Chapter 45: I, Leo, Challenge Only the Elite

A few days later, the camp at Pisa welcomed a rather peculiar group of guests.

Hundreds of soldiers were unloaded from the transport ships, stumbling about in utter disarray. Most striking of all, their clothes were tattered, their appearance more akin to a band of beggars than to an army. Were it not for the short daggers at their waists and the leather shields slung across their backs, one might well have mistaken them for vagrants come to plead for alms.

Enrico, leading the group, seemed to have blended in with them, his face smeared with dust and grime. He approached Leo, and upon seeing the pristine white robes of the bishop, hesitated to step forward, worried his filth would sully Leo’s garments and embarrass himself.

Yet Leo embraced him warmly, paying no heed to the dust clinging to Enrico.

“Thank you, Enrico.”

After their embrace, Leo turned his gaze to the soldiers gathered behind Enrico.

These men, Corsicans by birth, possessed unmistakable traits. The saying holds true: wild mountains and harsh waters breed tough folk. Corsicans had long been famed for their fierce and martial nature. By the time of the Renaissance, waves of Corsican immigrants poured into Rome, overwhelming the local nobility and leaving them helpless.

They were brave, skilled in battle, and, above all, inexpensive.

But only kinship could truly organize them.

Fortunately, Leo had Enrico—otherwise, he would never have dared to employ Corsican troops.

“Sir, your robes…” Enrico, still embarrassed, stepped forward to brush the dust from Leo’s vestments.

Leo stopped him, instead pointing to the men Enrico had brought.

“Are those men ready to be deployed?” Leo asked. “I had planned to train them, but it seems time is too short.”

“Don’t worry, sir, they’re all our local boys.” Enrico patted his chest in assurance.

With Enrico’s guarantee, Leo relaxed slightly.

The Corsicans’ homeland was a place of hardship. The small island produced little, and its people had long endured the oppression of Tuscan nobles and Pisa’s wealthy merchants. Family feuds and blood vengeance were a way of life, and fighting was a daily occurrence.

“I need you to spread your men out in the Apennine Mountains, for the enemy is likely to advance from that direction.”

Leo pulled Enrico aside, placing an arm around his shoulder and outlining the task in a quiet corner.

“Why the Apennines?” Enrico asked. “Wouldn’t they take the Via Emilia through Genoa?”

“That’s not your concern,” Leo replied. “Just follow the Serchio River, watch those mountain paths, and most importantly, don’t let the enemy discover you.”

Only then did Enrico understand.

The mission was not to intercept the enemy, but to serve as scouts.

And truly, Leo had chosen the right men.

“Rest assured, sir!” Enrico pressed a hand to his chest. “We Corsicans excel at this.”

“Good.”

Leo patted Enrico’s shoulder, his satisfaction evident.

With this arrangement, no matter how strong the Duke of Lorraine’s forces, they would be forced to bow to him.

“I’ll take them there at once.”

Enrico glanced at the soldiers, showing not a hint of pity.

“After all, they’re just country lads. A little bread and water is all they need to hide in the hills.”

As he spoke, Leo took a purse from the hands of an attendant nearby.

The heavy purse caught Enrico by surprise.

“Bring the soldiers over.” Leo gestured to them. “Let each man come forward, collect his reward, and then proceed with the mission.”

Rewarding them now?

Enrico hesitated, unsure of Leo’s intentions. The stingy feudal lords never paid their conscripts in advance.

But in the end, Enrico asked no questions.

He brought the soldiers over, and each one came before Leo to receive a silver coin.

They all reached out with both hands, their eyes brimming with gratitude as they received their payment.

When the last, simple-minded soldier approached, Leo tossed him the final coin.

“Bishop, you’re truly a good man,”

Marco said, taking his coin and flattering Leo with a broad grin.

“I’ve never met someone so kind in my life. Bishop, you’re a living saint!”

Leo waved away Marco’s words, not taking them to heart.

Such men, drawn from the lower ranks, were ever so easily swayed by small acts of generosity, repaying them with boundless thanks.

“What’s your name?” Leo asked him.

“Marco. My lord gave me the name,” Marco replied.

“A fine name.”

Just as Leo was about to continue, Corrado approached, whispering something in his ear. As he spoke, Corrado glanced at Enrico.

Enrico caught the hint, promptly pulling Marco away so as not to interfere with Leo’s business.

As he left, Enrico nodded to Leo, who returned the gesture before devoting his attention to Corrado’s news.

“Have you confirmed the identity of the man from Parma?” Leo asked.

Corrado nodded. “Absolutely. He brought Bishop Honorius’s ring and says he has a message for you.”

“Bring him here.”

No sooner had Leo spoken than Corrado hurried off. Moments later, he returned with a Mediterranean monk, bald and robust, leading him before Leo.

When the monk arrived, he paused, then asked,

“You are Bishop Leo, the one who sold the relic of Saint Callistus I?”

“I am. What of it?” Leo replied boldly.

Selling relics, though not strictly against canon law at the time, was certainly frowned upon. Should the monk rebuke him, Leo was ready to make the man’s bald head even barer.

Instead, the monk suddenly seized Leo’s hands, gripping them tightly.

Leo recoiled in surprise, stepping back.

Corrado intervened, pulling the monk away, who finally released Leo’s hands.

“Forgive me, sir. I was overwhelmed,”

the monk said, rubbing his hands with an embarrassed smile. Looking at his face, Leo felt a strange familiarity.

If this face belonged to a woman, it would surely be quite beautiful.

Leo wondered at himself for thinking such a thing.

Was his own taste becoming that of a priest?

“I—I am Riccardo. You may have heard of me, b-because…”

Riccardo was so agitated he could barely speak, his emotions tangling his words.

Leo waited patiently for Riccardo to compose himself.

After a muddle of incoherent speech, Riccardo finally managed to swallow, calming himself.

“My sister is Helena.”

“Helena?”

At Riccardo’s words, Leo remembered: Helena had a younger brother studying at the Parma monastery. He had never expected to meet him under such circumstances.

Clearly, Riccardo had heard of Leo’s deeds.

The barbecue Leo orchestrated in Parma was an event the entire city would remember.

Yet Riccardo’s expression showed not disgust, but admiration.

“Sir, I am here to deliver a message.”

Riccardo, recalling his purpose, drew a letter from his breast, sealed with a red wax stamp.

The seal bore the arms of Bishop Honorius of Parma.

“What news? Speak.”

Leo opened his hand for the letter.

As the letter passed into Leo’s hands, Riccardo began to explain.

“The Duke of Lorraine’s army first arrived in Parma, but then claimed reinforcements awaited them in Lucca, so they moved on. I followed them for a while. They didn’t take the coastal Via Emilia—they went by the mountain paths.”

“Are you certain?”

To Leo, this news was heavenly music.

His deception of the messenger Danilo had worked.

Riccardo shrugged, his eyes fixed on the letter in Leo’s hands, as if to say, believe it or not.

Leo unfolded the letter and read.

Honorius’s handwriting was clear, yet his words circled around one theme—the Duke of Lorraine was cunning and cruel, his army ruthless and sly.

In truth, it was nothing but fear.

Honorius repeated his warnings of the strength, morale, and skill of Lorraine’s troops.

But Leo was ready to face the elite.

“Giovanni, Alberto, notify the entire army: we march tomorrow!”