Eastern Front: Hammer and Anvil
After exchanging views with Angelos a few days prior, I mounted my horse to head to the battlefield.
"Halvar. You stay here with the infantry and protect the women, children, and elders of the Turkic tribes."
"I want to join the battle too."
True to his Viking blood, Halvar preferred combat. I wanted to take him along, but the mission I'd assigned him was more critical, leaving me no choice.
"I'd love to bring you, but this duty takes precedence."
"Protecting the kids, women, and dying old folks—that's the important mission?"
"Exactly. They're our people, and at the same time..." I quietly shared my true intent with Halvar.
He nodded in understanding. They were a form of hostages. We already had Chaur as one, but we had to prepare for the possibility that Arslan might abandon him. In modern terms, it sounded absurd. But in the medieval era, children were akin to property—labor for the family lineage. Underpinning this was the brutal notion that you could always have more kids. Not every parent thought that way, of course. It was just that the times bred more who did.
In any case, with betrayal from Arslan a potential risk, we needed to scheme accordingly. More hostages meant better security.
"If anything happens, lead the nomads toward Lord Manuel."
Halvar bowed at my words. Leaving him behind, I rode toward Ioannis, who awaited me in the distance.
Spotting me, Ioannis smiled. It was the first time the usually reserved man had greeted me with a grin, so I couldn't help but look puzzled.
"Yesterday, Lord Angelos told me about the strategy."
The plan to use Lords Manuel and Asakios as the anvil. Apparently, Angelos had informed Ioannis, a fellow Komnenos. Lighter on the lips than I'd expected. Still, given that Manuel—once his lord—led the house, tipping off his son early made a certain sense. We'd have to notify Ioannis before battle anyway, so this was inevitable.
I was pondering how to persuade him when Ioannis surprised me.
"I fully support Lord Rogerius's strategy."
Sudden endorsement. Seeing my flustered expression, Ioannis began explaining.
"To slip into the enemy's rear, we must move now. Waiting for word to reach them would delay us, no matter how swift the messenger."
His reasoning rang true. Alerting Manuel of our rear maneuver and awaiting confirmation would take time. And dragging our feet helped no one. With the heavy employment of Turkic nomads, prolonged war meant skyrocketing wages. As planned from the start, speed was paramount. Thankfully, Ioannis grasped this.
"And there's a personal reason as well."
Personal reason—likely tied to Asakios. Records on the brothers were sparse, but their relationship wasn't close. I could guess why. Manuel taking Asakios instead of Ioannis suggested the former as heir apparent. Ioannis, sidelined, would naturally harbor jealousy. Pure speculation on my part, but it felt right.
Either way, it favored me. No need to poke the bear by mentioning Asakios.
"Understood. We'll proceed with the original plan."
En route to Georgia on horseback with Arslan, he posed a question.
"Moving to the enemy's rear seems sound. But how do you plan to avoid detection?"
Only one answer: "There's a way."
"Enemy forces are everywhere. It's only a matter of time before we're spotted. Unless there's a spot beyond Georgia's reach?"
Arslan's question was logical. Georgian scouts patrolled the area, making evasion temporary at best. Thus, the direct approach.
"We ignore them and push through."
Hiding such a large cavalry force was impossible. Skirting scouts cautiously would just waste time. Only one option: forced march. Hit the rear with utmost speed.
"Even if we encounter foes, they're no real threat. Scouts might report to Georgia, but we'll arrive first."
Arslan looked startled briefly, then nodded, grasping the point.
"The khan's words ring true."
He'd called me khan since Basil II's appointment. Viking jarl and nomad leader—some grand title emerging. Lost in such thoughts, we reached Georgian soil.
A hill topped by ancient-looking walls. I knew instantly: our target, Petra. Built in the old Lazica kingdom days, it had fallen once to Sassanid Persia-Georgia wars. Repaired and rebuilt, but abandoned post-7th century, per records. It looked unused now.
"We've arrived."
Angelos rode up, unfurled a map, surveyed, then pointed to the fortress. Cavalry, pre-positioned, fanned out to scout.
They returned swiftly.
"No enemies in sight."
"The interior looks long-abandoned."
I nodded and issued orders.
"Good. We'll set camp here and rest."
No breaks en route to Georgia. Horses need respite for full gallop. With battle tomorrow, full recovery tonight was essential.
At my command, East Roman troops clustered, erecting camp swiftly. Simple barracks rose fast. The watching Turkic nomads gawked.
"Built in a flash."
"Heard Roman engineers were skilled, but this is unreal."
East Romans had a rep for construction since ancient Rome—dimmed, but dazzling to steppe folk.
Barracks done, we assigned quarters mixing nomads and Romans deliberately—escape prevention. Arslan and Chaur near command tent under strategy pretext sealed variables.
Now, await dawn. Mentally, I rehearsed optimal attack paths for maximum anvil-hammer damage.
Fierce battlefield. Manuel countered Georgia's relentless assaults.
"Asakios. Attack the right flank."
"Orders received. Proud sons of Rome, follow me!"
Short hair, piercing eyes—textbook soldier. Asakios drew sword, charged. Basilike Hetairia infantry followed.
"Shieldbearers forward!"
Shield wall formed. Spearmen behind. Georgia charged the wall—veterans of Rome, they knew: flank it.
They bypassed, hitting unprotected sides.
"Flanks under attack! Peltasts, shift and intercept!"
Lightly armed peltasts scrambled, engaging flankers.
"Die, you Georgian scum!"
"Take this!"
Peltasts, agile with varied arms, hurled metal darts. Georgians stalled.
"Argh!"
"My... eyes!"
Seeing the halt, Asakios commanded.
"Their advance slows! Shields, advance and envelop!"
He pressed. But Georgia countered sharply.
"There!"
"Shields moving—exploit the gap!"
"Break through!"
Retreating their oblique path, they slipped between pursuing shields. Perfect riposte. Asakios gritted teeth, eyeing the hill.
An elderly monk-saint, revered noble—military leader. Iberia's John. Georgia's famed general overlooked Asakios from above.