13 July 609
Iustinianus was woken by the sun on his face. He had slept in one of the many empty bunks in the city's barracks, with a dagger under his pillow in case Aurelianus had a change of heart.
He rose quickly and was in the streets of the city less than five minutes after he woke. They were deserted, covered in a thick layer of dust that hinted at a long period of neglect and decline. He followed the sound of a clanging hammer towards the city’s blacksmith, passing only and old hag chasing chickens along the way.
The smithy was in the crumbling ruins of a thermae huddled up against the corner of one of the city’s walls. Iustinianus walked in through one of the broken arches and followed the trail of smoke through the building. The sound of metal on metal rose as walked.
The smith himself was in the frigidarium, his forge hacked into the side of the pool and his back to the door. He stopped under the arch into the room, unsure of how to proceed. He waited until the blows stopped before faking a hacking cough to get the man’s attention.
“If Leontius wants swords he needs to get me the iron for it.”
The voice was gnarled and dry, speaking of age and weariness. “I’m not from Leontius.”
“Yes, you are. You’re wearing officer’s garb, and he’s the garrison commander.”
“How can you-“
“Look up.”
He did so. A small square sheet of polished metal was embedded in the domed ceiling opposite the door.
“How did you…”
“I didn’t. It was there when I was an apprentice, when my master was an apprentice and when his master was an apprentice and so on.” The smith stared up at it. “I climbed up there ‘bout thirty years ago and there was an inscription on it that said “ALEXANDER AVGVSTVS. Don’t know which.” He shook his head and looked back to his tools. “Like I said. Leontius wants swords, he needs to get me the iron for ‘em.”
“I’m Leontius’ superior, actually.”
The smith still didn’t turn around, just shrugged. “And?”
“I don’t need swords, I need you to make more of these.” He pulled a pear-shaped ring about as large as his spread hand from his pocket and holds it so that it could be seen by the mirror.
“Come here.” There was an annoyed tone to the smith’s voice. “I can’t see something that small from here.”
Iustinianus climbed down into the dried pool, stopping next to the man. He held it out again. The smith snatched it from him and held it up to a missing chunk of the ceiling. He glanced over at Iustinianus.
“How many of these do you want?”
He thought back to the previous night’s conversation with the kentarches.
“Eighty.”
The smith nodded, then grabbed a wooden box filled with metal scrap.
“This is all I have. I can make three of them.”
He grimaced. “That’s all?”
“That’s all. Now, if you could get me some iron I could make as many as you need.”
“Iron…”
The smith handed it back to him. “If you’re willing, there’s an old mine about ten miles to the west.”
Ten miles. Across Visigothic land. Hell no.
“I’ll see what I can get.” he said, walking away.