A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

In this era, Italy was little more than a geographical concept. When mentioned, it was always prefixed with ”North” or ”South.”

The North and South were vastly different—so much so that they sometimes seemed like different worlds, whether in their institutions, culture, or language.

In contrast to the chaotic North, which had been in turmoil since the time of Justinian, Southern Italy was much more peaceful.

For a long time, most of the southern region had been governed by the Roman Empire. Its population consisted mainly of Greeks, with a portion of Lombards.

Both the Greeks and the Lombards had once been the dominant powers in the region, and even a mere decade ago, their influence was still palpable.

Now, however, the region of Southern Italy had a new master: the Normans, hailing from the distant north.

In the short span of two decades, through cunning and valor, they had swiftly brought all of Southern Italy under their control, irresistibly shattering the power of the Byzantines and Lombards.

Like their adventurer ancestors who set out from the Scandinavian Peninsula two centuries before, they had successfully carved out a domain for themselves in the Mediterranean Sea—a home as beautiful and fertile as Normandy.

The Normans of Sicily, who had grown up on the legends of their ancestors, had now become legends in their own right, sung of by minstrels.

Robert Guiscard was chief among them, a figure worthy of an epic poem.

Bohemond felt fortunate to have such a father.

At least, that was what he thought when he was very young. Perhaps God truly favored him.

He, Bohemond, was born to rule others.

It was just a shame God and Fate couldn’t love him a little more. Or at least, that they wouldn’t sneeze at the most inopportune times.

Just as he had come to understand what a great man his father was, he learned that his father had a new wife.

Fate had a twisted sense of humor.

Take today, for instance. He had gone to the bathhouse in the city center for a bath. The moment he’d undressed, a dozen thugs with cleavers appeared out of nowhere and chased him for three solid blocks. Thankfully, he finally managed to shake them.

He was now in Bari, the last city in Southern Italy to be conquered. The Byzantines had mounted a stubborn resistance here, and its population was almost entirely Greek.

To consolidate his rule, his father had pardoned all of Bari’s defenders.

That was proving to be a mistaken decision, at least in Bohemond’s opinion. Those Greeks knew nothing of gratitude. They were either in open rebellion, on the verge of rebellion, or busy hatching some conspiracy.

Today’s incident was a prime example. The very reason he and his father had brought troops here was to deal with the anti-Norman elements in Bari.

He planned to propose a complete purge of Bari to his father in due time.

In Bari’s castle,

Bohemond mulled this over as he walked, peeling a steaming, hard-boiled egg.

The egg was freshly boiled, and the heat radiating from the shell made him impatient, exacerbating his foul mood.

He stopped in front of a mirror hanging on a corridor wall.

The mirror reflected a well-built, fair-skinned young man. His golden hair was cropped short, and his clean-shaven jaw gave him a sharp, vigorous appearance.

At the moment, however, his handsome features were marred by injury; a large, swollen lump had formed on his forehead near his eye.

In his panicked escape, he had carelessly slammed into a doorframe.

Bohemond rolled the egg over the swelling on his forehead. Perhaps it was the warmth from the shell, but the pain gradually began to subside.

This was a method Eric had taught him for reducing swelling.

He kept at it for three minutes. As the egg cooled, the swelling did seem to recede a little.

”Seems like it actually works,” Bohemond muttered. ”That guy always has the strangest knowledge about the strangest things.”

Bohemond gave his head a slight shake. Looking down at the egg in his hand, he began to twirl it with his fingers.

Then, he closed his fist around it.

”But I probably won’t be seeing him again.”

Bohemond took a few more steps forward and stopped before a door.

’Bastard...’

He pushed the door open.

He was immediately met with the stench of blood and the feeble sounds of someone begging for mercy.

An elderly man in black robes was using a small knife to carve graceful arcs into the flesh of some poor, bound wretch.

The skin near the wretch’s spine had been sliced wide open, his blood-soaked back a horrific sight.

The victim was on the verge of death.

The sound of Bohemond opening the door halted the man’s movements.

The elder in black turned around. He was a remarkably robust man for his age.

Though his hair was gray, his body was as solid as a middle-aged man’s.

Upon recognizing the visitor, he immediately averted his gaze and slowly walked over to a long table to one side.

”What is it, my son?”

”A letter from the Holy See.”

Bohemond took a letter from within his tunic and handed it to Robert.

Robert accepted the letter, which was still sealed, and his eyes fell upon the date.

He looked up at Bohemond.

”The Greeks and the Lombards have given us too much trouble, forcing us to be constantly on the move. The Bishop was simply unlucky; he always seems to arrive just after we’ve departed.”

Bohemond shrugged.

Robert looked away.

”Perhaps I overestimated the value of mercy. Fear is still a far more useful tool.”

Robert sighed, broke the seal, and took out the letter within, studying it for a moment.

”The Holy See is asking for aid. It seems the German Emperor is about to move against him.”

”Hilbrand has it coming. The man is far too arrogant; he’s managed to offend nearly every King in Christendom. And now he wants us to clean up his mess.”

”A powerful Emperor would not be a good thing for us. I can be certain of the Holy See’s intentions because he is always under our watchful eye, but I can’t be certain of what the Emperor is thinking.

A powerful—no, a *seemingly* powerful Holy See—is very important to us.”

”But we have other pressing matters. The expedition against the Greek Kingdom...”

”Do not be impatient, Bohemond. We have plenty of time. Waiting is always to our advantage. That kingdom is all but rotten; waiting will only make it more fragile, which is to our benefit.

My informant in Constantinople tells me the Greeks are about to change their King again. That incompetent Michael likely won’t last much longer,” Robert said slowly.

”If we were to...”

”That German Emperor is not so fearsome. To attack Rome, he must first cross the Alps Pass. The Tuscan Lady Feudal Lord is on our side, which means we can ambush him at any time.”

”I just don’t think it’s worth shedding our blood for Hilbrand. What can he give us? He’s nearly seventy. How much longer can he possibly remain Pope?”

”Indeed. If only we had a Pope of our own. A pity we have no suitable candidates.”