"Hey, Vito, what the hell is young master Lysaro doing on the training field?" Old Tom frowned as he watched Lysaro, dressed in plain training clothes, standing beside Tiberius and sweating through the same physical drills as everyone else.
"You really don't know?" Vito pulled Old Tom aside with a grin. "Word is that rich kid Mario Ferrero publicly roasted him in a salon a few days ago. Called him a weakling who'd never even stepped foot inside a proper mercenary camp, said he couldn't swing a sword to save his life, and that his 'soldiers' were probably just actors paid to make him look good. Apparently it was brutal."
Vito switched back to his usual crude drawl and chuckled. "Our young master's face turned green on the spot. Went home, stewed on it, got more and more pissed, then came straight to Tiberius and said he wants to train with his own men. He's dead set on slapping Mario's face so hard the bastard's head spins."
"Tch, the little lord actually took it seriously?" Old Tom snorted. "Mario Ferrero? Who the fuck is he? I heard he hired a bunch of 'packaging experts' and 'quick-training' mercenary outfits, plus some arena thugs and street toughs who know how to look scary. His company might look shiny, but throw it on a real battlefield and—hah!"
Old Tom jabbed a thumb at the long spears nearby.
"One good thrust from my boys and that whole pretty formation collapses!"
To him, these noble brats' little rivalries and "tournaments" were just children playing at war. Getting all worked up over a few insults, then rushing out to experience the real grind of a sellsword's life just to save face? Fucking ridiculous.
Vito, however, was more relaxed. He clapped Old Tom on the shoulder. "Who cares? Our paymaster wants to eat the same dirt as his men—it's not hurting us. At least he's not just playing around. Having the young master sweating with the troops makes it a lot easier when we need more gold or better gear later."
"You've got a point," Old Tom muttered. "Still… Uncle Jules works for the father, and now the kid works for the son. No wonder the whole city's saying the White Company is basically House Rogare's private army!"
---
"By the way, Tiberius, there's something I need to tell you." After training one day, Vito pulled Tiberius aside.
"What is it, Vito?" Tiberius frowned.
"Well… it's about the food and coin you've been handing out to the slave soldiers every Sunday."
"Yeah? Too much?" Tiberius's frown deepened. "No, it's not. They're training here instead of working the fields, but they still have families to feed. If we don't give them rations, who will? We can't let their wives and kids starve. That expense stays—cutting it would be suicide."
"No, it's not that." Vito scratched his head. "At first we couldn't recruit any freeborn light infantry seeds—hunters, foresters, woodcutters, fishermen—from the estate and surrounding areas, remember? But lately people have been asking about it."
"Not one or two—several families. All good hunters or strong, terrain-savvy woodsmen. They've been quietly approaching the stewards we left at the estate, or even stopping our supply wagons on the road, asking… asking if the Lightning Company is still recruiting. What the pay and conditions are like. Whether they can send their half-grown sons—or themselves—to eat army bread."
"So our Sunday supply wagons are working better than all the smooth-talking we did at the start," Tiberius said. "They don't believe promises. They believe what they see with their own eyes."
Perfect. My plan is paying off, Tiberius thought with quiet satisfaction.
Every Sunday he made sure the entire Lightning Company lined up in the open field to receive their rations publicly, sometimes even "escorting" the men home with wagons loaded with grain. All of it was deliberate.
He wanted everyone to see: follow Tiberius Mord, and your family eats well—meat, oil, bread, rice.
Vito continued, "Now the freeborn see their neighbors—who used to be dirt-poor and sold themselves into slavery for debt—coming home every week with heavy sacks of grain and jingling coppers. Their kids and wives have color in their cheeks again, and they get meat and oil regularly. How could they not be tempted? Steady food for the whole family is more real to them than any vague promise of battlefield loot or wages."
"I understand, Vito." Tiberius's expression stayed calm, no visible excitement. "This is good news. Make a list of everyone who's asked. Screen them carefully. Remember—quality over quantity. We want future backbone material, not lazy bastards looking for an easy meal or a place to slack off."
---
After several days of high-intensity, targeted training, the skepticism and contempt in Old Tom's sharp old eyes had completely vanished, replaced by genuine approval.
At the end of one session he pulled Tiberius and Vito aside under a dead tree at the edge of the field, his weathered face showing clear satisfaction.
"Listen up, kid," Old Tom said bluntly, pointing a thick finger at the spear companies practicing formation and thrusts. "Your hundred-and-fifty men have a solid foundation. Damn solid! Discipline, obedience, basic formation and thrusting drills—you've got them looking like actual soldiers. I've been drilling them myself these past few days, and they're starting to feel like troops."
He suddenly switched tone, voice turning iron-hard and decisive. "Since they're this far along, I'm not sticking to the slow, safe plan anymore. They've got the basics down. Now it's time for the real thing. Tiberius, go tell your uncle Jules I need to borrow Red-Hair Garvin's and Stable Boy Leon's cavalry troops in a few days!"
Old Tom's face split into a near-feral grin.
"I'm going to use real cavalry to train these rookies! Let them feel what a thundering, earth-shaking heavy charge actually feels like!" He saw Tiberius's face tighten at the mention of possible casualties and laughed. "Don't worry, you little shit—I'm not going to let them charge full-speed into spear points. That's murder, not training. But…"
His voice grew heavier. "The pressure when horses come thundering in close, the ground shaking under the hooves, that unstoppable momentum of charging cavalry—they have to feel it in their bones! A spearman who only knows how to poke at infantry feet is third-rate garbage. I could train farm slaves for a few weeks and get the same result. Only men who can stand firm against that terror and keep their spears steady deserve to be called first-rate!"
Then he whipped around to Vito, voice like a whip crack.
"Vito, bring me your best crossbowmen. Remove the arrowheads, wrap the shafts in rags. I want them shooting from a hundred paces away in volleys. These rookies need to learn what it feels like when real archers or crossbowmen pin them down. If they can't change formation fast enough, a few volleys will keep their heads so low they can't even look up!"
Old Tom finished with the cold, ruthless wisdom of a veteran who'd seen too many green boys die:
"I want them to know what a real marksman is—someone who can put a shaft through the gap in your shield and into your throat from a hundred paces. I want them to know what 'sweeping a whole section clean' means—after a few volleys, barely anyone in your formation is still standing. This is psychological training. If we don't drill it now, the enemy will teach it on the real battlefield… and on the real battlefield, what flows isn't sweat. It's blood."