The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 180 "Wild Boar" Alexei Branas

Chapter 180 "Wild Boar" Alexei Branagh (Part 1)

The last rays of the setting sun, like golden bloodstains, were smeared on the battlefield along the Sangarios River.

Branas's cavalry began to regroup like the receding tide, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation.

Broken weapons, fallen warhorses, and the bodies of Turkic archers who were either dead or captured and unable to escape.

The Pechenegs shouted as they drove away the prisoners, while the Latin mercenaries busied themselves looting the spoils. The armored paladins stood on the perimeter like silent steel sculptures, watching their surroundings.

Before the meticulously prepared mud traps, the soldiers of the Jerusalem chariot formation remained steadfast at their posts, but the tension had eased, and many turned their gazes westward to the imperial army that had suddenly appeared and turned the tide with lightning speed, and to the legendary commander.

Lyon took a deep breath, suppressing the surging doubts, anger, and a hint of displeasure at being used as bait.

He gestured to open a gap in the wagon formation, and together with Henry and only a few guards, headed towards the direction where the Branagh banners were.

In any case, the other party was the nominal supreme commander of the Eastern Front and an ally who had just been relieved of the siege, even though the siege may have been caused by him.

Branas had dismounted and was listening to an adjutant quickly report the results and losses.

He did not remove his armor; the blood-stained battle robe clung to his scale armor, adding to his fierce appearance.

He was surrounded by a dozen trusted guards, each with sharp eyes and a battle-hardened appearance.

Lyon stopped at an appropriate distance and bowed slightly, as one would to a high-ranking imperial commander and elder: "On behalf of the Crown Prince of Jerusalem and an ally, I greet you, Commander-in-Chief Branas. Thank you for your timely support."

Henry also bowed respectfully.

Branagh seemed to then shift his attention away from the battle report.

He turned around, his old but deep eyes sweeping over, first landing on Lyon, lingering for a very brief moment, then his gaze, with undisguised interest, passed over Lyon and locked firmly on Henry beside him.

He didn't respond to Lyon's greeting at all, nor did he even dismount for a reciprocal greeting. He simply nodded slightly from his horse, as if to acknowledge it.

Then, he spurred his warhorse, and with a clatter of hooves, he walked straight past Lyon, who was standing still, as if he didn't see him at all.

The wind stirred by the warhorse gently ruffled Leon's hair, and Leon stood there, momentarily bewildered.

Branagh's target is Henry.

He reined in his horse a few steps in front of Henry, looking down at him with the gaze of someone examining a fine weapon.

"You," Branas began, his voice booming with approval, "the one who built this wagon formation, you?"

He raised his whip and pointed to the exemplary defensive fortifications of the Jerusalem army.

The tightly packed vehicles, the menacing barricades, the strategically positioned firing positions, and the muddy trap zone that now seemed particularly ingenious, which had swallowed up the Turkic cavalry.

"With their backs to the water and against the hill, using their chariots as walls, they turned passivity into a trap. Especially that half-open door," it drove the Turkic light cavalry, eager to find weaknesses, into a death trap—very classical, but used with great cunning. Not something those Latin knights who merely copied dogma could have come up with." He nodded appreciatively. "And those crossbowmen, holding back until the very last moment before firing in unison—their discipline and obedience are rare among mercenaries. Those who command them need both an iron fist and ingenuity."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed intently on Henry, as if trying to see through his armor to his very essence: "The Kingdom of Jerusalem—I've heard they have a few capable fighters. Was it Guy de Lucignan who gave Saladin a hard time in the Bekaa Valley? Or was it Balian of Ibelin, the legendary warrior who could single-handedly hold off dozens? Which one are you—or have you finally produced a general with a bit of brains under that old fox Raymond?"

The scene was completely silent.

Not only were Lyon and Henry stunned, but even some soldiers from both sides who had overheard the conversation showed expressions of astonishment.

This imperial commander completely ignored the self-proclaimed Crown Prince of Jerusalem, and instead showed great interest in a knight who was clearly one of his subordinates, even speculating that he might be some other famous figure.

Even if Branagh is the commander-in-chief of the Eastern Front, he has no right to put on airs in front of the true heir to the throne.

Lyon's expression darkened slightly, but he held it in.

After a brief moment of surprise, a flash of understanding and coldness quickly crossed Henry's dark green eyes, which were then covered by a perfectly polite smile.

Henry stepped forward and bowed again to Branas, his posture respectful and gentle, saying, "Your Excellency, Commander, you flatter me. The design and final decision of the defense were made by my lord, His Highness Prince Lyon of Jerusalem. I was only responsible for execution and some adjustments to the formation. The discipline of the crossbowmen also stems from His Highness's rigorous training. As for my name, I am Henry of Jerusalem, His Highness's squire, nothing more."

Upon hearing this, Branagh turned his gaze to Lyon for the first time.

His gaze lingered on Lyon's still-youthful face for a few seconds, his lips twitched, and he let out a clear, cold snort.

"Sir Henry, is that it?" He looked at Henry again, his tone of approval turning into mockery. "To glorify your master, you're even willing to give up the battlefield honors you earned with your own hands? Such loyalty is indeed touching."

Then, as if bestowing a handout, he said to Lyon, "A mere child, not even fully grown in the ground, instead of learning etiquette in the safety of a palace, running off to play sandcastle games on the battlefield of Anatolia? Is Jerusalem out of options? Or do you think sending a child will make you seem more serious about the covenant?"

The air around him seemed to freeze.

Anger flared on the faces of the Jerusalem soldiers, and their hands unconsciously tightened their grip on their weapons.

Branagh's personal guards remained expressionless, their eyes wary.

Lyon felt his blood rush to his head, but his time-traveling mind and years of court training forced him to remain calm.

He raised his head to meet Branas's imposing gaze, and said neither humbly nor arrogantly, "Your Excellency Branas, age has never been a measure of talent and courage, just as the length of a beard does not indicate whether its owner is wise. In Constantinople, our ally, His Majesty Basilius Alexius II, was also entrusted with a critical mission at a young age, demonstrating wisdom and decisiveness in a treacherous palace coup, and ultimately consolidating the Komnen dynasty."

"And then there's my brother—Baldwin de Anjou, who ascended the throne at 13 and defeated Saladin at Montigisa at 16. Young heroes are not uncommon throughout the land. While I dare not call myself a hero, I have a clear conscience as I led the army to fulfill the alliance at the behest of my brother, the King. But you, sir," he shifted his tone slightly, asking rhetorically, "as a veteran of the Empire and a pillar of the Eastern Front, shouldn't you uphold Roman etiquette and the magnanimity of a commander when facing allies who have come from afar?"