The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 201 Honesty and Integrity

"Untie it," Dragutin said.

Kozlek stepped forward and cut the hemp rope with his dagger.

Leon struggled to sit up, his wrists and ankles covered in deep red marks from the straps, some of which were raw and bleeding.

Deragut crouched down, looking Lyon straight in the eye.

"You're not telling the truth," Dragutin said, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth. "Why did the Hungarians kill everyone they saw, yet they singled you out? They even brought a carriage specifically for this, and the way they bound you was like binding an important hostage. Who exactly are you?"

The surrounding volunteers all stopped what they were doing and looked over.

Dozens of eyes were fixed on Lyon, their gazes filled with suspicion, anger, and incomprehension.

Mikasz couldn't hold back any longer. He stepped forward, his voice trembling with excitement: "Although the Hungarians have been flirting with Stefan, they have never, ever directly interfered in disputes between us Serbs! This unprecedented surprise attack..."

"They massacred the entire village, sparing neither the elderly nor the children! Why? Because their target is you, isn't it? You're the one who ruined us!"

Kozlek roared, "How many people died in Bar Harbor? At least fifty! And those three old ladies, what did they do wrong? They just took in a child of unknown origin! And what happened? They died in their own homes!"

"Shut up!" Dragutin whirled around, glaring angrily at his two men with his one eye. "It's our incompetence! We failed to protect the port and failed to detect the Hungarians' movements in advance! What kind of ability is it to blame a child? What choice did he have?"

Can he order the Hungarians to kill us?

Mikesh and Kozlek gritted their teeth, lowered their heads, but their fists remained clenched.

Dragutin turned back and continued looking at Lyon.

His tone softened slightly, but remained stern: "But you must tell the truth. Now. Not that nonsense about being the son of a Lombard merchant. Tell me the truth. Who are you? Why did the Hungarians travel so far to capture you? And those people yesterday weren't just simple human traffickers, were they?"

Lyon looked into Deragutin's eyes and at the angry, weary faces of the volunteers around him.

He thought of the three old women, the residents of the port who were massacred, and the volunteer soldiers who tried to resist but had no chance.

Because of him. All these deaths are because of him.

Guilt weighed on his chest like a boulder, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Continue to conceal it? Cover it up with another lie?

No. He couldn't do it; at least not to those who risked their lives to protect him. He owed them the truth.

"I—" Leon began hesitantly, "My name isn't Henry."

Dragutin narrowed his one eye slightly.

"I am Lyon." He took a deep breath. "Lyon de Anjou, Crown Prince of Jerusalem, rightful heir to the throne of Jerusalem."

The surroundings were silent, and the volunteers looked at each other in bewilderment.

Most people looked bewildered.

They might have heard of the word "Jerusalem," and they might have a vague understanding of "crown prince," but the combination of these two words, placed in this Balkan night, and on the child in front of them, seemed so unreal.

But Dragutin understood.

His one eye widened, and the pupil contracted in the firelight.

He stared at Lyon, looking him up and down as if he were seeing the child for the first time.

Then, he slowly stood up and took a step back.

"Jerusalem—the Crown Prince?" His voice was filled with disbelief. "That Jerusalem? The Jerusalem of the Holy Land?"

Lyon nodded.

"Proof," Dragutin said, his tone becoming wary again. "Anything that can be proven."

Lyon gave a wry smile: "I lost everything in the shipwreck. My identity documents, my seal—they're with my bodyguard. If he's still alive."

"Guards?"

“A man named Henry. A Lombard, actually he was Henry di Visconti, Robert di Visconti’s adopted son. I borrowed his name.” Leon paused. “There were also five hundred crossbowmen and nearly six hundred other soldiers. We were on our way to Constantinople to aid the Roman Emperor, but we encountered a storm in the Sea of ​​Proponentia and our ships were separated. I was kidnapped by Stephen, the ship’s owner, who was actually the garrison commander of Nicaea. He was going to send me to Hungary to create a diplomatic incident.”

He explained the whole story as concisely as possible, from the Holy Land to Constantinople, from aiding the Roman Empire to the war on the Eastern Front, from Branas's ambitions to the trap of Nicaea.

When he mentioned "Andronica's old men," Dragutin frowned.

When he mentioned Stephen's full name, "Stephen Hagiocristoferritis," Dragutin muttered a Slavic swear word.

After he finished speaking, an even longer silence fell over the mountain path.

Mikesh and Kozlek looked bewildered.

They understood each word individually, but when put together, they couldn't understand anything at all.

The court intrigues of the Roman Empire, the succession to the throne in Jerusalem, the Hungarian conspiracy —

These mountains are so far from Zeta, like a story from another world.

But Dragutin understood.

"Ha." He chuckled and shook his head. "That fits my stereotype of that wretched Roman Empire. Always plotting, always betraying allies, always making simple things incredibly complicated."

He crouched down, looking Lyon in the eye again: "You say you're the Crown Prince of Jerusalem, the infamous Baldwin IV, the Leper King. Who are you to him?"

"He's my brother," Lyon said. "My brother in law, and the brother I acknowledge."

Dragutin's one eye lit up, and he slapped his thigh hard, making a loud cracking sound.

"Do you know?" His tone suddenly became excited. "I, One-Eyed Dragutin, have spent ten years in the border troops of the Roman Empire, seeing all sorts of kings, generals, and nobles. Who have I ever respected? Nobody! But there's one person I truly respect—your leper king. At sixteen, he went to the battlefield, leading a hundred knights to rout Saladin's 40,000-strong army—the Battle of Montgiza! My God, that's legendary!"

Lyon thought to himself: It's truly legendary, one hundred against forty thousand, it's become a fantasy story.

Dragutin grabbed Leon's shoulders and shook him violently: "You have to tell me! Tell me in detail! How did he do it?"

How to win with fewer troops? How to command a battle while suffering from illness? This journey won't be boring; you must tell me everything you know!

Lyon was dizzy from the shaking, but also felt a strange warmth.

On this Balkan mountain road, on a battlefield where a massacre had just ended, this Serbian veteran was most concerned about the details of the Battle of Montgisa.

“I can explain,” Lyon said, “but first—what do you mean by ‘along this way’? Where are we going?”

"Wait a minute, I haven't finished asking yet."

Dragutin looked at Lyon: "How did you learn to speak Slavic? Shouldn't a Jerusalem crown prince grow up in the Holy Land? Why do you speak our language?"