The Impossible Mission

Albizzi put away the secret letter and had a guard bring a pot of wine and two honey-glazed quails to entertain the famished messenger.

"If we aid Genoa, what do we stand to gain?"

The messenger tore off a quail wing, stuffed it into his mouth, and replied with a muffled voice: "Milan is the sworn enemy of Florence. By liberating Genoa, you can severely weaken Milan's strength. Furthermore, our side can provide the following compensation..."

The conversation lasted until late into the night. When Albizzi returned to the banquet hall, most of the guests had already departed, leaving only a few drunken mercenary captains slumped over the tables, fast asleep.

He sat alone back in his seat of honor, staring at the burning whale-oil candles overhead and the massive oil painting covering the entire dome, until he drifted off to sleep without realizing it.

On March 13th, the expeditionary force left Lucca, taking a full day to reach the west coast of Italy. The terrain here was low-lying, covered in vast, muddy marshes. Withered reeds rustled in the wind, several abandoned small boats floated on the murky water, and the air was thick with an indescribable scent of decay.

After resting for the night, the expeditionary force marched northwest along the coastline, with the rugged Apennine Mountains on their right and the azure Tyrrhenian Sea on their left.

Gazing into the distance, the boundless sea shimmered with silver light under the sun. The tides beat against the shore in a rhythmic cycle, only to be shattered against the reefs, sending spray drifting into the wind. Occasionally, a three-masted sailing ship could be seen on the horizon, flying the flags of Genoa or Aragon, its shadow stretched thin.

At times, this Roman Road would wind into dense woodlands, the sides filled with vast groves of oak, laurel, and pine, with occasional patches of narcissus and anemones dotting the landscape.

Vitus rode a docile mare. He lifted the visor of his helmet, nonchalantly admiring the scenery along the way as if he were on a spring outing in the countryside. At three in the afternoon, his leisurely excursion came to an abrupt end; a castle stood ahead, and the Magistrate ordered the artillery unit to lay siege immediately.

"Understood."

Medieval castles prioritized height; the taller the walls, the harder they were for attackers to scale. Unfortunately, times had changed. Tall walls were now easier targets for artillery, offering far less defensive value than low, thick ramparts.

After a six-day bombardment, Vitus blasted open the outer and inner walls of Fort Malvin, and the mercenaries swarmed in, killing most of the soldiers.

The remaining dozens of defenders retreated to the main keep to make a final stand. Vitus used gunpowder to blow open the gate, hauled in piles of firewood to burn on the ground floor, and used the thick, choking smoke to force the defenders to surrender.

However, this was only the beginning.

Although this narrow coastal strip belonged to the Republic of Genoa, the castles encountered along the way were occupied by Milanese soldiers. The Magistrate could think of no other way but to have Vitus's artillery unit grind them down.

By early April, the expeditionary force had broken through Santo Stefano and set its sights on the western port city of La Spezia.

The bombardment lasted half an hour before Vitus reported a piece of bad news: five heavy siege cannons and eight new-style Serpent Cannon were beyond repair, and they would have to wait for reinforcements from the rear.

In the central command tent, the Magistrate reacted violently: "All the siege cannons are ruined? Not a single one left?"

Just two days prior, Genoa had urged Magistrate Albizzi to speed up the progress. The governor appointed by Milan had already grown suspicious; if they delayed any longer, the conspiracy would inevitably be leaked.

Changing the route on the fly had been Albizzi's decision. If the plan failed and they failed to take Genoa through internal and external coordination, resulting in the loss of the war, he would certainly lose his position as Magistrate and might even be exiled from Florence.

He stood up and paced back and forth in agitation, yet Vitus continued to explain:

"The inner walls of the barrels have developed cracks. They've reached their firing limit; forcing them to fire would surely cause an explosion. Furthermore, there has been frequent rain lately. From Florence to Santo Stefano, the roads are filled with mud, significantly slowing the movement of heavy artillery. We're advancing less than five miles a day..."

The Magistrate cut off his explanation: "I don't want to hear these excuses. I only want victory. Get the cannons here within half a month and take La Spezia. I'll give you ten percent of the spoils from the city. If it takes longer than half a month, I'll have to find someone else!"

Half a month?

This old man is deliberately toying with me.

Vitus calculated the time. It was impossible to finish in half a month, unless...

At this moment, Pauli, who was standing nearby, tried to intervene, but Vitus spoke first: "Seven days. If I take La Spezia within seven days, what will you give me?"

Pfft! Albizzi spat out the wine he had been drinking and burst into loud laughter. His aged face crinkled with deep wrinkles, and the others joined in the laughter, filling the hall with a jovial atmosphere.

After a long while, he suppressed his smile, his expression turning solemn and serious: "Anthony Doukas, if you can break the city in a week, you shall have twenty percent of the revenue. Go. Fulfill your promise, and do not bring shame upon your family."

After the meeting, Pauli found Vitus: "Are you insane? Without heavy siege cannons, how do you intend to breach the walls in seven days?"

"I have another way, but I need you to lend me a thousand infantrymen."

Seeing his firm resolve, Pauli introduced a Sicilian mercenary captain named Piero, whose company of exactly one thousand men happened to be skilled in mountain warfare.

For the entire next day, Vitus took Piero and a small group of soldiers to survey the surrounding terrain. La Spezia was bordered by land on the east, north, and west, with only the south facing the sea. He leaned on a wooden staff, scouring every high point in the vicinity, occasionally taking out paper and pen to calculate distances and elevation differences, until he finally found a suitable artillery position.

At dusk, Vitus tossed aside his staff and sat on a rock warmed by the sun, watching the boundless orange-red sunset and the sea shimmering with fragments of gold. The mountain breeze, carrying the fragrance of flowers and grass, washed over him, seemingly scrubbing away his exhaustion.

Suddenly, Piero approached, leaning against a tree trunk with his left hand and panting heavily, asking in broken Greek:

"My Lord, if I am not mistaken, you intend to mount the cannons on the mountain and fire over the walls at the buildings inside the city?"

Vitus was too tired to speak and simply nodded wearily.

Piero complained in a low voice: "Felling trees, leveling the ground, and then hauling heavy cannons to the mountaintop—this task is pure torture. I fear my brothers will have complaints."

Vitus understood the man's true intent and promised to share a portion of the bonus in exchange for temporary command over the "Rotten Herring" mercenary company.

Finally, the sun sank below the horizon. The sunset shifted from crimson to dark purple, eventually turning into the pitch-black veil of night. The chill grew heavy, and Vitus stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes.

"Head down the mountain and have your men prepare the tools on this list. Bring the soldiers who know carpentry to my tent; I have instructions for them."