Storming the Shores of Tangier
We'd already decided to land at Tangier alongside the Portuguese. I immediately dispatched a messenger ship carrying my instructions. Portugal welcomed the idea. Fortunately, the Duke of Aveiro took our proposal in stride. From the Portuguese army's perspective, they knew full well that landings often came with heavy casualties. Deep down, they must have been hoping our two forces could unite as one to seize their objective—Tangier—with minimal losses.
Achieving goals with the least possible damage. That had been every army's aim, past or present. No casualties would be ideal, of course... but with pirates already swarming ahead of us like sharks, that seemed unlikely.
"Shall I prepare for naval combat?"
"No. And even if we did engage, there's no guarantee of victory."
Giambattista della Porta's suggestion. I shook my head, spotting the heavy uncertainty in it. Our Spanish soldiers were masters of close-quarters melee. Regrettably, few among our ranks had real naval experience. To reiterate, most had only dealt with pirates raiding ashore in Malaga County. Asking them to fight at sea in those conditions? It'd be like feeding our men to the fish on a silver platter.
Especially against nimble Barbary pirates. Known as corsairs, these were men who treated the ocean like solid ground. We had to tread carefully.
"Stick as close as possible to the Portuguese ships. Link up with iron chains, and make sure the men take every measure against seasickness."
"Understood, my lord Count."
Giambattista began relaying my orders. I watched him for a moment, then turned back to the sea. Our vessel wasn't a warship, so she was small—and that meant she pitched and rolled fiercely. A wave of nausea hit me; my stomach churned like it was turning inside out.
If the Mediterranean's this bad... when I go meet Elizabeth I in England later...
I have to take land routes and cross the Channel over land somehow... urp...
I couldn't show weakness in front of my men. Pinching my thighs hard, I endured as best I could. At least we had that going for us: Tangier was just a short hop from our anchorage. Even by this era's ships, an hour and a half away. No long voyage—small mercies.
Pirates circled us like a shark pack. Any straggler would be pounced on in an instant. A common sight in these Mediterranean waters. I ordered the galley slaves at the oars to pick up speed and shadow the Portuguese galleys tightly.
And so we reached Tangier—or Tangiers, as some called it. I transferred briefly to a pinnace, then boarded the Portuguese flagship. My guards came with me. Pushing past the somewhat rough-looking Portuguese sailors, we made for the Duke of Aveiro.
The duke paused his conversation with his staff as I approached. I greeted him with full courtesy.
He acknowledged me curtly and waved his staffers aside before fixing his gaze on me.
"Welcome aboard, Count Don Juan."
"Thank you for the warm reception. I've come to hear your thoughts on the landing, Your Grace."
His lip twitched upward again. My flattery was clearly working; his mouth smiled, even if his eyes didn't.
"We'll split the fleet for the landing. Where do you intend to put the Malaga forces?"
He'd conveniently omitted Ceuta. No point quibbling—I got straight to it.
"This beach right here."
I pointed to the shore visible before us. Our scouts had reconnoitered the area thoroughly beforehand. Information and supply—those were the lifeblood of war, in my book. We'd steadily expanded our spy network around Ceuta and this region. Among the viable landing spots, this one had the smallest tidal range; ships wouldn't risk grounding.
The downside? The enemy saw it as the prime threat, too.
"Hmm..."
The Duke of Aveiro stroked his chin, pondering. He gestured to the beach and murmured low.
"The enemy seems to have clocked it already. Fine for landing, but the cost will be high."
"The other beaches are steeper, perfect for watchtowers. Their defenses are tighter there."
I'd emphasized we'd have to eat some losses either way. His staff must have concurred, because he finally nodded.
"Will you take the port flank?"
"Gladly."
He was assigning me the army's left wing. A flurry of thoughts raced through my mind in that instant. Why the left? Simple: we'd crossed from Malaga, so left meant east from our view. Fighting with the sun at your back—standard playbook. Cavalry charges always timed to hit with dawn behind them. Blinding glare could scramble a rider's sense of direction, even throw them from formation. Folks in my old life compared this era's knights to tanks, and not without reason—a single heavy horse could scatter fifty footmen with ease.
Now we faced the enemy's elite cavalry. Nothing came easy.
Small comfort: we Spaniards excelled against mounted foes. History proved it—the tercio formation never broke, even after the Empire's fall. With our pike-and-shot men, we stood a chance.
"We'll begin before noon. Make ready."
With that, he dismissed me. As requested, I pinnaced back to our ship.
Giambattista greeted me, eyes worried. "How did it go?"
"Landing ops start soon. Get everyone prepped. With so many conscripts, pair them tight with the veterans."
"Understood, my lord Count."
Our conscripts were just bodies for now. No time to train them proper, so veterans filled the gaps—one pro per ten greenhorns, like squad leaders forging a single unit. Treat conscripts as meat shields, and that's all they'd be. No attrition war for me—I planned to temper these recruits into veterans here.
Some losses among the old guard were inevitable; these new bloods would replace them.
"The moment we hit the beach, form up facing seaward!"
Giambattista's order. Back to the sea for a landing meant the ultimate fallback position. Urgent? Ships could cover us. Cannon support was iffy, but archers aboard could loose volleys.
* * *
The landing began at last. Tension peaked between our forces and the watching Moroccans. Then the Duke of Aveiro's order rang out. Soldiers dropped the disembarkation ramps in perfect sync. Ours matched rhythm.
Moroccans loosed arrows on cue. Our vanguard—lightly armored rodelero—raised steel shields first, weathering the volley.
"Argh!"
"Agh!"
"Gaaah!"
Soldiers screamed, pierced. Limbs could be patched; vitals or throat meant instant death. We pressed on over the fallen. Halfway disembarked, arrows slackened—enemy horse moved in.
"Archers on the ships, loose!"
"Fire!"
Those still aboard peppered the cavalry, buying time. Hitting moving horse with arrows? Tricky. I ordered tight formation to brace the charge.
"Giambattista! Hold dense ranks—pikes to the front!"
"Yes, sir!"
Scattering infantry against horse? Suicide. Dense squares ruled this era. Cannon tech would later shred them en masse... but not yet. Cold steel still reigned. Elves—Muslim converts with elf-skin grafts—shrieked wildly, scimitars flashing. Nonhuman horrors charging? Even pretty elves terrified.
"First rank, advance!"
Arquebusiers stepped up, slammed butts to earth, braced, and fired. Muzzle blasts spooked mounts—some riders tumbled, others bucked and reared.
Not enough to break the charge. Shooters fell back to reload. Pikes filled the line. Horsemen wheeled, probing for gaps.
As their momentum flagged, our bowmen struck. Ship-launched arrows unseated a few more. The riders peeled off smartly—scouts, not the main force. Their goal: delay us. The distant infantry looked ragged; no sign of Abdallah al-Ghalib's famed elites.
Elites incoming would spike casualties. I ordered my aide to signal the Portuguese: push through.
He flashed it. Portugal replied affirmatively—the duke had read the field too.
"Relay breakthrough order! When Portugal moves, block the horse and close on them."
"Yes, sir."
My aide dashed about spreading word. Landing neared endgame. Enemy horse charged again, unwilling to let us break free.
Blood sprayed across the beach. I gripped my Spanish rapier tight, eyes locked on foes, tensed against blind blades.