Bandits

In the 15th century, the use of mercenaries was prevalent throughout the Italian region.

For commercial republics like Venice and the Republic of Florence, it was economically unfeasible to have citizens abandon their primary occupations to fight; hiring professional mercenary groups was far more cost-effective.

Furthermore, establishing a standing army would require granting autonomy to generals, which could easily trigger coups and military dictatorships. Foreign mercenaries lacked local roots, making the probability of a coup lower and rendering them politically more reliable.

However, the mercenary system had its flaws, such as lax military discipline and low loyalty. Yet, rulers across various regions overlooked these shortcomings; even Constantinople maintained two thousand mercenaries to compensate for the shortage of garrison manpower.

Having witnessed the brutality of the Italian mercenaries, the delegation picked up their pace, following the ancient Roman roads to cross the Apennine Mountains from north to south.

It was November; the leaden sky hung low, and a bone-chilling cold permeated the mountains, with the roads covered in a layer of grey-yellow fallen leaves. Vitus was riding on horseback, still pondering the incomplete system of ballistic differential equations, when suddenly, an anomaly occurred.

His mount's left front hoof slipped on a moss-covered boulder, losing all support. It let out a short, terrified whinny, and its heavy body tilted violently to the left.

Oh no!

The moment the mount fell, Vitus reacted. He quickly kicked free of the stirrups and leaped forward to the right, preventing himself from being crushed beneath the horse.

Soon, Vitus hit the ground and rolled several times down the hillside. When his vision finally stopped spinning, he lay on his back, breathing heavily.

Vitus attempted to push himself up but felt a sharp pain in his left foot. Removing his deerskin boot, he saw his left ankle was slightly swollen; he would be unable to walk for some time.

Following this incident, the guards cut branches to fashion a stretcher, carrying Vitus as they continued their journey. Two days later, they left the mountainous region and entered the Republic of Florence in central Italy.

After traveling for a while, a manor appeared in their field of vision. The Crown Prince identified himself to the owner, requesting that he take in his unfortunate brother.

After receiving permission, the Crown Prince found Vitus, "You are immobile, so you might as well stay here to recover. I will leave you four attendants and two hundred ducats. Once you have healed, take a ship back home as soon as possible; the situation in Italy is chaotic and not suitable for a long stay."

After the delegation departed, Vitus fell into a state of being without constraints. He continued to organize his notes, occasionally chatting with the manor owner, Enzo, in Latin to gather information about the surrounding area.

The Apennine Peninsula was currently filled with city-states and constant strife, dominated by five major powers.

These were 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 tip of the peninsula.

Based on their conversations, Vitus learned that the Duchy of Milan was expanding, causing instability in the Italian situation. He sat in the shade of a tree in the courtyard, staring blankly at the gloomy sky.

"With things in such a mess, my brother's request for aid is likely hopeless. It's not just Italy; the Hundred Years' War between England and France is still ongoing, and the Maiden is about to appear to save her homeland and people. The Holy Roman Empire is busy dealing with the Hussite Wars, and Jan Žižka has defeated the crusades of King Sigismund for the third time. Monarchs are all facing their own troubles; how could they possibly send troops to help a distant Constantinople?"

Vitus felt dejected. He kneaded his slowly healing ankle and walked slowly back to his second-floor bedroom.

After the 15th century, the Eastern Roman Empire entered a state of chronic death, lacking everything from financial resources and armies to population. Vitus had come up with some good ideas regarding commerce, but he lacked the capital and sales channels. If the Venetians were to plagiarize his technology, Vitus would have no counter-strategy.

"This is going to be difficult."

After working for a long time, Vitus put down his quill and gazed at the bright moon outside the window. Suddenly, urgent shouts rang out from outside the courtyard gate. A servant went to open it, and the next moment, a sharp blade pierced his abdomen.

What is happening?

Through the window, Vitus watched the bandits pouring into the courtyard. There were at least thirty of them, equipped with iron helmets and brigandine armor. The disparity in strength was too great; he had no choice but to pack his things and flee.

He stuffed his notebook and money bag into his chest, walked quickly to the stairs, and tried to wake the four attendants on the first floor. However, the bandits had already rushed into the house, killing the attendants before they could even don their armor.

In his desperation, Vitus abandoned the staircase and jumped from the second-floor window into the grass below. He hid in the shelter of the shadows, watching the bandits who held torches in their left hands and iron swords in their right.

In the flickering firelight, he saw that some of their surcoats were marked with a noose. If he wasn't mistaken, it must be the notorious Noose Mercenary Group.

Strange, why would they leave the North Italian plains and come to Florence?

Vitus wrestled with this question in his mind as he quietly crept to the north side of the courtyard. Large grapevines were planted here, and the bandits were too busy looting to pay attention to this area.

Vitus walked toward the small gate at the northernmost end of the courtyard, but unfortunately, the wooden door was locked. Looking around, he saw an old oak tree with sparse foliage growing in the corner. He climbed the rough trunk, then leaped, lunging toward the stone wall two meters away.

Vitus gripped the top of the wall tightly; the coarse stones dug into his palms, sending waves of sharp pain, and his fingers turned white from the exertion.

Now came the most critical moment—his dangling legs began to swing. He hooked his right leg onto the wall, his left leg quickly followed, and like a carp leaping, he finally straddled the top of the wall.

The next moment, Vitus jumped into the wasteland outside the wall. Recalling their earlier conversation, he knew there was a small town called Pistoia about a dozen miles to the south.

(The concept of a mile originated in the Roman period; one mile equals one thousand paces, approximately 1.5 kilometers.)

"Escape to Pistoia, pay for a mount, and follow the road to Rome; I will decide what to do then."

Vitus looked up at the starry sky and, guided by the North Star, found the direction he needed. He picked up a wooden stick to use as a crutch and traveled through the silent, empty fields. The cold wind whipped his wool cloak, and the howl of wolves drifted from afar, long and chilling.

Finally, a line of greyish-white appeared in the east. The surrounding scenery gradually emerged from the shadows: bare treetops, harvested fields, and the undulating outlines of distant mountains.

After some time, when he had almost exhausted his last bit of strength, a long caravan appeared on the road ahead. Vitus hurried over, but the driver could not understand his Latin.

Latin was the common language of the European upper class and clergy, while the local lower classes used Italian. Vitus and the driver gestured for a long time until a well-dressed, middle-aged wealthy merchant walked over and asked in Latin:

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