The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 197 Rescue

It felt like a century had passed, no, it really was a century.

At a moment when he couldn't tell whether it was day or night, Lyon suddenly felt a dull thud from the ship's hull.

We've reached the shore.

Lyon's heart clenched suddenly.

Based on the overheard conversation, this place should be somewhere on the southern coast of Serbia, and they will be escorting him to Hungary by land.

Footsteps came from the deck, unlike the usual slow pace of the two sailors; they were dense and hurried, indicating at least a dozen people.

Lyon held his breath.

"Bang!"

The sound of the hatch being violently flung open came from the upper deck, followed by Stephen's seemingly calm shout in Slavic language with a Greek accent: "I'm here to do business! What do you want! These goods all have legal documentation!"

The words came to an abrupt halt.

Instead, there was the metallic scraping of swords being drawn, the hum of bowstrings vibrating as crossbows were fired, and Stephen's short, startled cry: "Wait! We can talk about..."

"Pfft!"

Lyon knew that sound all too well; it was the dull thud of a sharp blade piercing flesh.

A brief silence fell over the deck, then chaos erupted.

The sailors' mournful shouts rang out in unison.

Who were the attackers? Pirates? Serbian local lords? Or the Imperial Navy?

If it's the latter, he might still have a chance.

The sound disappeared within minutes.

Only the sound of sails flapping and waves lapping against the hull remained on the deck.

Then, the sound of heavy boots stepping on the wooden planks came from the upper deck, as people walked down the stairs and approached the lower deck.

Lyon's heart began to pound.

He closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious.

The hatch was kicked open, and light poured in.

It was dusk, and the orange-red sunlight slanted in through the hatch, casting long shadows on the floor.

Several figures were blocking the doorway, their faces obscured by the backlight.

"Search and see if there are any survivors," one of them said in a booming Slavic voice.

"It's all your fault for being too rough! That guy who speaks our language is a coward; if you scare him a little, he'll spill everything!"

"Who would have thought this guy's martial arts skills were so poor? I just wanted to test him out, and he ended up dead!"

The footsteps dispersed; some people were rummaging through cargo boxes in the next compartment, while others were checking corners.

Lyon sensed someone approaching him, and he held his breath, his muscles tensing.

"There's a sack here!" the loud-voiced man shouted. "It's moving!"

Several pairs of boots gathered around.

Lyon felt someone kick him lightly, as if testing him.

"What's in there? Grain?"

"Open it and take a look."

The rope at the top of the burlap sack was cut, and the rough fabric was violently torn apart.

Leon's eyes remained closed, maintaining his unconscious posture, but the twilight light was already filtering through his eyelids, and he could sense that at least three people were surrounding him.

"Is it a child?" the man asked in surprise.

A rough hand gripped his chin and lifted his face.

Leon then let his head tilt limply to one side, continuing to feign unconsciousness.

"Well dressed," another deep voice said. "Silk lining, the embroidery on this robe—this is no ordinary garment."

"Wake him up and ask him first."

Someone slapped his face, quite hard.

Leon knew he couldn't keep up the act any longer. He slowly opened his eyes, pretending to be dazed from just waking up, and his blurry vision swept over the three people surrounding him.

The leader was a middle-aged man, around forty years old, with a thick mustache, a leather eye patch over his left eye, and a sharp gray-blue eye on his right.

He wasn't particularly tall, but he had broad shoulders and wore worn-out leather armor covered by a faded dark white short robe.

Behind him stood two burly men, each holding a short, blood-dripping axe.

What the three had in common was that their clothes were simple, but their weapons were well-maintained, and they all had a taut, soldierly posture.

They don't look like regular troops; they're more like armed personnel who spend a lot of time in the field.

"Can you speak human language?" the one-eyed middle-aged man asked in Slavic, his tone not particularly fierce, but his eyes were scrutinizing.

Leon blinked but didn't answer immediately.

He was thinking quickly: these people killed Stephen and the sailors, so they were clearly not a group.

But are they enemies or friends?

If he were to directly reveal his identity as the Crown Prince of Jerusalem, he could be sold as a valuable hostage to any party in this chaotic Balkans—Hungary, Serbia, or even the Venetians.

I need to create a fake identity for myself.

Lyon raised his finger and pointed to a water sac at the waist of a burly man.

The one-eyed middle-aged man paused for a moment, then gestured with his chin to his subordinates behind him.

The latter took a leather water bag from his waist and handed it over.

Lyon took it and sipped a few mouthfuls.

After finishing his water, he wiped his mouth and said in clear Slavic, "Thank you."

The one-eyed middle-aged man's single eye widened noticeably, and his two subordinates behind him also showed expressions of surprise.

"You can speak our language?" the one-eyed leader asked. "Your accent—it's a bit strange, but you speak it well."

"My mother is Serbian," Lyon said fabricatedly. "When I was a child, I lived in Laška for a while."

""

In fact, he grew up in Mercia, a country inhabited by many Slavs, and Slavic was one of the subjects he learned from a young age.

"Rashka?" The one-eyed middle-aged man said thoughtfully. "That's Stefan Nimanya's territory."

"Were you kidnapped by those human traffickers?" the one-eyed leader continued, pointing towards the nail plate, where the bodies of Stephen and several sailors lay.

Lyon followed his gaze.

Stephen lay on his back in a pool of blood, a gruesome penetrating wound in his chest, his eyes still open, staring blankly at the sky.

The sailors also died tragically; some had their throats pierced by crossbow bolts, while others had their skulls split open by axes.

Some open wooden crates were scattered on the deck, revealing woolen fabrics and pottery inside.

It turned out they had disguised themselves as a merchant ship.

A plan quickly took shape in Lyon's mind.

"I don't know—" He lowered his head, feigning a mixture of fear and confusion. "We encountered a storm, the ship sank—I clung to a plank and drifted for a long time before these people rescued me. At first, they said they would take me home, but then they tied me up and locked me up here—"

His voice began to tremble halfway through his sentence.

The one-eyed leader stared at him for a long time, then crouched down, looking Leon in the eye: "Who are your parents? Where do you live?"

"My father is—Robert di Visconti, who is currently in Constantinople on business." He continued rambling, "I am the youngest in the family, and my name is Henry. We were supposed to go from Venice to Constantinople to find him, but the fleet encountered a storm in the Sea of ​​Proponentia—"

He paused, his voice choked with emotion: "My mother—she boarded the ship with me, but I never saw her again—"

"Lombard merchants—" the one-eyed leader murmured, standing up and saying to his two men, "Did you hear that? This child's home was destroyed in a shipwreck, and he was picked up by human traffickers who were going to sell him. Those dead men," he kicked Stephen's corpse with the tip of his boot, "aren't merchants, they're scavengers who specialize in scavenging shipwrecked people along the coast. I've seen those kinds of people; after a storm, they wander around the beach, rescue rich people's children who have fallen into the water, and then extort ransom or sell them outright."

The subordinate frowned: "But the cargo on their ship—"

"Disguise." The one-eyed leader snorted. "A real merchant ship wouldn't have all young men on board. There would be at least a few veterans or apprentices. Look at these people," he pointed to the corpses, "they're all in their thirties or forties, with calluses on their hands, but none of them are calluses from pulling ropes or carrying cargo all year round. They're all calluses from wielding swords."

Lyon was secretly alarmed.

This one-eyed leader had a keen eye for observation and seemed to be very familiar with the underworld activities along the coast.

"So what do we do now?" another subordinate asked. "Take him back to camp?"

The one-eyed leader glanced at Lyon, then at the darkening sky, and sighed. "We can't just leave him here. Take him back first, let the old ladies take care of him. Once we've finished our business, we'll figure out how to send him back to Lombardy."

"Lombardy is so far away—" the subordinate hesitated, "We don't even have many decent ships."

"Then let's keep him for now," the one-eyed leader said without room for argument. "It's just one more mouth to feed; we can afford it. This child speaks politely and dresses well, so he must be well-educated. Having him take care of the old ladies will be of some use."

He turned to Lyon, his tone softening slightly: "Kid, you understand? We're not bad guys, but we're not philanthropists either. You'll have to work to eat. We have a few elderly widows who've lost their grandchildren and need someone to take care of them. You can stay with them, and we'll provide food. Once we—uh, defeat the bad guys—we'll figure out a way to send you home. How about that?"

""