The Weight of Duty

The victory glow of the spring festival had long faded by the time the harvest moon rose over the Virellian Demesne. Cassius stood at his father's study window, watching workers load the last of the grain wagons by torchlight. The yield was visibly lighter than previous years, even to his untrained eye.

"Fifteen percent below projection in the western fields," Marcus reported from behind the massive oak desk, his voice carefully controlled. "Twenty percent in the north section. The late spring rains simply didn't come."

Baron Tiberius Virellius looked older than his years in the lamplight, ledgers and correspondence spread before him like battle plans. "And the tax assessment remains unchanged?"

"I'm afraid so, Father. I petitioned for relief, but the Crown's needs..." Marcus trailed off, jaw tight. "We'll manage. We always do."

Cassius shifted uncomfortably. In the sparring circle, problems had clear solutions—adapt, overcome, victory. But these numbers on parchment seemed to mock such simple approaches. How did one outmaneuver drought? How did one feint against taxation?

"The Miller and Donner families," Tiberius continued, rubbing his temples. "You mentioned resolving their dispute?"

"Yes." A hint of pride crept into Marcus's voice. "A boundary stone had been moved—accidentally, both claimed. I had them split the contested strip and share the maintenance of the irrigation channel that runs through it. Neither family was entirely happy, but both accepted the compromise."

"Well done." Their father's praise was measured but genuine. "Now, about the merchant guild's offered rates for our surplus grain—what surplus we have..."

"Eight silver per bushel," Marcus said, then quickly added, "I negotiated up from seven-and-a-half."

Cassius couldn't help himself. "That seems low. In Magister Cato's economic histories, grain prices during shortage years—"

"This isn't a history lesson," Marcus snapped, colour rising in his cheeks. "This is reality. The guild knows we need immediate funds for the tax payment. They have leverage."

"But if we stored a portion and sold later—"

"With what storage? At what cost for guards and maintenance? While the tax collectors wait?" Marcus's voice grew heated. "Not everyone can solve problems with clever footwork, brother."

"Marcus." Tiberius's quiet word cut through the brewing argument. "Cassius. Both of you, sit."

They obeyed, Cassius taking the chair beside his brother. The leather creaked under their weight, a sound that seemed too loud in the tense silence.

"The burden of lordship," Tiberius began slowly, "is not in any single decision, but in the weight of all decisions combined. Each choice ripples outward. Store grain for better prices? Perhaps. But then we risk spoilage, theft, or royal displeasure for late tax payment. Sell now at poor rates? We ensure survival but sacrifice potential prosperity."

He looked at each son in turn. "Marcus understands this. He's spent two years learning the delicate balance required. Cassius, your mind is sharp, but theory and practice often diverge."

Cassius felt the rebuke, gentle as it was. He studied the ledgers again, trying to see beyond the numbers to the reality they represented. Families depending on House Virellius. Traditions and obligations stretching back generations. Then, something caught his eye.

"The eastern fields," he said suddenly. "Their yield was only down five percent?"

Marcus glanced at the records. "Yes. They border the old forest stream. Better water retention in the soil, Father thinks."

"What if..." Cassius leaned forward, mind racing. "In the military histories, Tribune Gallus faced similar problems during the Drought of the Three Suns. He implemented a rotation system—not just crops, but water usage. Channels that alternated active and fallow periods, allowing the water table to partially recover."

"More history lessons?" Marcus muttered.

But Cassius pressed on. "The eastern fields prove it—proximity to water isn't just about irrigation, it's about soil moisture retention. If we dug shallow retention pools at key points, let them fill during winter, then released the water gradually through the growing season..."

"Expensive," Marcus countered immediately. "Labor costs alone—"

"Use the corvée labor owed by tenant farmers during the winter months. They're required to provide twenty days of service anyway. Instead of road repair, direct it toward water management."

"And if it fails? If your pools don't fill, or breed mosquitoes, or—"

"Then we've lost some labor hours." Cassius met his brother's glare steadily. "But if it works, even partially, the increased yield would more than offset—"

"Enough." Tiberius raised a hand. Both brothers fell silent. Their father studied Cassius for a long moment, fingers steepled. "Your idea has merit. Also risk. Marcus, your caution is wise. Also potentially limiting."

He stood, moving to a map of the demesne mounted on the wall. "Here," he pointed to a section of the eastern fields. "Twenty acres. Far enough from the main production to limit risk, close enough to the stream to test the concept. We trial it this winter."

"Father—" Marcus began.

"A small gamble, Marcus. If it fails, the loss is manageable. If it succeeds..." He turned back to his sons. "Leadership sometimes requires the wisdom to try new approaches, even when tradition counsels against it."

Marcus's expression was stone. "As you command, Father."

They concluded the evening's business in strained politeness. Marcus reported on collected rents, outstanding debts, and preparations for the tax collector's arrival. Cassius mostly listened, trying to understand the intricate web of obligations and relationships that kept the demesne functioning.

As they prepared to leave, Tiberius called Cassius back. "A moment."

Marcus hesitated at the door, then departed with stiff shoulders. When they were alone, Tiberius moved to the window, gazing out at his lands.

"Your brother is a good man," he said quietly. "Dutiful. Careful. Everything a firstborn heir should be. But he lives in fear—fear of failure, fear of disappointing me, fear of your shadow."

"I've never tried to—"

"I know." Tiberius turned. "But you exist. Brilliant, innovative, touched by the purple eyes that mark you as different. Every success you achieve, whether in the sparring circle or with water management proposals, highlights what he is not."

Cassius felt the weight of that truth. "What would you have me do? Fail deliberately?"

"No. But be mindful. Support him where you can. Your idea tonight—it could have been presented differently. 'I read something that might help' rather than 'Here's the solution.'"

"Politics, even within family?"

"Especially within family." Tiberius's smile was sad. "Now go. Your mother worries when these sessions run late."

Cassius found Livia in her solar, working by candlelight on the household accounts. She looked up as he entered, setting aside her embroidery—though he noticed it was actually a carefully coded ledger, tracking stores and supplies in neat stitches.

"How bad?" she asked simply.

"Manageable. Father says."

"Fathers always say that." She patted the bench beside her. "Sit. You look troubled."

He sat, suddenly feeling younger than his thirteen years. "I tried to help. With the shortage problem. But I think I made things worse with Marcus."

"Ah." Livia's hands found his, warm and steady. "Your brother carries a heavy burden. Heir to a minor house in an age that increasingly values magical power over traditional authority. And then there's you."

"I'm not trying to undermine him."

"No. You're trying to be yourself. But sometimes, my clever son, being yourself means being aware of how your light casts shadows."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Livia squeezed his hands. "Your water management idea—will it work?"

"I think so. The historical precedent is sound, and the eastern fields prove the principle."

"Then you've done a good thing. How you handle the success, should it come—that will be the true test."

Cassius left his mother's solar with much to consider. He paused outside Marcus's room, hearing the scratch of quill on parchment within. His brother was still working, still carrying the weight of heir's duty.

Tomorrow, Cassius decided, he would ask Marcus to teach him about tax codes. Not because he needed to know—Magister Cato had covered the basics—but because Marcus needed to be the teacher sometimes. Needed to be seen as the expert he was becoming.

Innovation and tradition. Cleverness and wisdom. Perhaps they needn't be enemies after all.

He made his way to his own chambers, where Tribune Marcus Virellius's journals waited. But tonight, he set them aside and instead pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. By lamplight, he began sketching water retention pools, calculating volumes and flow rates.

If his idea was going to work, it needed to be more than clever. It needed to be practical, sustainable, and above all, successful. For the demesne. For his father. And yes, even for Marcus.