Siege (1): The Merchant with the Whip
A merchant gripped a whip. Below him, children who hadn't yet shed their boyish innocence were bound in iron chains and dragged off somewhere.
"Move it, you slugs!"
The whip cracked against the ground, and the slaves flinched. They hadn't been struck themselves, but just yesterday they'd watched a friend—someone they'd been with until then—whipped as an example until he couldn't walk on his own two feet.
Even amid the lashing, one boy didn't cower. He simply walked forward.
Two years earlier, before he'd been tricked by a merchant and brought here, the boy had lived an ordinary life. His name was Alberto.
Most Muslims bought Catholic slaves to turn into concubines or train as slave soldiers. That's why young girls and boys fetched high prices, with plenty of buyers. But that only held true up to age five, before their sense of identity had fully formed.
From eight to thirteen—the years when a child started forming their own thoughts, becoming a proper boy—their value plummeted. They didn't obey, they were weaker than adults, and they couldn't match grown men in labor. Merchants still tried to sell them as merchandise, but boys like Alberto, who'd defied their masters a few times, were worthless.
So they'd been dragged out here. As arrow fodder.
"So this is how I die."
Alberto gazed calmly at the sea. Viking longships were approaching, skimming the waves like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, radiating terror.
Once those ships landed, he could escape this hellish life.
Unlike the detached Alberto, one boy clung to him in terror.
"I don't want to die... I don't want to die..."
"I want to live... Mommy..."
They looked about eight or nine. Seeing them stirred memories of Alberto's own childhood.
"..."
In truth, Alberto didn't want to die either. He wanted to live. But there was no escaping the death bearing down on them. The moment the Vikings set foot on the shore, everything would be destroyed.
At that moment, tears welled in the boy's eyes.
"Hic... sob... sob..."
He wanted to run, but he couldn't. The slave traders had bound their feet to prevent escape. Crawling might save him, but it would only hasten death under Viking boots.
Thus the shoreline filled with the tears of young boys.
And then death—the Vikings—landed.
Fierce-faced with tattoos, just as the rumors said. The boy slaves froze as one, tears halting. Some clamped hands over their mouths to stifle sobs.
An eerie silence blanketed the shore.
The man who seemed to be the Vikings' leader began inspecting the boys. He reached Alberto.
Speaking an unknown tongue.
As the leader turned to leave, one word caught Alberto's ear.
"Reggio Calabria!"
"Ho... are you looking for Reggio Calabria, my lord?"
"A lad who speaks our language. Are you from Reggio Calabria?"
"Y... yes, my lord."
The leader pondered briefly. Sensing a chance at survival, Alberto pressed forward.
"I... I'm from there. If you... if you spare me..."
But then a sinister whistle filled the sky.
Shuuuuwook.
Arrows darkened the heavens. The Vikings drew shields, blocking them with seasoned skill.
But the boys, dragged shieldless to the shore, lay utterly exposed.
Alberto was no exception. Death hurtled toward him.
In that instant, the Viking leader shielded him with his own body.
"M... my lord?"
"Use your shields to protect the boys. That's an order."
At the command, the Vikings formed a shield wall around the children. The arrow volley ended, and thanks to them, every boy survived.
"Arrow attack's over. Weapons up! In the name of God!"
An unexpected phrase from a Viking's lips. With it came a Catholic cross and the banner of Reggio Calabria.
The Muslims cursed.
"Reggio Calabria's bought off the Vikings!"
"Filthy Catholics!"
Vikings as mercenaries was common knowledge. So Messina's Muslims assumed these raiders were in Reggio Calabria's pay.
Messina and Reggio Calabria faced each other across the strait. Messina teemed with Muslims; Reggio Calabria with Christians. Both bridged North Africa and Italy, key Mediterranean chokepoints, thriving on intermediary trade.
They saw each other as rivals, bitter enemies. Without the other, either could monopolize the wealth.
Convinced of Reggio Calabria's involvement, the Muslims viewed this not as mere plunder but war. They retreated to the walls, preparing for siege.
The Vikings pursued, weapons raised.
"Chase them all!"
The leader's shout drew roars as they hounded the foe. They reached the walls and attacked, but without proper siege gear against sturdy stone, they fell back.
They didn't retreat empty-handed.
"Messina's as rich as they say!"
"Plenty to loot!"
They'd raided the market near the walls, grabbing valuables.
Unlike peninsula-tipped Reggio Calabria, island Messina used the sea as a natural barrier and placed markets outside for logistics—lacking Reggio's navigable rivers.
Perfect for Viking plunder.
"Grab it quick!"
"Back before the wall rats notice!"
Too much looting might tip them off that this was pillage, not conquest. Sated, the Vikings withdrew.
Having loaded their longships, the Vikings ebbed like the tide.
Alberto blinked in astonishment.
"Ready to withdraw!"
"Robert! Let's go!"
The leader who'd shielded him turned. Alberto's eyes widened. If they left, slavery awaited. Escape now or never.
"Sp... spare me, my lord. If you take me home, I'll repay my ransom."
"You don't look like you could. What do you think, Robert?"
A hulking man approached the leader—another chieftain, it seemed.
"Still deciding, brother Humphrey."
"What's to decide? Even if there's room on the longships, better to grab another sheep than fill it with brats."
Alberto knew his worth. Defiance had cheapened him below a lamb's. He couldn't easily rebut Humphrey.
Silence fell. Robert turned for the ship. Alberto couldn't lose this final chance.
To prove his value, he shouted.
"I know Reggio Calabria better than anyone—every alley shortcut!"
"Truly?"
Robert showed interest. Alberto nodded.
"I know a secret path behind the walls to slip inside."
A rat hole.
Humphrey, who'd dismissed him earlier, spoke.
"Perfect! If you know that, seizing Reggio Calabria's just a matter of time..."
"Brother."
"Urk..."
Humphrey realized his slip. Alberto instantly grasped his new worth.
"Whew... fine. You're free. But show us that rat hole first."
"Free me and all these children, and I'll tell you."
"You little shit! That's not what you said before!"
Humphrey barked, but Alberto stared only at Robert, unflinching.
"What's your decision, my lord?"
"Deal."
"R... really?"
"But this covers freeing you and your friends. How will you pay the rest of your ransoms?"
As Robert said, they were still slaves. Ransom paid freedom.
"I'll serve as a mercenary for three years."
"Ha! Who'd take brats like you..."
Uwaaaaa!
Muslim soldiers surged onto the shore. Time short, Humphrey shut up.
"I lose nothing in death. But you, my lord... you stand to lose much."
"A brat playing with his life."
Robert's face showed more audacity than disbelief. He drew his sword—and leveled it at Alberto.
Alberto regretted overstepping.
But the sword moved faster than regret.
Shiiik.
A dull clank. The chains on Alberto's ankles fell away.
"Free all the boys' shackles and bring them to the ships. We withdraw with them!"
At Robert's command, sobs echoed unbroken across the shore.