The Royal Host's occupation of Aracina was drawing to a close, but its impact would linger on like a good dream —in both the rutted roads trampled by countless boots and the heavier purses of merchants and shop owners who had profited handsomely from their stay.
The city had welcomed them not just with relief, but with the desperate, wine-soaked gratitude of people who had stared annihilation in the face and been spared.
When Alpheo's banners had first appeared on the horizon, the citizens had poured into the streets, offering their thanks, kissing the hands of soldiers, and as for their daughters attracting their attentions.
The alternative—a sacked city, its streets running red, its women dragged away in chains—had been too terrible to contemplate. Aracina had been saved, and salvation, as it turned out, was excellent for business.
