The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 68 Catalan Mercenaries

Seeing that Zahir's scimitar was already drawn, the Catalan mercenaries did not hesitate to reach for their blades.

However, Zahir showed no intention of brandishing his scimitar. Instead, he carefully placed it on the table in front of Balian, then twisted his neck, clasped his hands in a fist, and flexed his muscles, taunting, "You really think I'd fight you with a weapon? You bunch of serfs scavenging for food in the Catalan mountains aren't worthy!"

"Sarazan scum! Muslim pig!" The young mercenary flew into a rage, kicking over the table between him and Zahir, and swung his fist at Zahir's face.

Zahir raised his left hand to block, and his right fist slammed towards the mercenary's abdomen. The mercenary nimbly dodged, using the table as a springboard to lunge forward, his body low to the ground, using his speed to avoid Zahir's frontal range, and then delivered a swift hook punch straight for Zahir's ribs.

The ribs were the weak point at the seams of the chainmail. Zahir knew he couldn't dodge in time, so he simply tensed his muscles, preparing to take the hit head-on. At the same time, his thick arm swept across the mercenary's trajectory like an iron hoop.

A muffled thud rang out; the mercenary's fist had indeed struck its target solidly, but most of the force was neutralized by the interlocking chains. Almost simultaneously, Zahir's arm swept across the mercenary's shoulder, causing him to stumble and his momentum to be interrupted.

The mercenary, though in pain, used his flexibility to roll and nimbly get behind Zahir, kicking him hard in the back of the knee.

Zahir sensed the wind behind him and immediately took a step forward, simultaneously kicking backward with his hind leg like a horse's hoof. The mercenary missed his attack and was nearly hit in the face by the vicious kick, breaking out in a cold sweat. He had no choice but to retreat again, looking for a new opportunity.

Despite his superior strength and defense, Zahir struggled to catch the elusive Catalan mercenaries. After several rounds, the situation reached a brief stalemate.

Zahir's nose was bleeding profusely, and his lower abdomen was throbbing with pain. The young mercenary was also rubbing his almost broken ribs, his face was bruised, and his movements were noticeably less agile than before.

Seeing this, the other Catalan mercenaries watching from the sidelines exchanged glances and slowly moved their feet, subtly forming an encirclement around Zahir.

Zahir glanced around, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, and gritted his teeth, saying, "What, you can't beat them one-on-one, so you want to swarm them? You really are a bunch of lowlifes!"

"What's the point of talking about honor with you heretics!" The mercenary leader sneered, raising his hand as a brawl seemed imminent.

Balian could no longer sit still. Although he looked down on this rude Saracen mercenary, he was, after all, a skilled naval warrior personally recruited by Lyon. If letting them fight one-on-one was within the bounds of tolerance, then the fact that the other party was openly ganging up on him was an insult to Lyon and the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

He took a deep breath, stood up, took a heavy money bag from the leather pouch at his waist, walked between the two sides who were on the verge of fighting, raised the money bag high, and said in a voice that was not loud but clearly reached everyone's ears: "I don't care what grudges you have. This Saracen is now loyal to my master. I hope this little money can make you forget the unpleasantness before."

The eldest mercenary at the head of the group froze, his eyes bloodshot, his voice filled with suppressed grief and indignation: "Money? Can money bring back our brothers who died at sea, feeding the fish and shrimp?!"

Balian's expression remained unchanged as he took out another bag of money and placed it on the table: "Two bags."

"What do you take us for! You think money can buy you this attitude!"

"Three bags," Barry paused, then took out a gleaming gold coin from his pocket and gently pressed it on the money bag, "plus this."

The mercenary leader stared at the gold coin, his Adam's apple bobbing. He hesitated for a moment, then clutched the money pouch to his chest: "...Deal!"

The mercenaries behind him stared intently at the gleaming gold coins in their leader's hand, their carefully maintained expressions of grief and indignation quickly replaced by embarrassment and greed. They glanced awkwardly at Balian, selectively ignoring Zahir's disdainful look, then turned back to count the coins side by side, occasionally swallowing hard.

Balian cast a disapproving glance at Zahir and hissed, "Zakari, remember your place. You still owe His Highness a ransom. If you cause His Highness further losses through private feuds, you know the consequences yourself."

Zahir clenched his fist.

How frustrating! He used to be so spirited and carefree as a lone wolf at sea! But ever since he crossed paths with that kid named Leon, his fate has been turned upside down. First, he was rejected by Egypt, then he squandered the fleet he'd borrowed from Venice, becoming a mercenary constantly at the mercy of others. And to make matters worse, his wages were used to pay off his former survival money.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. His face flushed red, and his chest heaved violently. But when he met Balian's calm yet furious eyes, he swallowed back all his anger and humiliation, leaving only heavy breathing.

"Let's go." Balian ignored Zahir's reaction, tossed the scimitar on the table to Zahir, and turned to leave.

"Sir, please wait a moment!"

The Catalan mercenaries approached respectfully and called out to Balian.

Barian turned his head, his expression unfriendly, and asked, "Wasn't that money enough?"

"No, no! Your Excellency, you've misunderstood!" The mercenary leader quickly waved his hands, his face full of smiles. "Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Catalan, the leader of this mercenary group. As you just heard, we had a big job in Sicily, but this Saracen ruined it, and we've lost everything. We're in dire need of a new client."

The mercenary leader, named Catalan, continued, "Your generosity suggests your master must be a very important figure. Since your master employs this Saracen, he probably wouldn't mind recruiting us, would he? We are experts in javelin throwing, skilled in mountain warfare. In the mountains, we are second to none; even a noble knight wouldn't withstand our javelins and swords!"

"Don't underestimate us just because we're small now. Most of our brothers are camped outside the city, and we also have many unemployed brothers back in Catalonia. When we gather them all together, we'll have nearly a thousand men!" Catalonia and the mercenaries behind him looked at Balian expectantly. They had just experienced a defeat, and they couldn't let go of this opportunity to reopen.

Balian thought for a moment and said, "I can't make that decision. If you're interested, you might as well come with me to see my... lord, and he will decide for himself whether to employ you."

Catalonia was overjoyed upon hearing this and quickly bowed, saying, "It's an honor! I owe it all to your recommendation!"