The Bishop's Little Mercenary Problem
"H-he did insult us, but..."
"One cannot simply let an insult pass unanswered."
The words were perfectly reasonable—and yet whether they were reasonable depended entirely on the time and the place. If knights drew their swords every time someone spat a few insults their way, knights would have gone extinct long ago.
So this is the kind of man he is?
The bishop stared at Johan in open bewilderment.
"Why didn't any of you stop him?"
"How were we supposed to intervene, Your Grace?"
The servants and slaves the bishop had brought along protested their innocence with wounded faces. There were barely a few dozen of them, and Johan and his warriors had waded into the fight without a word of warning. What exactly were they supposed to have done?
"Bishop. Pull yourself together."
"Pull myself together! This Biagione has been in full possession of his senses since before this ever began!"
"You have the offenders in custody, do you not? Surely you must now give the order for what is to be done with them?"
At Johan's words, the bishop wondered: Is this knight playing me for a fool? But Johan's face was a world away from anything so petty or underhanded.
It was solemn. Devout, even.
Worse still, the rumors and intelligence the bishop had heard beforehand now tripped him at the ankles. He simply could not bring himself to believe that such a knight was running a con.
Johan's logic was airtight. The situation had already erupted, so someone had to clean it up. That someone happening to be the very knight who had caused it stung a little, admittedly...
"If you assumed I would let such insults slide, then you were gravely mistaken. Sir knight of House Orlon. This Biagione holds no attachment whatsoever to his seat as bishop."
"...?"
The captured knights stared back at him with slack, idiot expressions, their eyes plainly asking, What in the blazes is this old fool on about?
If this much was publicly known, there was certainly far more behind closed doors. Taking bribes. Granting conveniently forgiving confessions for the right price. Fixing the odd trial.
By the time he had clawed his way to the bishopric, he must have earned dozens of times over every gold coin he'd spent getting there.
And what attachment, exactly?
"Your Grace, what in the—"
"Shh. Quiet."
One of the warriors shut the knight's mouth for him. They might get jeered at as barbarians, but this was precisely when such men proved useful. Nobles observed one another's customs and courtesies—savages from the east did no such thing, and could simply take your head.
"This Biagione fears nothing, so long as he may stand upright before God alone... Deliver this message to your master! He shall not insult me again!"
The bishop thundered with all the majesty he could muster. His will to meet threats and insults with force rather than endurance rang out plainly.
Of course, to the knights who knew the bishop's actual circumstances, the reaction was mind-boggling.
Are you genuinely insane, sir?
"Your Grace! What are you—"
"Ah. I said silence."
"Show some respect, you savages!"
"Be grateful we're not killing you. Hmm. Look at this one. Rather a fine ring he's wearing."
"The ransom will be paid separately—do not touch him!"
"What? Calm down before I start taking fingers."
Once the knights had been hauled away, the bishop heaved a long, shuddering sigh. His head was beginning to pound.
Before the knights he had bluffed and postured for the sake of his dignity, but inside, he was burning alive. He wanted nothing more than to shout after them, I'll release you, so let's pretend this never happened!
This was no time for the bishop to be pulling stunts like these. It was a time when restraint a hundred times over would still fall short.
The Church hierarchy had him under accusation for corruption, and the other families of the republic were circling like sharks, scenting blood and eager to tear him apart...
What he had wanted was a mercenary who would guard him with steadfast, doglike loyalty until this affair was settled—not a mad hound off its leash.
Well... at least he's competent, and loyal, I suppose...
Biagione was in the middle of this desperate exercise in self-persuasion when he froze. A good hundred or so of the men were breaking off and moving on their own.
"Wh-where are they going?"
"Apparently that knight's manor lies nearby. They intend to collect protection toll as compensation for the insult suffered."
"No! No pillaging! Absolutely not!"
"It is not pillaging, Your Grace. Merely the lawful collection of what is owed."
"Make them stop at once! That is an order!"
"Ah, dear me. My sincerest apologies. They are rough men who do not heed even my commands in matters such as these..."
Johan lied without so much as wetting his lips. Aclada and Euclia gave a wink of understanding and marched briskly off. The bishop sank into despair.
If the mercenaries I brought massacre the serfs of that village...!
But nothing of the sort happened. In less than half a day, the warriors returned swiftly. No smoke rising in the distance, no screams, no fleeing villagers.
"Did you get everything?"
"Yes!"
"Good. Bishop, you may travel now. To your diocese, if you please."
"...?"
Wearing an expression heavy with worry, the bishop made his decision. Entering Venedo in the current climate was far too dangerous. Better to watch how the wind blew for a while.
So the bishop lodged instead in a village about a day's walk from Venedo. It was a settlement of respectable size, with a temple and priests of its own—and above all, it was ground where the bishop's own family wielded strong influence.
"The, ah... the mercenaries..."
"I know. They won't be allowed inside. Rest easy."
The village chief breathed a sigh of relief at Johan's words. With several hundred warriors camped nearby, fear was the only sensible response. If the horde descended on the village...
Yet contrary to his fears, the warriors under Johan's command were remarkably well-disciplined. Their races and origins varied wildly, but every one of them was bound to Johan by fascination and devotion.
"That's an... unusual way to eat, sir knight?"
Johan had set a pot over the fire and was adding cheese, butter, and pork fat, then dusting in sugar and spices a pinch at a time. Aclada and Euclia watched the process with wide-eyed fascination.
"Suettelgr himself would approve. Cooking is a form of magic, you know. Care to try some?"
"No thank you, sir knight. I respect you deeply, but I'll do my own eating, if it's all the same."
Aclada recoiled in horror, but Euclia thrust out her hand without hesitation and accepted a bowl. Whatever she thought of it, the tempo of her spoon quickened considerably.
"Did you send out the scouts?"
"Yes, sir knight. We'll know before anyone, whatever they may try. And fear not—if need be, we can slip away in a heartbeat."
When stirring up trouble, one had to think of the aftermath as well. Johan remained vigilant against any possible reprisal.
Though he considered such a thing unlikely.
The bishop's rank and family still stood, for one thing, and mobilizing several hundred men for an open attack was a risky proposition at best. Fabricating a plausible pretext would be difficult, and failure would multiply the damage severalfold.
This was a republic—any fight was far more likely to follow the republic's own methods. An accusation against the bishop, say.
And even if the bishop were formally accused, it would cost Johan nothing. Johan needed only to collect what was his and move on.
"If only there were more fools in this world..."
Contrary to the bishop's dread, no great calamity materialized. Even the other families of the city had never imagined the bishop would behave with such sheer recklessness.
"Has Bishop Biagione lost his mind? Pulling a stunt like this in his position?"
"No, no—he's cornered, that's what it is. Desperation has hardened into madness."
"He isn't actually planning to give up the bishopric, is he? Well, well."
"What nonsense is this? My knights are in custody right now! And not only that—the knights of House Orlon too! We must go to the bishop at once and protest in the strongest terms!"
"Go and protest all you like. What has he to lose?"
Had he been trembling in fear of losing his seat, perhaps. But having stirred up this much trouble, he had effectively declared to the world: I am prepared to lose my bishopric.
A man like that was hardly going to release prisoners and come suing for peace.
Frankly, it was astonishing. That greedy old lecher, actually ready to surrender his seat.
"Let us accuse him! In the name of the Grand Council!"
"A trial would only make things messier for everyone."
The families of the Grand Council coveted Bishop Biagione's office—but only because the circumstances finally permitted it.
The corruption Biagione had piled up over the years had grown so heavy that even the Church hierarchy could no longer look away. A secular trial in the city was a separate matter entirely.
The bishop had a family of his own, and gold enough to spread in bribes. There was no guarantee of victory even if it did go to trial.
"S-so we simply leave it be, then?"
Gareld, a patrician of the Grand Council, shot back in open disbelief. An imperial-born noble, Gareld kept a handful of knights in his retinue thanks to those old connections—and they had been captured in a neat little row.
"From what the Church circles say, the bishop will lose his seat regardless. Wait, and he'll strip himself of the office and shuffle off on his own. Why trouble ourselves? And what if we push for a trial and lose?"
"It's precisely because you start with losing that nothing gets done!"
"Let it rest. The ransom can't be all that steep."
The lukewarm response of his fellow councilors made Gareld's blood boil.
When it was time to drive out the bishop and carve up his revenues, you all clung together like ticks. And now, when it counts, you play it safe.
"Without my knights at your disposal, you'd all be in a fine predicament, wouldn't you? Those flimsy mercenaries of yours..."
"Ha! Mind your tongue, Sir Gareld."
"This is exactly what's wrong with you imperial types..."
Between the imperial-born and the natives of the Catalia Peninsula lay a gulf of fundamental difference.
Gareld, imperial-born, naturally believed the Empire's knights and warriors to be the finest in the world—and that insolent self-assurance got under everyone else's skin.
But no amount of Gareld's jumping up and down mattered if the others refused to move. In the end, the meeting concluded with nothing accomplished and a single resolution: we wait for the bishop to be cast out.
"You see, Bishop? The faithful are ever sheltered by God's own hand."
Johan had discovered a taste for baiting the bishop. The way Biagione's face twisted with every pious pronouncement was endlessly entertaining.
"Do not speak of things you understand nothing about, brother."
"What say we strike at the lands of the men who insulted you? They cannot even show their faces—ashamed of themselves as they are."
"Please, calm down! I beg you, please!"
The bishop scrambled in a panic to restrain him.
Why in God's name did I summon an imperial-born knight?!
In the Empire, this was simply how such fights went. Feel your honor slighted, gather your household soldiers, and attack. It was a custom handed down for generations, and no one dared meddle in quarrels between nobles.
—I exercise the right that God has granted me!
But behave that way in a republic, and you were branded a savage. This was not the Empire. The bishop's temples throbbed with pain—
Wait. It's quiet?
Astonishingly, his political enemies showed no movement whatsoever. To the bishop, this was deeply disorienting.
I expected accusations to come flying in, rumors and slanders spreading like wildfire...
A civilized, cultured fight in the republic proceeded as follows.
First came the accusation, then hired citizens loyal to your enemy fanning the slanders far and wide. Naturally, by that point your own side had to counter with rumors of its own.
If things escalated further, there would be knife fights in the streets, night raids, even assassinations...
And yet the enemy was simply sitting there, doing nothing at all.
Why?
Biagione could not make sense of it. Could it be—fear?
"...?"
Biagione turned his gaze on Johan. True, the man had accomplished something truly extraordinary of late, but...
They're actually afraid of this knight?
"Bishop. It seems we have visitors."
"?"
In the distance, a procession was making its way toward them. One glance at the banners, and the bishop knew at once who it was. Gareld—one of the Grand Council.
"Bishop! Surely this is all a misunderstanding!"
"It is no misunderstanding!"
Johan kicked the table over beside them. At the sudden flash of steel, Gareld flinched and staggered back a step. Johan's gaze was that of a wild beast—meeting it made the heart pound and the limbs tremble.
"The knights you sent insulted the bishop! And still you call yourselves men of God?"
"Now, what in the—"
"How dare you behave so before Sir Gareld!"
One of Gareld's guards moved his hand toward his sword, intending to calm Johan down. Johan preferred a simpler method.
"Urk!"
The guard was seized by the collar, hauled forward, and had his head taken firmly in hand. His knees folded of their own accord. Before that monstrous strength, the man could not so much as twitch.
"I am a poor and lowly knight, but I know right from wrong! Offer a proper apology and perform due penance! Until then, the prisoners will not be released!"
"Br-brother, please, I implore you, calm—"
At the sight of Johan smashing compromise, negotiation, and everything else to splinters, the bishop sank into despair. Gareld simply gaped. Did that knight have any idea just how corrupt this Bishop Biagione truly was?