clearly from where he sat, she turned his way enough to give a smile. "Does dear know how one makes a sword?" she asked.

"Heat up a steel billet and hammer it into shape, then grind and file it sharp," he said, his confidence undermined by how readily he answered a question she had asked.

However, she did not immediately deny him, instead left a brief silence before she gave her answer. "I myself cannot say. These kinds of things elude me despite my readings, something which greatly frustrates me. There are superstitions that, however absurd, are proven in results. As an example, the final step of the smithing should be to quench the blade in oil and not water."

He let out a chuckle. "Darling does not sound as though she lacks understanding," he said lightly.

"I do. That is, if I had to instruct a peasant on how to make a sword, I would never consider this step. If I read of this in a work, I would consider it nonsense. Which literate man is toiling away in a smithy to record such a thing?"

Her question remained rhetorical, the pause for her sigh thick.

"This task is not easily put into words precisely because it escapes our understanding. It is, instead, something best learned through observation, practice, and guidance. That is something which requires, above all, time."

"A decade, even."

His interjection brought a smile to her lips. "Dear need not consider what good something done now will do for us in a year as there are more decades still to come," she said, almost a whisper.

Her words did not beget further conversation, a hollowness to them that left him deep in thought once more.

Out on the fields, though, there was no shortage of noise, a raucous cheer going up as a rope had snapped and drew blood. Long ago had she put an end to the hangings, yet still it seemed the common people thirsted for the spectacle. Further afield, such spectacle was also had, the sport made by this husband and wife as popular as ever, as rough as ever.

"Dear should consider what I have said. I would not intrude on how he manages the army; however, this will be a difficult campaign."

He gave a dry chuckle. "Indeed, it will."

"In the end, it is sufficient to panic the Venetians," she said, her tone distant. "A rapid push down to the Po will allow our Italian allies to keep the army fed. That position then threatens Padua to draw Venice away from Grand Duke Charles and his push. So long as he safely establishes his siege of Udine, then we have met our obligation in this war."

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"That is the political goal," he said, not a question.

So she did not answer it. "It has long seemed strange to me that, for all the great generals of history, Caesar is one of few who come to mind from Ancient Rome. We think not of those men who broke Hannibal and Carthage, nor of who broke Pyrrhus. Yet one could hardly think that such a glorious empire rose under poor leadership of men."

There she stopped, far short of any particular point, close enough that he could glimpse it. Little by little, he took apart her every word. Knew that, as always, she had left enough for him to find some great wisdom.

Until finally it clicked, a thin smile stretching wide his mouth. "I forget if we have spoken before of consuls."

"In no particular detail, at least that I can recall," she said.

"It is… a son of a good family would first serve in the cavalry as required, then as… a tribune. The other, what to call it… ranks? They escape me. Regardless, it is that, before one could lead a Roman army, one had spent at least a decade in the army," he said, his hands gesturing whenever his words failed him.

She gave a titter, hand over her mouth. "How interesting."

His smile drew thinner still. "Indeed, it is as if many Roman generals had learned how to lead well through observation, practice, and mentorship."

Loud silence followed, in which he meditated over the conversation again.

"When I consider darling's plan, it seems to resemble what Sigismund does," he softly said.

She gave no indication she had heard, her gaze still settled on something distant, her smile gentle, yet he did not repeat himself nor did he rush her. His patience was a virtue soon rewarded.

"One would think it easy to imitate another to do something well, but one need be careful. It is worse to quench a blade in water than not at all. In this case, what King Sigismund can do for one reason, we can do for another. While King Sigismund seeks victories on the open fields, we would use our own advantages."

As plainly as she had spoken, he could not help but hear her words as riddles, always as riddles. That there was always more to what she said so long as he listened close enough.

On this topic, the two had already discussed much. She did not commit to something as serious as war lightly and thus he had learnt of all her preparations. Of all things, she had even built a road for the army to march along—to pull the cannons along. Less audacious, she had built a few granaries, notably one by the Imperial border and one in his personal lands, which meant the army would not need to bring as many supplies up the mountain.

After that last thought, he stilled. "Our plan is to, in effect, become the defenders, thus it is important we should have enough food to hold out against any sieges until support arrives. Food such as grain, which keeps better than flour and bread."

"It is convenient, then, that the army has a stockpile of quern stones."

There was no sly smile, no bravado in her tone. Those words were spoken as if what she had said held little importance. Those words which, he now realised, held immense importance.

"Not just querns, but axes for cutting down trees and chopping wood, shovels and picks for digging," he whispered, whispered loud.

Things he knew of, had been very aware of during the Greek campaign—had been more than thankful for. Only now, though, did he realise that such things had not simply been bought. Fruit trees planted a decade ago and lovingly nurtured.

In the end, she did not reply, he did not expect a reply. Many things did not need to be spoken. He had found that she understood silence better than most, never eager to speak without purpose. Something which he had come to appreciate. Silence, it was no wonder so many feared it, that it left one with their own thoughts.

"Still, it does… bemuse me that the Venetians simply allowed you to build such a road through their territory," he said, hand on his chin. "You did say you rather made a ruckus on your travels."

"Truly?" she asked, and the tone made him look over, found her looking at him with her head tilted to the side. Something which he was sure she did to infuriate him, thus why he never reacted to it. "Has dear forgotten that he and father eagerly welcomed my road? Grand Duke Charles too."

He let out a long breath through his nose, a kind of itchiness begging him to look away as she dug deeper still. "Darling did not threaten to bring an army the next time," he said lightly.

"No, I suppose I did not—I simply did."

Another simple sentence that gave him a sudden pause, because she had, indeed, used those very roads to bring an army through his father's land, through Charles' land. A truth which only intensified his interest in her answer. "You did, but that is not an answer to my question."

"Did dear ask a question? I suppose so," she said, her hands coming together as she spoke, ended clasped. "As it often is, I cannot give a brief answer. Perhaps the most fundamental answer is that, if they used force to stop me, I would have standing to petition the King for redress. Regardless of what that would result in, merchants are notoriously averse to risk and would not lightly invite the Empire's retribution."

Although he did not know if she had more to say, he spoke up in her pause. "Darling is not a bully."

Her lips curled, expression almost bashful. "Dear knows me well. That is, I spoke of why the Doge and such would be reluctant to intervene. Of those of the land, I cannot rightly say, that these are matters I had delegated to others. However, it is a simple truth that a good road is widely appreciated. And, for those not appreciative, there is money."

Slow and steady, he ground down those words into thoughts. By his reckoning, townspeople and farmers liked roads as it was not easy to pull carts down dirt roads.

At the same time, he felt more than understood that, in a sense, building roads was part of her act. The Ancient Romans had built many a sturdy road still used, how people praised them, therein some unspoken acknowledgement of superiority. That no one else could possibly make roads as good.

Except for her.

It almost scared him how well those thoughts cohered, almost. A reminder that she truly had been groomed to become a queen. Considering the breadth and depth of her actions, it only became more striking how focused they were on proving herself a worthy ruler.

There he struggled with some greater nuance still. This kind of thing, it had a notion of a snake biting its own tail. He could ask if she was worthy because she did worthwhile things, or if she did worthwhile things because she was worthy. Even then, regardless of what value answering that brought, it still missed the nuance he felt.

The self-justifying worth of a ruler to their subject.

It was, in many ways, a foreign concept to him, his "ruler" someone he had clashed with his whole life. At the same time, it made little sense to ask someone if they liked their particular ruler—whether that was their baron or king. Never mind that there was only one answer to that question, it wasn't like anything could be done otherwise.

That she still acted "worthy" thus gave him pause. Of course, he understood that she still needed to treat her vassals well, and a good Christian naturally did not mistreat peasants. What she did went beyond that, far beyond.

He knew intimately that part of the answer was simply that she believed people were good. That she wished to help them do more good, even if that good was as simple as a farmer bringing more grain to market, which meant less people going hungry.

However, more recently, he had begun to grasp the delicacy with which she held her own reputation. How her vassals trusted her, how other rulers sought her for help. With the peasants, too, there was… an eagerness. That many of those who had gone with him to Greece had dug those ditches in which her sturdy roads were built.

Because of course her grand building works also prepared her army to dig ditches.

Then there was him, thinking himself so clever to suggest these little games. He could have laughed. However, if he had time to laugh, then he had time to think—to build, like she had.

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