Flames on the Maritsa
“Is that the place?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Nestoric nodded at his subordinate soldier’s words.
“If we seize that alone, the Abkhazians will have no choice but to retreat.”
Maritsa River basin. Gazing at the Roman army camp pitched nearby, he murmured softly.
“How many enemy troops?”
“Not many hearths, so probably a supply unit of around two thousand men.”
A Roman tagma typically consisted of sixteen thousand soldiers with about four thousand auxiliaries. Here, the term referred to the entire Roman expeditionary force attacking the Bulgarians, encompassing vanguard, left wing, center, right wing, and supply units. Of these, the supply troops stationed in the Hebros basin—what the Bulgarians called the Maritsa—numbered just over two thousand. That suggested a high likelihood that some supply personnel had been diverted for other duties.
Of course, the expeditionary force’s numbers weren’t absolute. It could be forty thousand or sixty thousand instead of twenty. But considering the scale of the vanguard that had raided their rear recently and the left-wing unit they’d fought that morning, it might even be fewer. Either way, it was less than the six thousand elite troops under Anaclius.
“Perfect conditions for a night raid.”
Geographic advantage and an estimated force twice their size or more. Simply seizing or burning the enemy’s supplies in this attack would all but guarantee victory. Easier than snapping a child’s wrist. Yet after clashing with the Roman infantry, Nestoric knew they were no easy foes. He refrained from rash action.
“Your Excellency, the scouts have returned.”
Nightfall severely limited visibility. They had to send scouts first to assess the enemy’s state.
“Report.”
At Nestoric’s command, the scout began detailing what he’d seen.
“There were barracks where soldiers were staying and hearths in the river basin. But no supply depot.”
“They must have stored the supplies elsewhere.”
“That seems to be the case. Not far from the river, I spotted a few temporary sheds for stacking supplies, but…”
The scout trailed off. Nestoric’s adjutant scolded him.
“Can’t you give a clear answer in His Excellency’s presence?”
“Forgive me. Torches were lit near the buildings, and sentries were patrolling, so I couldn’t get close. I couldn’t confirm if real supplies were actually there.”
“Sentries mean supplies are definitely—”
The adjutant barked, leaving the scout flustered. Seeing this, Nestoric raised a hand to silence his adjutant and ordered a full explanation.
“Hide nothing. Tell me everything you saw in detail.”
“Well… there weren’t just one or two such sheds. There were several.”
“Several?”
“Yes.”
Nestoric frowned at the scout’s report.
“Clever trick.”
Multiple warehouses. From the perspective of a night raider, they couldn’t split their forces to hit them all—disrupting command and control in the dark. Yet they couldn’t ignore verification either. Attacking a decoy shed might leave them empty-handed, inviting a counterattack and peril.
“We can’t divide the troops, but hitting just one risks a trap.”
The adjutant echoed Nestoric’s thoughts. After a moment’s deliberation, Nestoric issued orders to his men.
“We postpone the night raid.”
Shocked, the adjutant tried to dissuade him.
“Morale is low after our recent defeat. If we return like this…”
“Don’t worry, adjutant. I’ve no intention of returning empty-handed.”
“Then…”
Nestoric turned to the scout.
“Inform all troops: prepare for arson instead of assault.”
“Arson, you say?”
“We abandon seizing their supplies. Instead, we burn the entire area and ruin whatever traps they’ve dug.”
Nestoric had originally planned a night raid to capture the supply unit’s goods. But with traps laid, there was no point. With their overwhelming numbers, they’d simply crush them.
Rising to his feet, Nestoric closed his eyes, raised a hand, and stood still for a moment. Sensing something, he opened them again.
“I’ll issue orders.”
The adjutant bowed crisply and looked to him.
“The wind blows from east to west. Take swift troops east and set the fires. The rest move northwest.”
Plan to ignite and incinerate all supplies. Additionally, anticipating the enemy fleeing west from the flames, he positioned forces northwest. Not due west, but northwest—accounting for the subtle southwest morning breeze in the river basin.
“Barring variables, even if they extinguish the flames, the enemy will be in chaos and unable to counterattack.”
Even in failure, the fire would force them to abandon traps, gather to fight it, and descend into panic. A night raid on that clustered foe would ensure victory.
A flawless plan. Drawing his sword, Nestoric murmured low.
“Time for a drive hunt.”
Quieter than expected from the enemy. I sensed something was wrong.
“They’ve had plenty of time for a raid by now…”
Enemy numbers exceeded ours by at least double. Not raiding was suspicious.
“Did they see through my traps?”
I’d set up multiple fake supply sheds to deter a night assault. They’d likely sent scouts and reconsidered.
“If trapped, they’d choose one of two paths.”
Night raids favored the side with more troops. Even with traps, a direct breakthrough was simple. Casualties, yes—but seizing the position and looting supplies wouldn’t be total loss.
The other: retreat. Avoid raid losses, then attack at dawn.
“But Angelos’s report said their supplies are strained, and they suffered a strategic defeat against him. Unlikely they’d withdraw meekly.”
Thus, only a breakthrough remained. I’d anticipated, deliberately digging traps to delay their assault.
“I informed Lord Nikephoros of the potential raid. If we hold, victory is certain.”
While we endured, Lord Nikephoros struck their rear. We’d be the anvil, the Basilike Hetaireia the hammer—crushing the Bulgarians between.
That was the plan, yet their inaction worried me.
“Breakthrough’s their only option…”
Then an adjutant approached with a torch.
“Lord Robert, we’ve scoured the surroundings—no sign of enemy forces.”
Was I wrong? Then my eye caught the burning torch beside me. I glanced around: field trampled and dried by horses grazing and marching, littered with broken branches from erecting sheds. Ignite this, and…
“Damn it! Weapons up! Move southeast!”
My startled adjutant stared.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“They’re using fire attack! This whole area will burn—we head southeast to the Hebros River!”
At “fire attack,” adjutant and troops grabbed arms and bolted riverward. But flames already raged there.
“The fire’s already…!”
Blaze advanced on us. Desperate straits, but luckily, pits dug for buildings slowed its spread. Panicked soldiers were the real issue.
“Fire! Fire!”
“Flee where there’s no fire!”
“Northwest!”
Northwest meant thrusting into the beast’s jaws. First, calm the men. Drawing my sword, I stepped before them.
“Halt! Any who pass before me will lose their head for breaking discipline!”
Chaos wouldn’t yield to discipline instantly. A Pecheneg tried slipping past to survive. To seize control, I beheaded him as example.
The Pecheneg crumpled, head severed mid-flight. Shock worked—troops gaped at me.
“Calm yourselves! The enemy’s fire attack is underway, but the flames aren’t fierce yet. Pits slow their spread—Vikings, shovel dirt to extinguish!”
Vikings used shields as scoops, dousing flames. Not fully out, but dying down. Troops sighed in relief.
“No time to relax. The enemy will see the flames weaken and raid then.”
Putting out fire needed manpower. A commander clever enough for this would strike the moment flames ebbed.
“Brothers! Carry the longships—plant them at intervals along the riverbank!”
At my order, Vikings hauled along the cleared path, positioning longships hull-inward to the river, stabbing bottoms into earth. Makeshift barricade. Backed by the river, if it crumbled under assault, we could flee along the bank.
Swiftly quelling chaos, I turned to my dazed adjutant.
“Adjutant!”
“S-sorry! Y-your orders!”
“Stay here, hold the defensive line with the Vikings.”
“Then Lord Rogerius, you…?”
“They’ll raid assuming us panicked. I’ll take Pechenegs and Alans to counterattack that gap.”
“But they outnumber us!”
“Raid scatters their camp. Darkness disrupts their commands.”
“True, but isn’t defending here safer?”
“River at our back means attrition to annihilation even if we hold.”
Water-backed formations seemed invincible but were desperate, life-on-the-line tactics with heavy losses. Barely a tactic—last stand for survival. Foes took hits too, but so did we. Nikephoros might arrive too late for mutual destruction.
Key was enduring longest. Thus, bet on striking their disrupted camp.
“I understand, my lord. We’ll hold with our lives.”
I nodded to his salute. A Pecheneg brought my horse. Mounting, I drew sword and bellowed.
“Take wrath, brothers! The hour to capture those vile jackals is upon us!”