Eastern Front (2)
“It’s easy to say ‘kill them,’” grumbled Angelos.
I nodded in agreement, chiming in with him. “Isn’t it too much to ask a thousand men to hold off three thousand cavalry?”
Contrary to the emperor’s bold assurances, the forces assigned to us consisted of just seven hundred infantry and three hundred cavalry. An overwhelmingly inferior number—and with infantry making up the vast majority, we’d be utterly trampled if we faced the nomadic horsemen head-on.
Yet the emperor had issued this command nonetheless. The reason was plain: the dire state of affairs in the east.
“Most of the nobles opposing His Majesty’s will are based on the Anatolia peninsula,” Ioannis added succinctly.
Angelos, who had been venting his frustrations, fell silent and nodded. Unlike the emperors of the East, whose authority was ironclad, Rome’s rulers could topple at any moment. History was rife with coups that swapped one emperor for another. Even Basil II’s two rebellions in his youth had erupted in the east. As a result, the Anatolia peninsula was a hotbed of noble power.
“That’s why Lord Manuel had no choice but to move out himself.”
His adjutant, Angelos, nodded along with Ioannis’s assessment. Manuel and his son Asakios hadn’t joined the Bulgarian campaign. Had the emperor’s key forces participated, the war might have ended even sooner. But Georgia and the Fatimids’ assaults had forced them east.
“At least His Majesty permitted us to draw from the Angelos family troops and the Varangian Guard. We should count ourselves lucky.”
The ethereia under my command included veterans Manuel had trained, seasoned in battles against Bulgaria, and Vikings who had become masters of war fighting alongside me through countless engagements.
“With all the Varangians following you, palace security is a concern, but there’s no alternative.”
As Angelos said, the Varangian unit had come with me en masse, just like in the Bulgarian campaign. Other guards were present, of course, but as members of the basilike ethereia, they couldn’t be fully trusted. History recorded instances of nobles bribing the imperial guard to assassinate emperors. Thus, Basil II had deliberately thinned their ranks, relying instead on the Varangians.
“I’ve stationed reliable guild mercenaries, so His Majesty’s safety is assured.”
As Guard Captain, I couldn’t ignore the emperor’s security. All my power stemmed from him; any threat to Basil II would shatter my future. That was why I’d entrusted his protection to trustworthy guild members like Bachana and Alton.
With such talk, we arrived at the camp. There, East Roman soldiers conscripted from various regions milled about in small groups.
“Mostly peasant levies.”
“No helping it.”
With the Moselaph family troops and Varangian Guard detached, the rest had no choice but to be hastily assembled local militias.
“Tenth Infantry Century, Protocentarchos Aritelis reporting. It’s an honor to meet Lord Uranus.”
“Seventh Scout Squadron, Cavalarios Ehriada here. Thrilled to bear the Varangians’ wrath.”
The two senior centurions: one was Aritelis, who looked of Turkic-Greek stock, leading a century of infantry. The other, apparently Alan-Greek, was Ehriada. Summoned by imperial order from their respective military districts, they had assembled here. I expressed my thanks and introduced my commanders.
“This is Field Marshal Lord Moselaph, and here is Lord Komnenos, overseeing logistics for the entire force.”
“Angelos Moselaph.”
“Ioannis Komnenos.”
They responded with bows. Then Aritelis presented me with a wooden tablet. It bore the emperor’s orders. Upon verifying it, Aritelis saluted crisply.
“Shall we begin the troop handover first?”
“I’ll survey the area first, then receive your report on our forces.”
At my words, Ehriada fetched a map stored in the command tent. It detailed the Lesser Armenia region, marking not just mountains, rivers, and plains but also the enemy forces’ estimated strengths.
“Impressively detailed.”
“My brothers and I made it together. Offering this map allowed us to submit to Rome.”
In both East and West, presenting a map meant surrendering territory. From this, I inferred Ehriada’s ancestors were Alan chieftains who had led their tribe to citizenship by offering their lands.
“Valuable intelligence. Any more recent updates?”
Ehriada pointed to a vast plain near a lake.
“Nomad tribes, especially Turks, cluster around Lake Sevan.”
Numerals dotted the area near Lake Sevan: 500, 400, 100, 250, and so on. Adding them up roughly came to about three thousand.
“These the ones?”
Ehriada nodded. His finger shifted to our position.
“Some three thousand Turkic nomads are heading this way. Reports say they’ll pass Erebuni fortress soon.”
Erebuni referred to the modern Yerevan area—an Armenian stronghold from antiquity through the Middle Ages, under Islamic influence but not truly ruled by any caliphate. Unlike the East’s clear administrative divisions, the Middle East and West blurred such lines. It was Islamic sphere in name, but effectively Armenian land, ungoverned by outsiders.
To Armenians, three thousand nomads were a terror. They’d surely clear paths for them. Even if not, the nomads could simply bypass fortresses.
“They’ll arrive here tomorrow, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scout Ehriada’s report concluded. Then Aritelis stepped forward with his.
“This position, Cholla cert, is a fortress with four watchtowers. Inside, we have…”
Surprisingly ample arrows. As a border city, war supplies were well-stocked. With all reports received, including Aritelis’s breakdown of our troop composition…
“If we use the fortress as a shield and hold out, we can endure,” Angelos proposed.
Komnenos agreed. “Even nomads won’t rush in recklessly against a stronghold.”
Their logic held. History proved the best counter to cavalry was fighting with walls at your back. China’s Great Wall and Russia’s stockades stemmed from this. Horsemen were swift but couldn’t scale fortifications easily. Nomads thus raided walls’ outskirts and withdrew. The Mongols later changed that with siegecraft, but this was the medieval era before them—against massed cavalry, walls were foolproof.
“Sound advice. But first, I’ll try talking to them.”
“You’ll parley personally?” Ioannis asked.
I nodded. “They claim they’re coming to join the guild. As guildmaster, I’ll meet them face-to-face and gauge their intentions.”
Know your enemy, win every battle. We had to understand them to counter them. Risky, but necessary.
“Too dangerous.”
“Indeed. Nomads don’t heed reason,” Ehriada and Aritelis protested.
Instead of arguing, I gestured behind me. A massive figure strode forward—Halvar, towering with an axe as big as a man. The two centurions gaped in shock.
“We’re not exactly reasonable ourselves.”
Halvar growled low in agreement, silencing their worries.
“A shabbier fortress than expected.”
The Turkic nomads reached the stronghold. Their leader, Arslan, voiced his unfiltered impression of the East Roman fort.
“We could topple it in no time.”
His lieutenant’s words drew a nod from Arslan. Cavalry couldn’t easily breach walls, but a siege to starve them out would work for such a small outpost—assuming no reinforcements. To probe the situation, Arslan sought first to identify the enemy commander.
“Know the enemy leader, then decide.”
An incompetent foe could fall before aid arrived; a capable one would delay them, turning profit to loss. The East Roman commander seemed to think similarly, proposing a parley a hundred paces from the gates. Arslan accepted.
“Batu, Zheluk.”
“What is it, chieftain?”
“You called?”
“Prepare lassos in advance. When I signal, loop the enemy commander. Don’t kill—take him alive.”
At Arslan’s order, the pair gathered nomads to ready ropes. If the commander seemed easy prey, they’d snag him as a hostage and seize the fort swiftly.
Thus scheming, Arslan waited on the plain. Soon the gates creaked open, revealing a mounted man. Golden-haired giants flanked him. This was no typical East Roman; Arslan puzzled at the unfamiliar visage.
The letter named Rogerius—a Greek-sounding figure. Yet the tall man before him matched a type Arslan knew well: axe-wielding slaughterers, Varangians.
Facing the towering Rogerius, Arslan sensed viscerally that this opponent was no pushover.