Recapture (1)
“Kyaaah!”
“Heh heh heh! You’ll fetch a fine price as a slave. Come here!”
The mercenary pressed the woman with sweeping strokes of his sword, his mind already fixed on capturing her and selling her off to the nomads of the Black Sea steppes. Eastern Roman women, raised in refinement, were highly prized among the nomads as concubines or as servants for the Eastern European nobility. In short, she was a money-maker. His eyes gleamed with greed as he stalked her.
“P-please… spare me.”
“Stay still. Any injury will drop your value.”
“N-no! P-please, s-someone… anyone, help me!”
The woman’s desperate cry. The mercenary threw his head back and laughed, shaking it dismissively.
“No one here will help you. Just come quietly… guk!”
In that instant, an unidentified soldier appeared before him. Clad in well-maintained armor and gripping his sword, the soldier struck down the mercenary without a word. He turned to the woman and spoke.
“Flee from here to the Golden Horn. His Majesty’s troops are there—they’ll protect you.”
Trembling at the soldier’s words, the woman questioned her savior.
“A-are you… a guardsman? Or perhaps a capital watchman…”
“No. I am a soldier serving the great Emperor Rogerius.”
“Emperor Rogerius…? Ah…!”
At the soldier’s words, the woman immediately recalled who Rogerius was. The murderer who had slain Basil II. The man who had married Basil II’s niece and ascended to the throne. Of course, the common folk knew that wasn’t the truth. Merchants traveling the Anatolian peninsula had brought the real story. But with Ioannikios controlling all information, the people of Constantinople had no choice but to mouth those lies, even if they didn’t believe them inwardly.
The masses had suffered under the Magistros’s tyranny. Yet when the Bulgarians began their pillaging, the nobles abandoned the people and fled into their palaces. From the citizens’ perspective, it was absurd, utterly baffling. They had conscripted not just able-bodied youths but even the elderly and children under the pretext of recapturing Optimatoi, driving them to their deaths—only to abandon them now, when they were duty-bound to protect them.
Left defenseless before violence and terror. In that despair, Rogerius’s soldiers appeared to save them, feeling like saviors sent from the heavens.
“Sob… Long live the Emperor…! Long live Emperor Rogerius…!”
The woman wept tears of grateful joy at her survival. The soldier escorted her toward the Golden Horn before rejoining his unit.
“The market district civilians have been evacuated.”
“Residential areas are still in progress.”
Angelos nodded at the reports from his soldiers and issued further orders in line with the emperor’s commands.
“Execute any mercenaries or conscripts on sight. We cannot let chaos fester in the capital.”
The soldiers moved out again at his command. Watching them go, Angelos muttered to himself.
“I say it every time, but His Majesty’s strategies and tactics are wondrous and astonishing.”
The reason Angelos said this was simple: the unfamiliar tactics were alien even to him, a field commander.
“Dividing troops into squads and platoons for separate engagements…”
In the capital, where large-scale forces—and precisely large-scale battles—were impractical. With buildings packed densely and many towering high, even sizable units couldn’t quell the chaos swiftly, unlike in open fields. Rogerius had foreseen this, reorganizing the formations accordingly. Instead of the massed forces common in field battles, he had broken them into rare small units of ten men, even five, before issuing orders.
Thanks to this, they held the advantage in the vast, sprawling, complex battlefield of urban warfare.
“With the markets and residential zones swiftly recaptured and the chaos quelled, the Bulgarians won’t rampage freely for much longer.”
The Rogerius army’s objective was to rescue Constantine VIII. From the moment they entered the gates bloodlessly, Rogerius had repeatedly emphasized this strategic goal. Achieving it required two prerequisites: eliminating the core Bulgarian pillagers, and suppressing the chaos to prevent the Bulgarian forces from breaching the palace. Angelos handled the latter.
Full recapture of the capital would take more time, but quelling the disorder was more than enough.
“It’s quieted down somewhat. His Majesty will move soon.”
Rogerius himself at the front lines. Angelos knew no one could match the emperor in battle. It was impossible for the war-terminator Rogerius to lose. Nodding toward the palace, Angelos demonstrated his infinite trust in the emperor.
“Varangian Guard, take up your hammers!”
The Vikings immediately drew their axes—not battle axes, but heavy work hammers—and advanced. Their target: the collapsed structures. Wooden and stone buildings, ruined by pillage and fire, blocked the paths. They had anticipated this.
Modern urban combat often used such barricades to halt assaults, necessitating special tools to clear cover. The modern era offered many options. But in the medieval world, choices were limited, so they opted for hammers—easy to carry and wield.
The Vikings began smashing through the barricades with their hammers. As the obstacles cleared, I issued orders by squad.
“First squad, split into three teams and secure this sector. The rest, follow me!”
At my command, the three five-man teams took control of the secured path. This followed modern warfare doctrine from my U.S. military academy days. Leaving a captured area unguarded exposed flanks to enemy counterattacks. Hence, dedicated control squads to block raids.
In open fields, this would be suicidal. Medieval field battles were clashes of brute force, where squad tactics meant death. But here, in a city rich with terrain, small forces could hold effectively.
Thus, we reached the palace entrance. There, a flag caught my eye.
“Nestoric.”
Bulgarian soldiers near the gates. Leading them was Nestoric himself. Memories surfaced of fighting under Basil II’s orders in the Bulgarian wars, defending supply lines. In one battle, I had miraculously bested the veteran general Nestoric.
As I recalled the past, Nestoric spotted me and bellowed.
“Rogerius! My worthy rival!”
Madness laced his words. I sensed it was time to end this grudge.
“The enemy leader Nestoric is there! Soldiers of Rome! Advance!”
At my order, soldiers surged forward. In response, Nestoric’s men halted their palace assault and charged us.
“Raaah! Die, you dogs of the Eastern Romans who ruined our homeland!”
“We shall not fall!”
“Ghosts of a fallen nation, daring to plunder Rome’s capital! Prepare for divine judgment!”
“I’ll take your heads this instant!”
Blood sprayed in close-quarters melee. As the melee unfolded, Nestoric approached me slowly from afar.
“I’ve waited for this moment, Rogerius.”
“Nestoric. Your nation is finished. Surrender your neck, and I’ll grant you a painless death.”
“Painless? Ha! You whelp, strutting with epaulets like you’re somebody!”
Nestoric lunged at me. As I drew my sword, Halvar stepped forward.
“To swing a blade at His Majesty! I, Halvar, shall not forgive it!”
“Out of my way, barbarian! This is between me and Rogerius!”
Halvar swung his massive sword, shoving Nestoric back.
“Nay. This is between you and me, Nestoric.”
Nestoric stared, stunned by Halvar’s raw power, then muttered lowly.
“You’re no pushover. What’s your name?”
“Halvar. Faithful servant to my sole jarl, Emperor Rogerius.”
“Servant, eh… Very well. I must slay you first to reach my vengeance on Rogerius.”
Nestoric adjusted his stance and thrust at Halvar—a blindingly fast stab that nearly escaped the eye. But Halvar had anticipated it, ducking low to evade.
His missed thrust exposed gaps. Halvar exploited them.
“Hup!”
A short, precise upward slash. One strike cost Nestoric an eye.
“G-gaaah!”
Nestoric screamed. Yet his gaze still burned with defiance.
“Not… yet! Haaah!”
A wide horizontal sweep powered by his body. Halvar reeled back from the tenacious blow.
“Tch…”
“You’re still green!”
Despite losing an eye, Nestoric moved with uncanny agility. His signature kick slammed into Halvar’s gut.
“Kahaha! Now for your throat… eh?!”
Halvar, whom he expected to stagger, stood firm—and grabbed the leg.
“His Majesty warned me. You favor kicks.”
“No way…”
“Aye. You’d target the gut on a feigned opening. So I padded it thick.”
Nestoric’s shock was plain. In that moment, Halvar slammed the trapped leg into the ground.
“G-guh…”
Nestoric crumpled. Confirming he was out cold from the impact, Halvar dusted his hands and approached me calmly.
“Nestoric’s secured, Your Majesty.”