The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 202 Dragutin's Plan

Lyon hesitated for a moment, but decided to continue telling the truth.

“I grew up in the Mercian military district of the Empire,” he said. “My maternal grandfather was the governor of the Mercia, Joannis Komnen. He only returned to Jerusalem a few years ago.”

Silence fell once again.

This time, even Dragutin was stunned.

Mikesh and Kozlek behind him stared wide-eyed, their mouths agape, as if they had heard the most incredible thing in the world.

"Komnin—" Dragutin murmured, "Royal blood? You're a grandson of the Komnin family?"

Lyon nodded.

"My God." Dragutin rubbed his forehead, his single eye filled with an absurd smile. "The Crown Prince of Jerusalem, grandson of the Komnen dynasty, betrayed by a Roman general, kidnapped by the Hungarians, and finally fell into the hands of us Zeta bumpkins. This story is enough to write an epic."

He turned and shouted to the still-shocked volunteers, "Did you all hear that? This young master is not only the crown prince of Jerusalem, but also a descendant of the Komnen royal family of the Roman Empire! We, a bunch of peasants, have saved a real prince today!"

The volunteers looked at each other, then burst into low murmurs.

Dragutin turned back to look at Lyon, his tone becoming serious.

“Since you’ve told the truth, then I will tell you the truth too,” he said. “Lyon de Anjou: Listen, you owe us at least five favors.”

Lyon nodded: "I understand. The first time at the port, you saved me. The second time, you agreed to let me stay. The third time—"

His voice lowered: "Those who died because of me included three old women. This is the fourth time, now, that you have saved me from the Hungarians."

"But a fifth time?" Leon looked up, puzzled. "Where's the fifth time?"

"The fifth time was actually the first," Dragutin sneered. "Many years ago, long before you were even born, our Serbian lads—Zeta's, Laška's—have always been a vital source of manpower for the Roman Empire's heavy cavalry. We risked our lives, they paid us—a fair trade."

He paused, then continued, "Until the Battle of Milaeusefalon. Emperor Manuel led an army of 30,000 to attack the Turks, and our Zeta contributed nearly 30 or 40 heavy cavalrymen, all fine young men, the best knights. And what was the result? A crushing defeat, tens of thousands dead and wounded, and not a single one of our men returned."

He stepped forward, closing in on Lyon: "Afterwards, according to the contract, the families of the fallen should receive compensation. How much?"

Twenty nomisma per person—a mere pittance to the empire, but for families who had lost sons, husbands, or fathers, it was the money to survive. But what happened? Not a single penny was given! The excuses of "imperial financial difficulties" and "priority for survivors"—all utter nonsense! We've heard that all that money is firmly in the hands of nobles, generals, and even Emperor Manuel himself. Ha! We've heard the emperor is still spending lavishly on astrologers, indulging in his grandiose dream of long-term peace and immortality!

His voice echoed in the night sky, and the surrounding volunteers lowered their heads, their eyes burning with the old anger of the past.

“Manuel is dead, gone to meet Jesus.” Dragutin stared at Lyon. “We naturally won’t see the young emperor of Constantinople, and even if we did, he wouldn’t acknowledge this old debt. But—”

He reached out, his fingers almost touching the tip of Lyon's nose.

"Since you are related to Komnen by blood, then you must pay off this debt on behalf of the Komnen royal family!"

Lyon looked at Dragutin's one eye, at the anger and disappointment that had been building up for ten years.

Leon sighed and asked, "How will you repay it?"

Dragutin released his grip, grinned, and his mustache swung to both sides.

“It’s simple.” He stood up, pointed north, and said, “See that road? Keep going straight, less than ten Roman mile from there is the capital of Ribnicazetta, which is now occupied by Stefan’s thousand-strong garrison. That’s where we’re going.”

Lyon's heart skipped a beat: "Going to your death?"

"No." Dragutin's smile turned sly. "Go and win."

He turned to Mikes and Kozlek and said, "Have the Hungarians all taken off their clothes? Now, put on your Hungarian armor."

Mikesh froze: "Boss, you mean—"

"Pretending to be Hungarians," Dragutin nodded. "Aren't they supposed to be taking goods" to see their king?

"Then let's continue his journey. Wearing Hungarian armor, carrying Hungarian weapons, pulling this wooden cart, and its cargo."

He pointed at Lyon.

Lyon understood: "You want me to remain a prisoner."

"Yes," Dragutin said. "Just cooperate and don't speak. You don't speak Magyar anyway. We'll pick a few people who know a few words of Hungarian to go ahead and handle the checks. We'll arrive in Ribnica late at night. The garrison will likely let us through if they see we're Hungarian allies with important hostages. Once we're inside the city—"

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

Lyon remained silent for a moment.

This plan is bold and dangerous.

Once exposed, everyone will surely die.

But if they didn't do that, Dragutin's volunteer army would never be able to recapture Ribnica. Five hundred ragtag troops attacking a mountain town defended by a thousand soldiers would be suicide.

"I agree," Leon said. "Then what exactly? How exactly will you be doing it?"

"Like I said before, you remain a prisoner. We'll disguise ourselves as Hungarians and infiltrate the city. Once inside, we'll seize the opportunity to control the city gates and send a signal, at which point the main force outside will launch their attack," Dragutin said. "Your task is to cooperate, remain hidden, and keep quiet. Once we've captured Ribnica and rescued our Lord Zupammihailo—"

He paused, staring at Leon with his one eye.

"At that time, you will publicly recognize the independence of the Principality of Zeta as the Crown Prince of Jerusalem and the grandson of Komnenos, acknowledge the legitimate rule of Mihailovaupan, and promise that the Kingdom of Jerusalem will establish diplomatic relations with Zeta, at least nominally. This is very important to us, as it will allow us to gain more external support in our fight against Stefan."

"Ugh————"

“And then there’s that pension,” Dragutin said. “I don’t expect you to come up with the money, since you’re penniless yourself. But you must write a letter, to whomever it may be—your brother, or that noble imperial relative in Constantinople—acknowledging the existence of this debt and promising to repay it in the future. We will keep this letter as—insurance.”

Lyon remained silent for a moment.

This request is not excessive; in fact, it is quite reasonable.

For Dragutin, he was a bargaining chip that suddenly fell from the sky, which he could use to fight for political rights and economic compensation.

For Lyon, this was an opportunity—a chance to leave the Balkans alive and return to the Holy Land.

Moreover, he does owe these people.

"I agree," Lyon said. "Deal."

Dragutin stared at him for a long time, then slowly nodded.

"Deal." He held out his hand. "Swear in the name of St. George?"

"In the name of St. George." Lyon grasped the rough, calloused hand.

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