301. An Irresistible Force (3).
[clatter— clatter—]
When I thought of Italy, I had thought of pasta and pizza. In Sicily, a place that would be famous for the mafia in the far future, I could not even catch a glimpse of such foods.
Perhaps they would be introduced from somewhere or invented once a bit more time passed. The worlds of the 9th century and the 21st century were quite alike in many ways, and yet they were also so different in many others.
At least in my case, I ate well without being picky, so I had diligently seen to a Byzantine diet that was a bit heavier on seafood. Freshly baked soft bread, well-cooked clams and fish, various fruits and wine. With wild raspberry jam and butter, full of the familiar taste of Mother and Inga's hands brought from Árós, spread generously on the bread, a hearty meal was complete.
Was it thanks to the shared cultural practice of using tableware (though, honestly, we of the North Sea had not been using it for long)? Though I spotted familiar faces from East Anglia here and there, anyway the people of Byzantium and the people of the North Sea shared food at the same table without any trouble, communicating through animated gestures and bursting into laughter from time to time.
[tak]
However, at the long, luxurious table of the high-ranking officials, set apart at a slight distance from their subordinates, there was no room for such light laughter to set foot.
Watching them not even able to eat properly, all watching for my every glance as I sat at the very center of the table, made me sigh, but by now I had grown somewhat accustomed to this treatment, akin to a totem of terror.
To put it bluntly, if they could not eat well, it was their loss, not mine. Armed with this mindset, I steadily and meticulously devoured every dish set around me, continuing my meal slowly, taking ample time until every organ in my belly sent the okay signal.
Chewing food thoroughly was not a matter to be neglected, being deeply linked to digestion rates and energy conversion. One could say the intake of food into this body of mine, the army's strategic weapon (?), was a matter of grave importance.
But there was no such thing as eternity in this world, and everything was fated to meet its end.
The very moment I finished my happy meal and set down my third refill of the wine goblet, those sharing my table set down their own utensils in unison.
The dining etiquette of this era, particularly in the case of an empire with as long a history as Byzantium, was often so rigid in all manner of ceremony that it led to flustering moments like this.
At times like these, sidling past an uncomfortable topic like a serpent slithering over a wall was the seasoned move born of a reincarnator's experience, I supposed.
"Thanks to your hospitality, I have eaten well. Strategos."
"It is but an honor to have been able to host the hero. Fylkir Helgi Heracles."
The Byzantines around me all had a habit of trying to revert to the Greco-Roman era. But this too, I had become used to by now.
"Should the opportunity arise, I shall treat the fine Strategos of Syracuse to the cuisine of our North Sea. Now, since it seems everyone has finished their meal, let us discuss the serious business at hand."
"As you command."
[clap clap!]
The man Michael had personally placed in the provincial governor's seat of Syracuse moved as briskly as a soldier. Perhaps he truly was of military origin; I did not ask for the sake of mutual face, but clearly the Byzantine Empire had carried out a massive, sweeping personnel reshuffle centered on Michael.
From the standpoint of an ally and trade partner, the more stable the Byzantine Empire was, the better, so Michael's consolidation of power was no bad news for us either.
At any rate, at the crisp, disciplined sound of his clap, the servants waiting around the table approached and swiftly cleared it, then brought over auxiliary tables, situation boards, and movable curtains to separate this space from the rest of the dining hall, creating a plausible war room in an instant.
And as the finishing touch, the Byzantine guards marched in, taking their posts around the partitioned space.
Watching this scene, Seutorolpeu and Oleg wore expressions of admiration at the display, all swift and yet brimming with discipline. From the hardworking Byzantine servants to the guards moving and standing like clockwork, and the generals and high officials—all were stiff with military rigor.
The sight was exactly like that of a frontline military base receiving an unexpected visit from the army's commanding officer—no, the president of an allied nation.
Amidst the people tense and silent for their own reasons, the only ones moving with something like composure were Niketas Oryphas, Edmund, and the ever-resolute Seutorolpeu and Oleg.
Nikephoros Phocas, a comrade who had helped thwart Basil's rebellion and a brave warrior of Byzantium I had kept an eye on, strode forward with a solemn expression as if marching into battle itself. Before a map detailing the island of Sicily, he swung a long pointer as if bringing down a sword.
"To the Fylkir of the North Sea, who possesses glory greater than any other and honor most exalted, I shall report on the situation surrounding this place, Syracuse!"
Wait, if he spoke in that manner, would he not be arrested by Michael? Did these people not believe in Christ? Was Byzantium really going to be okay like this?
Nikephoros's words felt so excessive that such concerns arose in my head, yet when I stole a glance at the complexion of Syracuse's governor or Niketas Oryphas, there was no hesitation whatsoever. As if they were looking at something completely natural.
Whether I was the only one taken aback or not, Nikephoros continued speaking like a machine reciting a preordained script.
"Before the Fylkir and Admiral Niketas won their great victory south of Crete, here in Sicily both great and small battles never ceased. Many fell and never rose again."
"For those who have fallen!"
Oleg's voice, abruptly cutting into the preordained script. All the Romans in the chamber studied my expression, but, like Oleg, I merely raised my fourth refilled glass to honor those who had departed first.
Soon the Romans, following the Northmen who drained their glasses in one gulp, held their own glasses to their lips. I nodded at Nikephoros to signal him to proceed, and the temporarily paused machine resumed its task.
"With the threat from the eastern sea gone and Italia's Imperator now on the verge of capturing Bari, the Muslim stronghold, our Empire can finally move the imperial troops garrisoned in Reggio. However, the enemy at Balharm (Palermo) have also received additional support from North Africa. In the end, the forces of both sides must be seen as roughly equal."
Whenever Nikephoros's pointer danced this way and that, the military officers waiting beside the large map hurriedly shifted blue and red flags, indicating the standoff situation, estimated troop strengths, movement routes, and the like.
"If the two most vital strongholds on this island of Sicily—Syracuse and Balharm—share a commonality, it is that the island's capacity to sustain a force is woefully inadequate compared to their lofty walls. Whichever side is besieged, it is difficult to overcome the disadvantage. Therefore, when we launch a full-scale offensive, they will have no choice but to meet us on the field."
[swish— tak!]
With a movement as graceful as an incantation, Nikephoros's pointer stabbed cleanly into the midpoint between Balharm and Syracuse.
"With this single battle, we shall seize Sicily and southern Italy in one stroke."
*****
Since both Syracuse and Reggio, across the shallow sea, were already in the midst of fighting, no separate preparations were needed, and the combined fleet of the North Sea and Byzantium, having already fought a major battle south of Crete, maintained its fighting strength intact, so no special combat preparations were required either.
Consequently, the preparations for campaign were made lightning-fast. The forces of Syracuse and Reggio, leaving behind minimal garrisons, concentrated on one point, while Admiral Niketas's Roman navy sailed north along the eastern coast of Sicily to engage the Muslim navy of Balharm.
While the battle south of Crete had been a struggle against the Muslim pirates who accurately exploited the advantages of time-delayed assaults and surprise attacks in open sea, in a naval battle fought head-on, the Roman navy, spewing Roman fire—Greek flame—held an overwhelming advantage.
Losing control of the sea meant the end of supply, so Balharm's forces had no choice but to come out into the field, just as Nikephoros predicted. For only by somehow crushing the advancing Roman army would there appear any hope of holding out on this island.
And so, on an island in the middle of the Mediterranean where summer was gradually arriving, two forces who worshipped the same God, differing only in the name they called upon Him, marched out in unison.
By the time the skirmishers of both armies, who had initially moved cautiously, were now actively engaging, even risking battle, to determine the exact size, movement routes, and expected encampments of the foe, and when fighting had also flared up at sea, the two armies came into sight of each other.
Their infantry roughly numbered 23,000. Plus 1,000 mounted. Total, about 24,000.
We had 10,000 imperial troops stationed in Syracuse, 5,000 imperial troops under Edmund who had crossed over from Reggio, plus 3,000 North Sea warriors including my bodyguard. And 2,000 of the finest Byzantine cavalry led by Nikephoros. Combined, roughly 20,000.
Of course, the skirmishers' method of estimating numbers was merely gauging the large and small flags by eye, so it could not be precise, but in my experience, once the headcount entering a battlefield exceeded tens of thousands, the petty figures no longer mattered much.
It was only because this was an island that the numbers were such; had this been the region of Asia Minor to the east, the combined total would have easily surpassed 100,000. It made me feel anew the formidable latent strength of the dynasties around the Mediterranean.
"The most critical center shall be led personally by the Fylkir—"
"The left wing must not break under any circumstances. As the possibility of the cavalry swinging around there is high, Strategos Edmund shall personally take charge of it."
"Should they break, the left line will certainly be the first to crack. For the wing facing east, Jarl Oleg, who has proven his offensive prowess on many a battlefield—"
Nikephoros, Edmund, and Oleg—already well-versed against the North African Muslim regulars disguised as pirates—led the force disposition conference. Time flew by as a peculiar current, palpable only on the battlefield, swirled between the encampments of the two armies, each nestled against a low hill.
All preparations were finished, and envoys came and went several more times to denounce the other's impiety. At last, our army rose from its place, and the enemy army moved in response.
Before long, roughly 50,000 human beings faced each other across a field on the beautiful island of Sicily.
[peeeeep—! peep— peep—]
Just as the great festival of men was about to begin, only the calls of birds, somehow full of anticipation, echoed noisily. When the thick dust clouds kicked up by the immeasurably vast mass of men moving at once were gradually settling, a heavily armored warrior from the enemy camp galloped out on horseback.
[ka-dok— ka-dok— ka-dok—]
The warrior who rushed out with bold spirit brandished a long spear about, shouting of how great his God and his Prophet were, then promptly began to speak of how the Romans' manner of serving God and their prophet were in error.
Naturally, this act was a provocation and a challenge to a duel before the pitched battle began, so I had been briefly pondering in what flashy manner I should dispatch that bastard, when, seizing that gap, Nikephoros powerfully spurred his horse forward.
"Cha! Cha!"
[ka-dok! ka-dok!]
In Nikephoros's hands, as he charged forth with a magnificent bearing, was a long spear. The Muslim warrior, having confirmed this sight, likewise charged fiercely, leveling his own spear.
"Allahu Akbar!"
[rumble— rumble—]
Two horsemen demonstrated the riding skills befitting the champions of their respective armies as they charged at each other with terrifying momentum.
There was a brutal, rough-hewn ferocity arising from simplicity in their forms, which was somewhat different from the nomadic riders I had faced on those steppes.
But the charge of the two riders, hurtling toward a contest of nerve, was thrown askew by Nikephoros's sudden action.
"Christ—!"
Roaring the name of Jesus, Nikephoros abruptly hurled the spear in his grasp into the opposing rider's path.
[whoosh— thud! Ee-hee-heeing!]
Throwing a long spear from a galloping horse demanded far more strength and precision than one might think, so naturally, Nikephoros's spear only embedded itself in the Sicilian earth, but startled by its long length, the Muslim warrior's horse instinctively wrenched its head aside.
"Uh-ah—"
[rumble-rumble— swish! clang! slash!]
Charging in regardless, Nikephoros struck aside the Muslim warrior's feeble thrust with a blade he had drawn at some point, and cleanly slashed open the defenseless throat.
[rumble-rumble— splatter! thud! tumble-tumble— ka-dok— ka-dok—]
Soon after, a spray of lost blood jetted into the air, and when the severed head of the Muslim warrior met the earth again, Nikephoros raised his crimson-stained blade and shouted with all his might.
"Roma shall triumph! Christ shall triumph! O Rome! Heracles stands with us!"
[boooooo—!]
[baaaaaam—!]
At the most fitting moment, horns and brass instruments rang out, and the emboldened Roman-North Sea allied army began its advance.
[tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!]