After the Royal Palace, it was the most impressive residence in the city, but Theodotus, the richest merchant in Xanthos, had just commenced work on a villa that would make Peithon’s home pale in comparison. Admittedly, the new villa’s position, while high, was less desirable than Peithon’s, which was both close to the palace and loftily raised from the stench of the poor. But what chafed most of all was that it would block the view he was currently enjoying. He could see it now – already the foundations had been laid and workers scurried to and fro as they erected the walls. He would be forced to watch as the first story went up, and then the second. The most skilled artists from Phalesia would decorate the exterior and design elaborate gardens. Statues would catch his eye whenever he looked from this vantage. People would remark on the residence of Theodotus where they had previously talked about Peithon’s home.

Something the overseer said caught his attention.

‘—going to halt work. I need a hundred pieces of silver just to keep going for another week.’

He was discussing the new harbor wall. It was barely a few inches high and didn’t yet cover the length of the city’s shore. Nikolas, the king’s eldest son and heir, had pushed his father to erect it, but workers were expensive, as was stone.

Peithon turned to face the frowning overseer. ‘You will get your coin when I have it.’

‘Stopping work will set us back,’ the overseer persisted. ‘It takes time to assemble a crew and explain what needs doing to the team leaders.’

‘Then don’t stop work,’ Peithon stated, spreading his hands.

‘They are family men. They need to feed their children.’ The overseer changed tone, his voice now inquiring. ‘Perhaps, lord, you can provide some of your own silver, just until the king’s money arrives? I heard in the city that you’ve just paid a sizable sum for an extension to your villa . . .’

Peithon’s eyes narrowed. Heavyset but tall, he leaned forward and jutted a pudgy finger with a thick silver ring as he spoke to the overseer. ‘Who am I?’

The overseer stammered, remembering his station. ‘You are the king’s first adviser.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I am a master of stone.’

‘Well, I am master of stone, timber, food, wine, coin – the list goes on. There are many items that require my attention and that make demands on the treasury—’

Peithon’s speech was interrupted when he saw one of his servants leading a slim man with neatly combed hair to the balcony. Recognizing Alastor, the king’s chief steward, he decided to close the conversation.

‘Tell your men to keep working. They will get their money when the king is ready. If they decide to halt, I will inform the king, and he will make an appropriate response. Do you understand?’