The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 198 "One-Eyed" Dragutin

Lyon quickly weighed the options.

At present, this seems to be the best option.

Following this group was at least safe for the time being, and they didn't seem to have any ill intentions towards him.

He needed time to figure out where he was, to find a way to contact the people in the Empire or Jerusalem, or at least to find out the whereabouts of Henry and his men.

"I agree." He nodded, then feigned hesitation and asked, "But who are these 'bad guys' you're talking about? And where exactly are we?"

The two burly men exchanged a glance, one of them glaring fiercely at Leon: "Why is the kid asking so many questions?"

The one-eyed leader turned around and glared at them.

"You said you're educated?" he then asked Lyon.

"I—I have studied reading and writing, can do arithmetic, and know a little Latin and Greek," Lyon replied cautiously.

The one-eyed leader nodded: "Then you are qualified to know. This place we are in is Bar Port, which belongs to the Principality of Zeta. Some people also call it Dukria. Two months ago, Rupanstefan Nimanya of Lashka launched an invasion of Zeta, advancing with unstoppable momentum, and finally captured Ribnica, the capital of our Rupanmihailo, and imprisoned him."

He paused, a sharp glint in his single eye: "We are the Zeta Volunteer Army. Our members include retired veterans, reformed bandits, and free citizens who refuse to bow to Stefan. We will fight for Zeta's freedom and independence. Now that we control Bar Harbor, we will prepare to attack Ribnica, which is occupied by Stefan."

Lyon processed this information.

Principality of Zeta?

A small Serbian principality located on the eastern coast of the Adriatic Sea, it has long oscillated between the Empire, Hungary, and Laška.

Stefan Nimanja is the Grand Prince of Laška and is working to unify the Serbian tribes; Zeta is clearly his next target.

"So you are—the rebels?" Leon asked.

"You could say that," the one-eyed leader said with a wry smile. "But we have fewer than five hundred men, and Stefan has left a thousand garrison in Ribnica. So," he patted Leon's shoulder hard, "if we're all unfortunate enough to die, you might really have to stay here for the rest of your life taking care of even more old women. Haha!"

Lyon could tell that there was little joy in the laughter, but rather bitterness and resolve.

Lyon remained silent for a moment.

Without any troops or loyal followers, he found himself embroiled in a local conflict in the Balkans, which proved to be more troublesome than he had anticipated.

"I understood everything." He raised his head and looked directly at the one-eyed leader. "But you still haven't told me your name."

The one-eyed middle-aged man paused for a moment, then grinned, his mustache swaying to both sides.

“Good question,” he said. “My name is Dragutin Dmitrievich, but people in the underworld call me One-Eyed. I served the Roman Empire for over a decade before returning to Zeta to farm. Now,” he patted the sword at his waist, “I’m the commander of an army of less than five hundred men. These two lads,” he gestured to two burly men behind him, “the older one is Mikesh, and the younger-looking one is Kozlek. The three of us are now the temporary owners of this ship.”

Dragutin Dimitrievich.

Lyon silently memorized the name.

"My name is Henry," Lyon repeated his pseudonym, "Henry di Visconti."

"Alright, Henry, kid." Dragutin extended his hand. "Welcome to the Zeta Volunteer Army, even if you're just a logistics guy. Now, help us search this ship and see if there's anything valuable left. We need everything we can exchange for weapons and food."

Lyon obediently followed Dragutin and the other two on the ship to search.

They found a dozen or so chests of wool and linen, some pottery, several barrels of salted fish, and a small chest of silver coins, not many, about two hundred, mainly imperial Nomisma and Venetian Grosso.

In the captain's cabin, Dragutin pulled out a roll of parchment documents from a hidden compartment.

"This is—" He unfolded the parchment, squinted his one eye to examine it closely, "Greek. Kid, you say you understand Greek?"

""

Lyon leaned closer.

The parchment contained documents written in an elegant Roman imperial bureaucratic style and stamped with the seal of the Governor-General of Nicaea.

The document concerns a passage permit for a merchant ship named "Dolphin" to travel from the port of Kizicus to the port of Jerissos, with the owner registered as "Stéphanos Hagio Cristoferrites".

The document is dated July 20, 1183 AD.

At the bottom of the document was a note added in different inks, the handwriting illegible: "Transfer to land at Bar Port; the cargo has been arranged for reception. Hungary is willing to pay double to ensure the target's survival."

Lyon's heart began to pound.

This document confirms that Stephen was indeed ordered to kidnap him, and that the location was Hungary.

However, the phrase "the cargo has been arranged for reception" implies that someone should be there to meet Stephen in Bar Harbor.

Where are those people now? Do they know that the ship has arrived?

"What did it say?" Dragutin asked.

Lyon quickly fabricated part of the truth: "This is a travel document that permits the ship to travel from the Imperial port of Kizicus to the port of Yelisos. The ship's owner is Stefanos, the dead man outside." He pointed to Stephen's corpse, "But there's a line below that says—the cargo must be unloaded at the port of Bar, where a buyer will meet it."

Dragotin frowned. "A buyer's accomplice? An accomplice of the human traffickers?"

He walked to the cabin door and looked towards the port.

Dusk had fallen in Bar Harbor, and only a few lights remained in the harbor area, mostly oil lamps from fishermen's homes.

The dock was deserted, which is why they were able to easily seize the ship. Stephen clearly hadn't expected to be attacked at his own rendezvous point.

"Maybe our backup hasn't arrived yet, or maybe they've seen something's wrong and gone into hiding," Mikesh said. "Boss, we need to get out of here right now. What if they have accomplices in the port—"

"Yes." Dragutin nodded. "Kozlek, take a few men and unload the cargo from the ship, as much as you can. Mikesh, clean the deck, throw the bodies into the sea, and search the valuables first. Henry, come with me, I'll take you to see the old ladies."

Lyon followed Delacourtin off the ship.

Bar Harbour is a small natural harbor with dozens of stone and wood houses scattered along its shore, most of which are dilapidated.

The port area has only two simple wooden docks, where six or seven small boats are moored at the moment, mostly fishing boats, with only two slightly larger sailboats.

A dozen armed men were busy near the dock, some unloading cargo from the ship and others standing guard.

Lyon roughly estimated that Deragutin had about thirty men under his command, whose equipment varied greatly.

Some wore simple leather armor, while others wore only cloth. Their weapons were also varied, including longswords, short axes, spears, and even pitchforks made from farm tools.

But everyone's movements were swift and orderly, clearly indicating they were not a mob.

"Are these all volunteers?" Lyon asked.

“A portion,” Dragutin said. “We have about a hundred men in Bar Harbor, and the rest are scattered in the surrounding villages and mountains. Stefan’s army is mainly stationed in the cities and fortresses, and has little control over the countryside, which is why we have survived this long.”

They walked into the port town along a dirt road.

The town was even more dilapidated than Lyon had expected; the roofs of many houses had collapsed, and there were traces of smoke and fire on the walls, clearly indicating that a battle had taken place.

There were hardly any young or middle-aged men on the street, only some elderly people, women, and children. They would nod to Dragutin when they saw him, their eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and worry.

"Stephan's army came once a month ago," Dragutin said as he walked, his tone as flat as if he were telling someone else's story. "They looted everything of value, killed a bunch of people who refused to surrender, and burned half the houses down. Now those who remain are either old people who can't leave or those who, like us, are determined to resist."

"How did you take back the port?" Leon asked.

"Stephen only left twenty men to guard this place." Dragutin smiled, a ruthless glint in his eyes. "We sneaked in at night, killed ten, and captured ten. The prisoners are currently being held in a warehouse on the other side of town, forced to repair the building every day. We'll decide what to do with them once they're finished."

They stopped in front of a relatively intact stone house.

The house has two floors, and three old women are sitting under the porch, mending clothes in the last rays of daylight.

When they saw Dragutin, they all put down what they were doing and stood up.

"Dragutin, you're back," said the oldest woman, who was at least seventy years old, with completely white hair but a straight back and clear eyes. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yes, Grandma," Dragutin said respectfully.

This respect was genuine, and Lyon could tell.

"We intercepted a suspicious ship and rescued a boy. His name is Henry, the son of a Lombard merchant. He was shipwrecked and kidnapped. I'd like him to stay here temporarily and help with some chores."

The three old women's self-illumination fell simultaneously on Lyon.

Their scrutiny was more thorough than Dragutin's; they looked her up and down several times.

"She's really pretty," said the second older woman, who was a little younger, about sixty years old, with deep wrinkles on her face. "But her clothes are too flashy; she needs to change them."

"His eyes are steady, unlike most children," commented the third elderly woman, who wore a headscarf and kept fiddling with a small wooden cross. "How old are you?"

"Eleven years old," Leon replied.

"Eleven years old—" the first grandmother murmured, "If my grandson were alive, he would be eleven years old this year."

The atmosphere suddenly became heavy.

Dragutin coughed. "So it's settled then? Henry will stay here temporarily, helping with things like fetching water, chopping wood, and tending the vegetable garden. We'll deliver the food on time."

"Okay." The old ladies nodded and waved to Lyon. "Child, come here and let us take a look."

Lyon walked over.

Grandma cupped his face in her rough hands and examined him carefully.

Her palms were warm, and there were traces of dirt under her fingernails, clearly showing that even at her age, she was still working.

"Where is your mother?" she suddenly asked.

Lyon's heart tightened, but he quickly composed himself: "Shipwreck—I don't know—"

The grandmothers were silent for a moment, then gently patted his cheek: "Poor child. This will be your home from now on, and the three of us old folks will take care of you. But you also have to work, understand? Here, those who don't work don't eat."

"I understand," Lyon said.

"Okay." The grandmothers turned to Dragutin. "You all go about your business, we'll take care of the children."

Dragutin nodded, then said to Lyon, "I'll come find you tomorrow morning and show you around. Get a good rest tonight."

He turned and left quickly, clearly having many things to take care of.

The three old women led Lyon into the house.

The first floor consists of a kitchen and living room, simply furnished but clean.

Several wooden crosses hung on the wall, a faint fire burned in the fireplace, and an iron pot hung above it, cooking something that smelled like a hodgepodge of wild vegetables.

"We live upstairs," the old lady said. "There's a small room upstairs that used to be my grandson's, but now it's yours."

Go wash your face and change your clothes first. This silk robe of yours is too conspicuous; it'll cause trouble.

She pulled a set of coarse cloth clothes from the closet. They were obviously old clothes that had been altered to be too small, but they were very clean. Leon took them.

Dinner consisted of bean and wild vegetable soup and a piece of black bread.

There was hardly any oil in the soup, and the bread was hard and rough. When Lyon took his first bite, he almost broke his teeth, and when he finally swallowed it, it was gritty in his throat.

At the dinner table, the three elderly women introduced themselves.

The oldest grandmother, seventy-three years old, had a husband and two sons who were employed by Emperor Manuel and died seven years earlier in the Battle of Milaeusephalon. The defeated Roman Empire couldn't even afford to pay their wages and pensions.

His grandson was killed by Stefan Nemanja's army a month earlier.

The other two grandmothers were widowed, and their sons went missing during a battle after joining the Volunteer Army.

"So we have no more worries," said the oldest woman, her tone flat, "except for waiting to see when Stefan Nemanja will die."

"He will die." Another grandmother held the cross to her chest. "God will not tolerate a tyrant forever."

Lyon ate quietly, listening attentively.

After the meal, the old lady took him upstairs.

She closed the door and left.

Lyon lay on the hard wooden bed, staring at the low ceiling.

Everything happened too fast. From the storm in the Proponentia Sea to being kidnapped by Stephen, and now being in a rebel stronghold on the Balkan coast, disguised as the young son of a Lombard merchant.

He needs to reorganize his thoughts.