The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 11 Blockade

Lyon and Accord followed Assassin, stumbling along as they stepped from the empty beach into a lush palm grove.

Let's do it here.

Zahir's words, "Not even a fart has been born," constantly lashed at Lyon's nerves. He had long wanted to seek answers from Accord, but he had never found the right opportunity.

But now it seems we can't wait any longer; if we wait any longer, we might become victims of the Assassins.

"Accord," he said softly, in a language that blended Latin roots with French intonation, "now tell me, who am I?"

Accord was taken aback: "Wait, why are you asking this now? Didn't I say before that I didn't know either?"

"If not now, then when? I'm not joking!"

Jacob's body visibly stiffened. He licked his chapped lips, his voice weak: "You...you are my sister Maria's son—my little nephew, you know that..."

"If you don't speak up now, do you expect me to be taken to their hideout?"

Accord scratched his head: "Okay, okay, it's not really a secret anyway. I kept it from you before because I was afraid you wouldn't be able to handle the truth..."

"Stop beating around the bush, just say it!"

Jacob sighed softly, “You were born in Constantinople in 1172, shortly after the grand ceremony between King Amaury and His Majesty Manuel… Your father was perhaps a nobleman or… a knight who participated in that ceremony? I’m sorry, Lyon, I really don’t know. I don’t know who your biological father is, I just don’t know…”

"So... I'm an illegitimate child?"

Oh, an illegitimate child? I thought it was something else. In medieval settings, whether it's a novel or a game, isn't an illegitimate child always a protagonist's main character?

Stop worrying about it. What's there to worry about? If you look at it this way, then you're dead anyway. You weren't that valuable to begin with. Maybe you can even travel back in time after you die.

Lyon turned his gaze back to the distance ahead, where the Assassins stood silently, seemingly having listened for an unknown amount of time.

"Have you finished discussing the escape plan?" His voice was flat and emotionless, but it was like ice water that extinguished the warmth of human connection that had just begun to ignite. "If you're done talking, let's continue on our way."

Lyon and Accord exchanged a glance, then followed the white figure again.

This time, however, Lyon seemed to be on a more steady footing.

The silhouette of the city gate gradually approached them, piercing through layers of palm tree shade.

At this moment, the Assassins, who had been running at full speed, suddenly stopped like ghosts, stood on a weathered boulder, and gazed at the towering city walls lurking in the heat in the distance.

The once familiar city walls are now shrouded in an ominous silence. Countless soldiers stand silhouetted against the walls, like flocks of crows circling above the backs of beasts.

Something's not right.

Assassins coldly observed the familiar city walls before them, walls they had entered and exited countless times.

The once bustling and chaotic city gate market and the surging trade teams and crowds have all disappeared, replaced by watchtowers standing on the left and right sides of the city gate.

Above the watchtower were archers with scimitars at their waists and wearing iron helmets, as well as barracks set up in the open space in front of the city gate. Armored soldiers with spears, under the command of officers, questioned and drove away the few merchants who wanted to enter the city.

Lyon tugged at Jacob's sleeve and gestured with his eyes toward the city gate.

"Uncle," he said with a sly smile, "it's your turn. Go and find out what's going on in town."

Jacob nodded, cleared his throat and the wrinkles in his sailor uniform, and addressed the Assassin on the rock in a solemn and resonant voice, as if preaching: "I am but a humble black-robed priest, and have dealt with all sorts of people. If you do not mind, perhaps I could go and investigate?"

Assassin nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the city gate.

Beneath the city gate, soldiers, their armor gleaming under the scorching sun and their inner linings completely soaked, were exhausted to the point of near collapse.

Today wasn't supposed to be their turn to be on duty, but they were suddenly pulled to the east side of the city to fill in and help disperse a large group of shrewd merchants who were making a scene at the city gate.

If it weren't for the fact that the higher-ups wouldn't allow even a single penny of tax revenue to be lost, he would have already drawn his sword to establish his authority.

Just as they had finally managed to coax a shameless businessman away, a young man with European features, dressed in rough sailor clothes, walked straight up to them.

The soldier approached him, gripping the hilt of his sword, attempting to drive away the unidentified European.

Accord placed his right hand on his chest, performed a standard Arabic greeting, and spoke fluent Arabic:

"May God grant you peace, Your Excellency."

The other party was unexpectedly elegant and courteous. The soldier loosened his grip on the hilt of his sword—this demeanor was unlike that of an ordinary sailor.

Jacob continued, “Don’t let my ragged clothes fool you—it truly is. I’m a scholar from Venice, traveling by ship to Cairo for an academic conference. Unfortunately, I was caught by pirates and ended up here. We study the classics, whether the Ghirlah or the Quran, which tell us that knowledge comes from the grace of Allah. I simply want to find a place to settle down and dry myself off; I have absolutely no ill intentions. Could you please grant me this favor, sir?” His words were almost a plea.

The soldier's gaze swept back and forth between Yage's soaked sailor uniform and his scholarly face. His vigilance softened slightly, but he did not relax.

"A scholar?" He repeated Jacob's self-reference in Arabic, his tone revealing neither joy nor anger.

He did indeed have an instinctive respect for the word "scholar," after all, even the Imam often said in his sermons that "the ink of a scholar is more sacred than the blood of a martyr."

But this respect was quickly overshadowed by more practical considerations.

"You say you study the scriptures," the soldier's voice deepened, "then you should know that honesty is Allah's requirement for all who uphold the scriptures. Tell me, are you here at this time really just for... protection?"

"This time?" Jacob looked around. "Although I do notice that the surroundings... don't quite match my imagination and expectations of a great port city under the light of the Pharos Lighthouse—is this time... anything special?"

"Hmph, normally I should be resting at home right now!" the soldier spat, finding an outlet for his resentment. "The higher-ups suddenly deployed almost the entire city's military to the residential areas, saying they're going to wipe out the murderer who killed the tax official! I was dragged here like a stray dog, dealing with you guys who call me 'Sir, sir, sir.' Sigh, I've been busy for three hours straight, and haven't even had a sip of water!"

Accord's mind went blank—three hours?! Three hours ago, weren't they still at the manor when Jabar took them? Hakim was still waiting for them in the drawing room then, how could this be?

"Listen, sir," the soldier gestured for him to leave, "it's not that I disrespect scholars, but there are matters above me that I cannot bear, and besides... this mess is truly extraordinary. You may leave; I will not make things difficult for you."

"Wait, wait," Accord suppressed the turmoil within him, maintaining a facade of humility and fear. He desperately needed to confirm one fact: "I have a past with the tax official. As for the tax official, I need to speak with him..."

"Tax officer?" The soldier's sweat-drenched face showed confusion, his tone seemingly noncommittal.

"Are you asking about the newly appointed Jabbar—or Hakim, who has already gone to see Allah?"