Robbers

In the 15th century, mercenaries were widely used in Italy.

For commercial republics like Venice and Florence, it was extremely uneconomical to make citizens abandon their regular work to go to war. Hiring professional mercenary groups offered far better value.

Besides, establishing a standing army required granting commanders autonomy, which could easily lead to coups and military dictatorships. Foreign mercenaries had no local roots, making them less likely to stage a coup and more reliable politically.

But the mercenary system had its flaws, such as lax discipline and low loyalty. Rulers everywhere ignored these shortcomings, though. Even Constantinople had two thousand mercenaries to make up for its shortage of defenders.

Having witnessed the brutality of Italian mercenaries, the members of the delegation picked up their pace and traveled north to south along an ancient Roman road, crossing the Apennine Mountains.

In November, the leaden sky hung low. Bitter cold filled the mountains, and a layer of gray-yellow leaves covered the road. Vitus rode on horseback, still pondering the incomplete system of ballistic differential equations, when suddenly, disaster struck.

The horse's left forehoof slipped on a moss-covered round stone, losing all support. It let out a short, frightened whinny, and its heavy body lurched violently to the left.

This was bad!

The instant the horse fell, Vitus reacted. He quickly slipped free of the stirrups and threw himself forward and to the right, keeping the horse from crushing him.

A moment later, Vitus hit the ground and tumbled several times down the slope. When his vision finally stopped spinning, he lay on his back, gasping for breath.

Vitus tried to push himself up, but a sharp pain shot through his left foot. He took off his deerskin boot and found his left ankle slightly swollen. He wouldn't be able to walk for a while.

After the accident, the guards cut down branches to make a stretcher and carried Vitus onward. Two days later, they left the mountains and entered the Republic of Florence in central Italy.

After traveling for a while, they spotted a manor ahead. The heir to the throne identified himself to its owner and asked him to take in his unlucky younger brother.

Once permission was granted, the heir found Vitus. "You're not in any shape to travel. You might as well stay here and recover. I'll leave you with four guards and two hundred ducats. Once you're healed, return home by ship as soon as possible. Italy is in turmoil, and it isn't a suitable place for a long stay."

After the delegation left, Vitus was left to his own devices. He continued organizing his notes, occasionally chatting in Latin with the manor's owner, Enzo, and gathering information about the surrounding area.

The Apennine Peninsula was now a patchwork of city-states, rife with conflict. Five major powers held sway.

The Duchy of Milan and the Republic of Venice in the north, the Republic of Florence and the Papal States in the center, and the Kingdom of Naples at the southern end of the peninsula.

From their conversations, Vitus learned that the Duchy of Milan was expanding, throwing Italy into turmoil. He sat in the shade of a tree in the courtyard, staring blankly at the gloomy sky.

"With things this chaotic, I doubt my elder brother's plan to seek aid will work. And it's not just Italy. The Hundred Years' War between England and France is still raging. The Maiden will appear soon, saving her homeland and its people. The Holy Roman Empire is busy dealing with the Hussite Wars, and Jan Zizka has defeated King Sigismund's forces for the third time. Every ruler has problems of his own. How could any of them send troops to help distant Constantinople?"

Vitus was disheartened. He rubbed his healing ankle and slowly made his way back to his second-floor bedroom.

After the 15th century began, the Eastern Roman Empire entered a state of slow death, lacking everything from money and soldiers to population. Vitus had come up with some promising business ideas, but he had neither capital nor a way to sell them. If the Venetians stole his technology, he would have no way to fight back.

"This is a problem."

After working for a long time, Vitus set down his quill and gazed out the window at the bright moon. Suddenly, hurried shouts rang out beyond the courtyard gate. A servant went to open it, and in the next instant, a blade pierced his belly.

What was going on?

Vitus watched through the window as the robbers flooded into the courtyard. There were at least thirty of them, equipped with iron helmets and plate armor. They were far stronger than his side. His only option was to gather his things and flee.

He stuffed his notebook and purse into his clothes and hurried to the staircase, trying to wake the four guards on the first floor. But the robbers had already charged into the house and killed the guards before they could put on their armor.

In desperation, Vitus left the staircase and jumped from a second-floor window into the grass below. Sheltered by the shadows, he watched the robbers, torches in their left hands and iron swords clutched in their right.

In the firelight, he saw that some of their tunics bore the image of a noose. If he wasn't mistaken, they belonged to the notorious Noose Mercenary Group.

Strange. Why had they left the Northern Italian Plain and come to Florence?

Vitus wrestled with the question as he quietly made his way to the north side of the courtyard. A large patch of grapevines grew there, and the robbers were too busy looting to pay attention to it.

Vitus headed for the little gate at the northernmost end of the courtyard, but the wooden door was locked. He looked around and spotted an old oak tree with sparse branches in the corner. He climbed its rough trunk, then leaped toward the stone wall two meters away.

Vitus gripped the top of the wall tightly. The coarse stones dug into his palms, sending sharp stabs of pain through them. His fingers turned white with strain.

Now came the crucial moment—his dangling legs began to swing. He hooked his right leg over the wall, then quickly brought up his left. Like a carp flipping over, he finally swung himself astride the top.

The next moment, Vitus jumped down into the wasteland beyond the wall. From his earlier conversations, he knew there was a small town called Pistoia a dozen or so miles to the south.

(The mile originated in Roman times. One mile was equal to a thousand paces, or about 1.5 kilometers.)

"I'll flee to Pistoia, buy a horse, and follow the road to Rome. I'll figure out what to do once I get there."

Vitus looked up at the stars and used the North Star to find the direction he needed. He picked up a stick to use as a crutch and trudged across the silent, empty fields. The cold wind stirred his woolen cloak, and a wolf howled in the distance, its long cry sending a chill down his spine.

At last, a line of gray-white appeared in the east. The surrounding landscape gradually emerged from the darkness: bare treetops, harvested fields, and the rolling outline of distant hills.

After some more time, when he had nearly exhausted his last reserves of strength, a long caravan appeared on the road ahead. Vitus hurried over, but the driver couldn't understand his Latin.

Latin was the common language of Europe's upper classes and clergy. The local common people spoke Italian. Vitus gestured and mimed for quite some time before a well-dressed middle-aged merchant came over and asked him in Latin:

"Sir, you look terrible. What do you need?"