The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 8 Alexandria

Regarding last night's hangover, Accord was the first of the two drunkards to fully sober up.

When Leon groggily woke up in his "clean cabin" and pushed open the door, Accord was sitting quietly in the corner of the deck, his hair disheveled and his eyes glazed over.

All around were pirates who loved to watch the drama unfold, chattering in Arabic that Lyon couldn't understand.

"Good morning, Father," Leon yawned. "You two sang beautifully yesterday—you've come very close to God and far from humanity."

Accord weakly made the sign of the cross on his chest and said with a wry smile, "Well, I really appreciate your kind words. I hope so."

Zahir emerged from the captain's cabin, rubbing his throbbing temples, clutching Jacob's monk's robe in his left hand, and grimacing as he gulped down water.

Although his movements were somewhat slowed by the headache, his eyes had regained their hawk-like sharpness.

He walked up to Yage, looked at his embarrassed expression, handed him the robe, and said with a hoarse laugh, "Last night...it was great! I haven't met anyone in a long time who could make me forget I'm a pirate after drinking so much."

He kneaded the priest's robe, then changed the subject, his tone pragmatic and serious: "I understand what you've said. We're actually the same kind of people, seeing things too clearly, so we can't be confined by any cage."

Looking at Zahir's serious face, Jacob remained expressionless, even wanting to laugh a little. He was being silly yesterday, talking nonsense while drunk. How could there be any fools who took it seriously?

He suppressed the urge to grin wildly and responded with sincere eyes, "Captain, alcohol is Satan's invention, and also God's test. He made us tell the truth, and he also gave us splitting headaches."

He struggled to his feet, donned his wine-stained monk's robe, and resumed his usual confident and composed tone: "Well then, in the midst of this headache bestowed upon us by God and Allah, let's get down to business. About your 'investment,' and how to safely realize it into the future you desire."

At that moment, a sailor in the lookout tower at the top of the mast suddenly shouted, "Mountain Shadow! Starboard forward!"

"It's a lighthouse! The Pharos Lighthouse!"

Zahir glanced at the old sailor on the mast, and after confirming that everything was in order, he turned to Jacob and Lyon: "We'll talk about business later—we've arrived."

He decisively and swiftly stood on the high ground at the stern, like a king sitting on a throne, issuing orderly commands;

"Fold down the top sail! Prepare to roll up the mainsail!"

The sailors climbed the mast's rope ladders like monkeys, deftly rolling up and securing the massive sails. The ship's speed noticeably decreased, changing from cutting through the waves to gliding on the water.

"Hard to port—!"

Upon receiving the order, the helmsman frantically turned the massive rudder at the stern.

"Oarsmen, take your positions—start rowing!"

As soon as he finished speaking, dozens of long oars quickly extended from both sides of the cabin, rowing slowly and in sync under the command of the drumbeats, providing precise maneuverability, like centipedes on the water.

The pirate ship slowly sailed into Alexandria, where they saw the ancient miracle—the Pharos Lighthouse.

Even in broad daylight, it stands majestically, like a silent giant, overlooking the ships that have come and gone for thousands of years.

The air instantly became sweet and hot.

The port's hustle and bustle changed; Lyon heard the melodious Arabic hawking, the impatient braying of camels, and the heated debates about philosophy and prices coming from the riverside cafes.

The ships moored were no longer majestic warships, but merchant ships with rounder hulls and deeper drafts, coming from the more distant East: India, or even Seres, the legendary silk-producing region.

Just as the ship was about to gently bump into the dock, the sailors braced themselves against the edge of the dock with long poles, producing a dull thud to prevent a direct collision.

Meanwhile, they threw cushioning pads woven from old ropes off the ship's side.

Several of the strongest sailors picked up the mooring line, spun it rapidly above their heads a few times, and then, with a shout, threw it forcefully toward the dock.

The mooring lines slowly pull the boat closer and finally secure it. Two or more mooring lines are thrown from both the bow and stern to firmly lock the boat to the shore.

Lyon stood on the ship's railing, watching everything unfold before him. Zahir walked over, pointing smugly at the scene around him, and said, "See that, young prince? This is true power. It's not about stamping your seal in the palace, but about making an entire ship and everyone on the dock move at your command."

Accord stood side by side with Lyon, and at that moment, he quietly whispered to Lyon:

"Remember this scene, child. The principles of navigating people's hearts and navigating this ship are the same."

Zahir also came over, pointed to Jacob's monk's robes, and handed him a sailor's suit: "Don't rush to preach, Father. Don't wear this when you get off the ship, it'll be inconvenient later."

As Zahir, Jacob, Lyon, and their entourage of seasoned pirates took their places on the dock, before they could even take a good look at the renowned city, a series of deep, orderly, and imposing footsteps echoed from the main road leading from the port area into the city.

The crowd automatically parted to both sides, like the Red Sea parted by Moses.

A squad of about thirty infantrymen, arranged in four tight columns, marched straight toward the dock like a moving wall exuding the aura of steel.

These soldiers wore uniform, well-maintained chainmail shirts, covered with the khaki-colored battle robes common in Saracen armies, and wore pointed helmets with white turbans wrapped around their heads. They maintained an almost perfectly synchronized pace, without the slightest disorder.

No one in the ranks looked around; all the soldiers stared straight ahead with stern expressions.

They carried spears about two meters long, with the tips pointing upwards. On either side of the column were several officers carrying scimitars and small round shields, their sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.

The troops marched to the open ground of the dock. With a short and powerful command from the officer in charge, the thirty men stopped simultaneously as if they were one person, their footsteps ceasing abruptly. The whole process was clean and efficient.

At this moment, a tall officer slowly walked out from the back of the ranks.

He was also dressed in official uniform, but unlike the cold, steely aura of these soldiers, he had an almost languid smile on his face.

"May God grant you peace, Zahir of the sea." His gaze swept over Zahir, finally settling on Lyon's purple robe, his tone as calm as if commenting on the weather: "It seems the 'cargo' is safe and sound. You are more reliable than I thought."

Zahir's face twitched involuntarily. He glanced at the silent army, a similarly cold smile spreading across his lips.

"Lord Jabbar, you are too kind," he said in a loud voice, deliberately drowning out the noise of the port. "Of course, I will do my best to serve you. After all, not everyone is qualified to do business with the 'rules' of Alexandria, wouldn't you agree?"

He emphasized the word "rules" and his gaze swept over the elite squad again.

The officer named Jabbar gave a forced smile. "Very well. Well then, please follow the 'rules' and come with me. The lord in the city is getting impatient."

He made a gesture, and the silent army immediately split into two lines, making way for him.

Zahir spat, turned back and gave Accord a look that said, "The real show is yet to come," before striding confidently into the passage.