Fall of Reggio Calabria
“Ughhh…”
“This stench is unbearable.”
The Vikings groaned at the foul odor. And small wonder—it was an ancient Roman sewer, built in the days of the old empire.
“Did the Romans build something like this and still manage to fall?” Humphrey marveled, peering into the gloom of the tunnel. It was vast enough for dozens of men to pass abreast. To folk who had lived beyond the pale of Roman civilization, it was baffling how a people with such engineering prowess could have crumbled under their own weight, just as Humphrey said.
“Hubris, probably,” Geoffrey offered curtly.
The fall of the Roman Empire had many causes, no doubt, but arrogance might well have been the greatest.
“Western Rome fell, but Eastern Rome endures. A people with such skills must be formidable indeed—enough to give one pause.”
I had no reply to Geoffrey’s words. For one thing, the Eastern Roman Empire—Byzantium—was in a perpetual state of turmoil at this time. Ever since the rise of the Islamic caliphates, it had endured endless trials. The loss of the Levant, home to Christianity’s holy sites like Jerusalem, had been a devastating blow, shocking the entire Christian world.
Of course, thanks to the current emperor, the extraordinary Basil II, the empire was enjoying a renaissance. On the surface, it seemed stabilized. But I, who knew the true history, was aware that even this wise ruler would soon make fatal errors.
“We’re almost there.”
Alberto’s voice snapped me from my reverie. Battle was imminent; I needed to focus.
Following him deeper, we reached a dead end. A tiny hole, too small even for a man, was barred with wire to keep out rats. Humphrey scowled at it.
“You’ve led us astray.”
Alberto waved his hands frantically and pointed to the wall. “N-no, my lord! I didn’t deceive you. Break through that wall, and it leads straight to my old home.”
“Straight to a house?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alberto kicked the wall, and bricks tumbled down in a cascade. Rats squealed in panic, fleeing into the sewer.
“Who’d have thought there was a passage like this.”
I was stunned myself. I recalled a tour guide in Rome explaining how nobles had built such escape routes—and seeing one in person was something else entirely.
“How did you know about it without getting caught?” Humphrey asked.
Alberto answered cautiously. “It’s been handed down in my family since I was a boy.”
He seemed genuinely surprised himself, suggesting it was more legend than fact, never actually used. Of course, if it turned out to be a false tale told as truth, the consequences could be dire—so he was playing it cool. But you can’t fool a veteran like Geoffrey. He eyed Alberto thoughtfully, then nodded as if he’d made up his mind.
“Lead on, mercenary boy.”
Geoffrey was letting the deception slide. Humphrey and I had no choice but to respect our eldest brother’s call.
“Th-thank you! Brothers, move out!”
At Alberto’s command, the armed boys took point, with the Vikings following close behind.
The Muslim assault on Messina had thrown Reggio Calabria into chaos.
“Everyone, head west!”
“No—man the walls and defend!”
Contradictory orders flew in every direction.
“Follow my lead!”
“No—follow mine!”
This mess stemmed from the fact that these weren’t professional soldiers. Armies consumed resources, making them inefficient for a merchant republic thriving on Mediterranean trade. No one wanted to serve; it was easier to hire mercenaries. The citizens of Reggio Calabria had no systematic training, no discipline—and the chaos snowballed.
Yet no one stepped up to restore order.
“They’ll never breach the walls anyway.”
“Worst case, we pay tribute and it’s done.”
Complacent thinking. And in their arrogance, they overlooked the basics.
“What idiots.”
“Without those walls, they’d have crumbled ages ago.”
From the shadows between buildings, wolf-like Vikings held their breath, sneering at the flailing prey amid the waves of confusion.
“Why not hit them now, brother?” Humphrey asked.
Geoffrey pondered, then turned to the quietly watchful Robert. “When do you think we should strike?”
Robert considered, then glanced toward the walls. “When the Muslims’ assault peaks—hit them from behind.”
“Your thoughts, Humphrey?”
“As I said earlier, now’s best. Striking during their attack is smart, but cornered foes fight like demons. We’d take heavy losses. Sure, we could seize the city—but holding off the next Muslim wave? Tough.”
Humphrey, field battle expert, laid out his reasoning crisply.
Robert nodded. “On that point, brother Humphrey’s right.”
“Your view has merit, Humphrey. But Robert’s too—so I’ll blend them.”
Geoffrey raised his hand, dividing the forces: Humphrey’s shock troops, his own center, and Robert’s rearguard with the boy mercenaries.
“Shock troops: roam and hit small enemy groups—ten or fewer. If outnumbered, withdraw.”
Each-piece defeat. With looters mixed in, the infantry excelled at encirclement and annihilation.
“Rearguard: target buildings with banners. Fierce resistance? Fall back.”
Banners marked key facilities; Geoffrey aimed to decapitate their command structure.
“Center: straight to the lord’s palace.”
Swift subjugation meant striking the head.
Orders given, Geoffrey eyed his half-brothers and murmured low: “Valhalla awaits.”
“Pros live up to the name.”
I muttered to myself, watching Humphrey carve through like a storm. Field expert through and through. Vikings, born to rough seas, raids, and brawls, were one-man armies in close quarters. Humphrey, long their leader, strode this blood-soaked hell like a stroll.
“And brother Geoffrey’s got grand strategy in his blood…”
He grasped the field like a god playing a massive strategy sim, splitting forces on the fly. Call it odd, but it felt like he surveyed the entire battlefield from on high.
Sure, just dividing troops—big deal. But placing the right men in the right spots? Genius. Close-quarters center got sword-and-dagger aces. Shock and rearguard got axe masters for breakthrough power.
Unreal skill, but history had its share of such commanders.
“Unreal—but some thrived on it. Geoffrey’s one of those.”
As I mused, Alberto approached. “As ordered, we’ve barricaded the banner building with timber.”
Like taking the village hall and blocking the front with wood. They’d doused it in scavenged vegetable oil too.
“Light it up now?”
I checked the shock troops’ advance. “When they near the walls.”
They’d be spotted then—time to draw eyes with fire, minimize losses.
Moments later, the shock troops closed in. I raised my hand.
“Burn it!”
“Fire!”
“Fire! M-my house!”
“My home’s ablaze!”
Flames erupted. Not an inferno yet, but panicked cries turned heads.
“H-how are Vikings here?!”
“Heathens!”
Chaos. I signaled at once.
“Attack!”
Giant Vikings charged with axes. Boys followed, mopping up the wounded or feign-dead who didn’t drop on the first blow.
As the fight progressed, a roar came from the palace.
“Surrender—all of you! Your lord is dead!”
Geoffrey’s bellow. In his grip: the lord’s crowned head.
Witnessing it, the citizens’ will broke. Wall guards, seeing weapons dropped, surrendered one by one.
“Easier than expected.”
Humphrey shook blood from his blade, approaching. I nodded, eyeing the walls.
“Now for the Muslims.”
“Aye. Work’s not done.”
As we climbed the walls, the Muslims— as if by signal—halted their assault and turned ship.
Humphrey laughed, mocking them. “Fleeing without a fight? Cowards.”
“Something’s off.”
They must’ve sensed our capture of Reggio Calabria. Their weakest moment—should’ve hit harder. Instead, retreat. Like they’d spotted something…
“No way…”
I scanned the sea. Purple sails: the Byzantine fleet, bearing down on us.