The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 67 Milan

After receiving instructions from the Doge of Venice, Lyon and his party sailed to Anatolia, but made a detour and lingered in Robert's hometown of Milan for more than half a month.

His first impression of the city was not its later-renowned fashion and luxury, but a craftsmanship spirit deeply rooted in its bones—for example, when he played Kingdom Come: Deliverance, he didn't know how many Milanese breastplates he stole from Kutenberg.

The stone and wood houses lining the streets of Milan are almost entirely workshops on the ground floor, emitting clanging sounds and the smell of forging. The air is filled with the intense aroma of leather, wool oil, and metal quenching.

As the heart of the Lombardy plain, Milan has become a major commercial hub connecting the north and south. On the streets, one can hear not only local Latin but also Germanic accents from Venice, Genoa, and even north of the Alps.

Along the river in the eastern part of the city, Milan's textile workshops are scattered. In the stone troughs by the river, workers are vigorously treading and washing bolts of wool fabric, the hum of spinning wheels and the clanging of looms filling the air.

Robert told Lyon with a touch of emotion that nearly half of the workshops in this bustling scene were registered under his name. However, there was no trace of pride in his expression, but rather a hint of unresolved heaviness.

"Robert, you don't seem to care much?" Leon couldn't help but ask. "With such a large and successful family, why would you choose to leave your hometown and run a building materials business in Acre?"

Robert paused for a moment, then slowly said, "There's no secret to the textile business; it all comes down to 'human resources.' The most direct way for a businessman to make a profit is to lower wages, and workers, in order to earn a living, have no choice but to endure it."

He made the sign of the cross, his eyes filled with remorse: "I used to take it for granted until I realized that this was something only the devil would do! Now, I only wish to maintain these workshops, keep them in balance, and stop expanding them."

It turns out that Robert felt he had committed some sin in the past, which is why he was so actively cooperating with the Holy Land in order to beg for God's forgiveness.

“Perhaps,” Lyon said mysteriously, “we have a way to make the workers suffer without making the workshop more miserable, and even… to allow them to live a more dignified life.”

Robert looked up abruptly, his eyes filled with surprise and confusion.

Lyon did not answer directly, but walked to a pile of wood ash in the yard that was prepared for washing raw silk.

"You're currently using wood ash and water to clean raw silk, right? It's okay at removing oil, but it leaves too many impurities, damaging the silk threads and affecting the quality." He casually picked up an abandoned wooden bucket, took a stone, and chiseled a small hole in the bottom.

"Find a craftsman to make something even more exquisite." He gestured as he spoke, "In this bucket, from top to bottom, lay fine sand, a layer of dense linen, and then, most importantly, wood ash, covered with another layer of sand. Pour boiling water down from the top of the bucket, and after passing through layers of filtration, the water flowing from the bottom will become exceptionally clear. Using this water to wash silk will not only not damage the silk, but will also greatly increase the luster and resilience of the silk threads."

Robert, being an expert, immediately grasped the key: "Filter out the impurities...leave behind alkaline water! Brilliant! This will elevate the silk's quality significantly, at least doubling the price!"

"As for the efficiency of spinning," Lyon picked up a twig and drew a simple spinning wheel on the ground, then drew eight spindles side by side next to it. "The current spinning wheel, turning a large wheel, can only drive one spindle. What if we built a device that allows a single drive wheel to drive eight, or even sixteen, vertically arranged spindles simultaneously through clever gears?"

He looked at the women working diligently spinning yarn not far away: "One woman can spin the amount of yarn that would normally be produced by eight women by simply turning this device. We don't need to exploit more people or extend working hours, yet efficiency can increase eightfold. This way, output skyrockets, costs plummet, and we can use a portion of the extra profits to raise wages. The workers benefit from increased efficiency, not suffer from exploitation. This is the true path to salvation, Robert, through wisdom and technology, not by sacrificing the well-being of others."

Robert stood frozen, his gaze shifting between the crude sketch on the ground and Lyon. The doubt on his face gradually gave way to an incredulous excitement, as if he were witnessing a completely new world. He murmured to himself, "My God! A wheel... driving eight spindles... This... this will change everything..."

At this moment, in Robert's eyes, Lyon was like a god.

Lyon threw down the branch and clapped his hands. He didn't think it was a big deal. There was only an information gap between him and Robert. In his previous life, he was just a miserable liberal arts college student. If it came down to business acumen, he couldn't beat Robert even if there were a hundred of them.

"Where did Balian and Zahir go?" Leon looked around. "They were just here a moment ago."

Meanwhile, in a tavern in eastern Milan, Balian sat uneasily on a bench, his fingers unconsciously tracing the handle of a fine wooden cup.

They were traveling with Lyon through eastern Milan when Zahir suddenly started clamoring for a drink at a tavern. Why hadn't he come back yet after all this time?

A burst of rough laughter suddenly erupted from the center of the tavern.

"Look who's here! What has the Mediterranean wind blew all the way to Milan?"

Balian looked up, his heart sinking.

Zahir was surrounded by five or six burly, dark-skinned men in front of the bar. These men were of medium height and lean build, dressed in uniform sleeveless leather armor, wearing round-topped iron helmets, with small butcher knives resembling pig-slaughtering knives hanging from their waists, and carrying bags of javelins about half a person's height on their backs.

Zahir kept retreating, his back to Balian, his right hand already on the hilt of the curved sword at his waist.

He responded in Latin with a heavy Saracen accent, coldly replying, "Who do we have here? Just a bunch of stray dogs whose shoes have been soaked by the waves, who can only hide on land and bark."

"What did you say? Muslim swine!" A scarred leader among the mercenaries suddenly stepped forward, almost touching Zahir.

"You bully people at sea because your ship is fast, do you dare to try Grandpa's javelin on land?" Before he finished speaking, his companions had already spread out in unison, forming a semi-circle around Zahir.

Seeing this, the other patrons in the tavern huddled in the corners or quietly slipped out the door.

Balian immediately stood up, wanting to step forward and dissuade them, but the words caught in his throat. He was not a good talker and disliked fighting, so he could only watch anxiously.

"Try?" Zahir sneered, his gaze sweeping over the bundle of javelins on the other side. "I did try your javelins near Sicily last time; they rained down like rain, but alas, they couldn't even pierce many of my sails. As for your poor transport ship, laden with… what was it again? Right, wine and silk for some young Sicilian lord—it's probably feeding fish at the bottom of the sea now!"

"You fucking want to die!" another young mercenary roared, reaching for his knife. The scarred leader raised his hand to stop him, but the veins on his forehead were already bulging.

"That shipment is ours! We risked our lives to protect it. If it weren't for you Venetian pirates, those ghostly galleys that rammed into us from the side, how could we have..."

"How could you sink like a pile of logs?" Zahir chimed in, his sarcasm deepening. "The Catalan mercenaries, renowned for their javelin throwing, are as helpless as babies at sea. How far can your javelins go? A hundred paces? Two hundred paces? Too bad, my ship's crossbow can pierce your ship's planks from three hundred paces away!"

"Bang!" The scarred leader slammed his fist on the wooden bar, knocking over the glasses and spilling beer all over the floor.

"Without the Venetians backing you up and building those weird ships for you, what are you? Dare to put down your scimitars and settle things with your fists? Let you camel traders from the desert see the might of the mountain people!"

Zahir showed no fear, instead slightly turning his body to continue his taunts: "Venetians? Heh, at least they know what investment and technology are. Unlike you, still living in the old days of throwing sticks with your arms. As for fists?" He paused, then gave a disdainful snort, "When you can catch up with my ship and stop shooting me in the back, then come talk to me about the rules of fists."

Before he could finish speaking, the young mercenary finally lost his temper and roared, "I can't take it anymore!" He then smashed the wine glass in his hand towards Zahir's face. Zahir reacted extremely quickly, dodging to the side while his scimitar was already drawn in an instant.

The air inside the tavern seemed to freeze instantly.