The Delegation's Whereabouts

Following the persuasion of Vitus, the garrison commander agreed to sally forth. Giulio, worried for his eldest son's safety, demanded to accompany them out of the city.

"Master Di Maggio, do not be anxious; now is not the time."

Vitus left the ramparts and hurried to the warehouse where the artillery was stored, gathering the caravan hands who served as part-time gunners. In his view, the militia could only serve as window dressing; his only reliance was the six serpentines.

"A pity that two others were scrapped due to overheated barrels."

Vitus knelt on one knee, observing the exterior and interior of the barrels. After checking them one by one, he explained the subsequent precautions through the translation of his interpreter.

"...In short, the commander of the reinforcements is Paoli Di Maggio, Giulio's eldest son. If this battle is won, he will certainly not treat you poorly."

In the end, forty-two hands were willing to fight, exactly seven per group—enough to service one light cannon. Vitus assigned duties to everyone, and by the time he finished at noon, he was summoned to the eastern wall.

The sky was overcast and a cold wind howled. On the withered yellow grass outside the city, battle lines had been drawn, with the northern and southern forces facing each other from a distance. The Noose Mercenary Group had received multiple reinforcements, numbering about six thousand, including eight hundred cavalry.

The Florence reinforcements were to the south, also numbering six thousand, but with only three hundred cavalry. Their flags featured a red lily on a pure white background.

"The enemy has a slight advantage. It seems the key to this battle lies with our reinforcements."

Vitus shifted his gaze back inside the city. Nine hundred militiamen were about to sally forth, and Giulio was currently boosting their morale. Soon, the wealthy merchant found Vitus, "When do we depart?"

"Wait. Our militia's morale is low; they cannot withstand an enemy cavalry charge."

He persuaded the merchant to delay the sortie, taking the opportunity to let the militia eat and replenish their strength. After waiting a while, the two armies outside began to move, slowly closing the distance.

"Can we leave the city now?"

"No, wait longer!" Vitus spoke with firm resolve, his eyes fixed on the infantry phalanxes of both sides and the small number of cavalry hovering on the flanks.

Ten minutes passed, and the distance between the two sides shrank from two kilometers to three hundred meters. Then, drawing ever closer, the infantry collided with shouts. Vitus still did not move, instead gathering a dozen militia captains to have his interpreter convey the upcoming tactics.

Finally, the merchant's patience reached its limit. Vitus observed the battlefield; the cavalry of Milan and Florence had already engaged, and he exhaled a puff of white mist.

"We can move out now. I want to confirm one more time: are you willing to act according to my plan?"

Vitus worried that the merchant might get hot-headed and do something foolish by changing plans at the last moment. Upon receiving the man's promise, he immediately drew his sword and personally led the team toward the east gate.

The drawbridge lowered slowly with a groan of chains, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Vitus stepped onto the bridge first, followed by his Italian interpreter and a young, fresh-faced standard-bearer holding the red lily flag of Florence.

Behind them was a large group of slow-moving militiamen, primarily equipped with polearms: spears or halberds. Their hands, gripping the wooden shafts, were red with cold, and their boots slipped slightly on the frosted bridge deck. No one spoke; there was only the clatter of iron and the irrepressible coughing of a young man.

Outside the city lay a flat, open meadow, the withered yellow grass stems coated in white frost, crunching underfoot. Further away, tens of thousands of infantry formed phalanxes of various sizes, slaughtering and entangling one another. The sounds carried on the cold wind, mingled with a faint, lingering scent of blood.

Five minutes passed. Vitus stopped and looked back at his troops. The militia lacked training; having walked only a few hundred meters, their formation was already beginning to loosen.

"Change formation!"

According to the pre-departure plan, Vitus shifted the marching column into a dense, defensive phalanx, gradually approaching the right flank of the Milanese army (the west side of the battlefield).

Seeing this, the Milanese commander pulled away five hundred nearby mercenaries. "Crush these little shopkeepers. If you can't, then pin them down."

"Understood."

Seeing a detachment of enemy troops charging toward them, Vitus had the militia stop and remain still, waiting until the distance between them closed to a hundred meters.

"Quick, push the cannons out!"

During the advance, the six cannons had been hidden within the ranks. The gunners received the order and immediately pushed the artillery to the front, aiming at the approaching mercenaries before lighting the fuses.

Sizzle, sizzle~

The fuses burned out, and the roar of the cannons ravaged Vitus's eardrums. He waited several seconds, and through the dissipating smoke, he saw the enemy troops mowed down in swathes, like a wheat field swept by a scythe.

"Using lead balls of uniform shape instead of those uneven stones—the power is truly different."

For a long time, gunners had been accustomed to stuffing stones, iron nails, and other miscellaneous debris into the muzzles, but Vitus had abandoned this practice. He had craftsmen cast iron molds to melt lead ingots into small, uniform spheres, which not only enhanced the power but also made loading easier for the gunners.

After firing, the gunners stuffed a bag of black powder and a bag of lead shot into the cannons, then lit them again.

Having taken two consecutive rounds of grapeshot, the mercenaries were terrified by such underhanded tactics. They scrambled to retreat, fearing another volley.

Having dealt with the enemies before him, Vitus advanced again, beginning to shell the right flank of the Milanese army, crushing the outermost phalanx, then the second, then the third...

Just like that, one phalanx after another collapsed under the pincer attack of the Pistoia garrison and the reinforcements, eventually causing the entire Milanese line to disintegrate.

"It's finally over."

Vitus sheathed his sword. Because the militia's quality was so poor, he had been forced to use the most rigid tactics: infantry huddled together, advancing slowly to serve as cover for the artillery.

He lifted his visor to catch his breath, gazing out over the chaotic, bloody battlefield. "This is fine. After all, it's my first time commanding a battle; overly complex tactics don't suit me."

The battle ended, and the reinforcements pursued the enemy for a distance to the northwest. Upon learning that the main body of the Milanese forces was still in Northern Italy, Florence decided to delay the offensive and disbanded the conscripted militia.

Vitus inquired for news from Giulio, only to learn that due to the bitter cold, the magistrate feared a lack of supplies for an outdoor campaign and would not consider an offensive until next spring.

"Very well, these are your internal affairs; they have nothing to do with me."

As a guest, Vitus did not overstep his bounds. He stayed in Pistoia for a week before following Giulio's caravan to Florence.

En route, he learned news of the diplomatic mission: his brother had already left Rome and set sail for France...

Vitus was deeply puzzled. "What? France is facing a mountain of trouble; why would they help us?"

Giulio: "Friends in the Curia told me that Prince John is only passing through France. His true target for aid is Sigismund. As the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire (including Germany and surrounding territories), and holding the titles of King of Hungary, King of Croatia, and King of Bohemia, Sigismund is the most powerful monarch in Europe."

Vitus sighed: "Until the Hussite Wars end, I don't believe this man will help Constantinople. My brother is simply wasting his time."