The Battle of the Strait
Thus began the battle in the strait. Though Duke Gerard of Calabria had long suffered at the hands of Mahdia's pirates, that didn't mean he had forgotten all his battle experience. These were descendants of Vikings who had crossed the rough North Sea. Crossing a warm strait with gentle currents was child's play for them. In fact, Geoffrey and Humphrey had crossed it before when seizing Reggio Calabria, using it to provoke Messina. The short distance allowed them to slip across undetected, staging it to look like Reggio Calabria's doing and sparking fights between the two sides. For Vikings, crossing the strait was no issue.
"There was a brief skirmish, but we emerged victorious in the end."
Count Bodewin—Gerard—flashed a satisfied smile. His staff officer praised his exploits.
"The moment you appeared, my lord, the enemy fled. Your fame must have spread even to Sicily."
"Haha. With Muslims, that's to be expected. After all, I was Duke Gerard of Lorraine's sword."
Count Bodewin's pride soared sky-high. Gerard had indeed served under the heroic Duke of Lorraine, papal army commander who had defended Italy from countless Muslim invasions, earning great renown. The staff officer's flattery wasn't exaggerated. But in this battle, he hadn't truly shone. Cavalry played no role in the naval clash—they'd just calmed the horses aboard ship. The actual fighting fell to Vikings and troops from southern Italian city-states like Bari and Naples. And even that "battle" was hardly worthy of the name, just scrappy Mahdia pirate scouts hunting prey. In short, Count Bodewin Gerard had done nothing noteworthy.
"Anyway, we've landed safely. Now it's our turn to take the lead."
"Indeed, my lord."
Having crossed the strait, it was time for the cavalry to shine—attacking vile Muslim cities, freeing captive Christians, and etching their names as great heroes. As the count basked in rosy dreams, Humphrey appeared behind him.
"There you are."
The count eyed the duke warily. "What do you want?"
"Just checking if you were still alive since I hadn't seen you."
Humphrey's nonchalant reply. As the count opened his mouth to retort, his eyes fell on Muslims bound in chains behind him.
"You've already taken prisoners, I see."
"Prisoners? No, they're slaves."
The count faltered at "slaves"—property, implying they'd focused on plunder over fighting.
"Aren't you too fixated on capturing slaves instead of God's will?"
Humphrey burst out laughing, pointing at the count. "Feeling pity for heathens? Or jealous of my plundering?"
Humphrey's barb was hard to counter. It was less pity for infidels and more envy of his ability to snag hordes of slaves mid-crossing. Admitting it, though, would mean conceding inferiority. So the count feigned pious devotion.
"God's mercy spreads wide. Better give them a chance to convert."
"Jealousy, plain and simple. Fine, we'll handle conversions—just stay out of it."
Humphrey waved him off dismissively. As the count bristled, Geoffrey appeared as if on cue.
"I thought you were operating separately after landing."
The count scowled at Geoffrey's words, forced to back down.
"I was just leaving anyway."
Geoffrey smiled thinly, making the sign of the cross. "May God's grace be with you."
The count nodded curtly and led his cavalry away. Once gone, Humphrey sidled up to Geoffrey, grinning.
"How was my acting, brother?"
"You've improved. Scratching just enough to make him dance to our tune."
"That's a compliment?"
Geoffrey clapped his shoulder instead of answering.
"More importantly, time is short. To fully exploit what Emperor Rogerius gave us, we'll need more labor."
Behind them waited a horde of slaves, all destined for the silk industry.
"But doesn't sericulture require skill? More laborers won't help if they lack it."
Humphrey tilted his head. Geoffrey sighed and continued.
"You've seen those dyeing silk lately whose fingertips turn blue and who drop dead young, right?"
Cinnabar, the mineral for red silk dye, abundant in Calabrian mines and cheap to produce. But dyers using it died young.
"I have. But why bring it up now...?"
"Rogerius mentioned it last time—the mineral's poisonous."
Mercury, mined with cinnabar. Humanity had used it since before ancient Rome but didn't grasp its danger. It accumulated in the body, often mixed with other toxins.
"Poison...? How did Rogerius know?"
"Apparently, it's a common poison in the East Roman Empire."
Half-true: not used purely as poison, but deadly in combination. Few recognized it. Even with modern knowledge, Rogerius simplified it as an Eastern Roman staple.
"Anyway, we'll put the slaves to mining cinnabar and dyeing silk with the red pigment from grinding it."
Too hazardous for Calabrian folk, so the duke planned mass deployment of captives.
* * *
Dong! Dong! Dong! Alarm bells rang out in Messina. Screams soon echoed around.
"E-enemies!"
"The infidels are attacking!"
The sudden Christian raid threw peaceful residents into chaos.
"M-Mommy!"
"Son! Over here! Hurry!"
People fled toward the walls. Hundreds jammed the gates in moments.
"The people are crowding in, my lord. What now?"
Messina's lord, watching from the ramparts, ordered the gatekeeper crisply.
"Close the gates."
"But they—"
"Let them in, and cavalry could slip through, endangering the whole city. Move!"
Cold but correct. Open gates for refugees meant vulnerability to cavalry. Closing now saved more lives.
"Understood... Close the gates!"
Soldiers obeyed. Some refugees crawled under, desperate to enter.
"Save us too!"
"Don't abandon us!"
The lord ignored their pleas, issuing orders.
"Intel says the enemy main force is mostly cavalry. As an expedition, hold the gates and they'll withdraw once supplies run low."
Medieval walls were fortresses; sieges were attrition wars, waiting out supplies. Invaders were at a disadvantage.
"We obey."
"Your will is ours."
The soldiers awaited the Christian cavalry. Dust rose in the distance as a mounted force approached.
"Crosses. Papal zealots, then."
The lord recognized them instantly from past clashes with Gerard in Calabria.
As cavalry appeared, folk fled the walls. Count Bodewin Gerard didn't bother chasing fleeing Muslims—impossible to outrun horse in open plains. They headed for beaches, woods, or hills to escape pursuit. Thus, Gerard halted before the walls, raising Duke Gerard of Lorraine's banner and bellowing.
"Vile heathens! This land was once under God's light, Christian soil. Your foul presence corrupts our homeland and debases its morals. We are God's envoys come to smite you demons. Drop your arms and surrender, and we'll grant merciful, painless deaths."
Arrogant ultimatum. The interpreter relayed it; the lord closed his eyes briefly, unmoved by the provocation. He ascended the wall and replied.
"Allah is heaven and cosmic truth. I pity not your ignorance blaspheming your god. Allah is merciful—begone, foreigners."
Hearing this, the count drew his weapon, refusal confirmed.
"Blasphemers of God shall find no forgiveness. Lord, grant them rest (Dona eis requiem)!"
The Battle of Messina began. Long after, amid the fight, Vikings had kidnapped nearly ten thousand Muslims—a fact unknown to the count and lord alike.