Unification War (6)
“Indeed, those are sturdy walls.”
Built in ancient Roman times, the walls had been further reinforced, making them look quite solid.
“It would take at least five years to bring down walls like these,” Chaur added. As he said, toppling such formidable fortifications was next to impossible in terms of time. Hammering at them for five years was out of the question. That was why medieval sieges inevitably relied on field tactics like cutting off supplies.
In any case, once the troops were arrayed near the walls, an enemy commander appeared atop them. As he emerged, I stepped forward and bellowed in a commanding voice.
“Dux Aperius of the Optimatoi! The true master of this land, Rogerius, has arrived. I sent an envoy to urge your surrender, but you refused. This battle is your doing, and you shall pay in blood for scorning my magnanimity.”
It was a shout bordering on a warning. In truth, though the words were harsh, it was an act of shifting the blame for the war onto the enemy. To outsiders, it might seem pointless. But considering how it could minimize enemy resistance during postwar cleanup, it wasn't entirely unnecessary.
Having thus condemned the foe and pinned the war's responsibility on them, the man who appeared to be their commander replied.
“Arrogant barbarian! Emperor Constantine VIII yet lives, and you dare claim the throne? Have you no fear of heaven's wrath?”
“To slander Rome's rightful heir? Who are you?”
“I am Pereus, servant to His Excellency, Dux Aperius of the Optimatoi.”
A name I'd never heard. No memory of him meant he wasn't important.
“Pereus, in my mercy, I grant you one last chance to correct your insolence. Surrender now.”
“Surrender is not a word we know.”
With those words, arrows flew. Seeing one land before me, Chaur stepped forward and drew his bow.
“Insolent wretch! To refuse His Majesty's mercy!”
The arrow loosed from Chaur's bowstring arced through the air and pierced the forehead of the deputy beside the enemy commander. A shot worthy of the Seljuk Turk founder—utterly inhuman marksmanship. The enemy atop the walls stirred in shock; I wasn't the only one impressed.
The enemy commander dragged the corpse back and retreated. Their reaction suggested we'd seized the initiative.
“Impressive marksmanship, Chaur.”
“My thanks, Your Majesty. But it seems they've pulled back to hunker behind the walls.”
“Just as we anticipated.”
The enemy moving as predicted was a relief for us.
“Send soldiers to block the aqueduct channeling water into the city.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
Having chosen to hold behind the walls as a shield, the enemy's answer was obvious: dam the water and starve them out.
* * *
The soldiers of Nicomedia rested after a brief clash. Among them, one rookie still clutched his bow, ever vigilant.
“It's your turn to stand watch. Rest, rookie.”
A word from a veteran. The rookie hesitated, unsure.
“They're resting too. Quit fussing and come sit.”
At the veteran's urging, the rookie shuffled over and sat beside him.
“Is war always like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“We fought for our lives, but less than half a day passed. It's weird.”
The rookie pointed at the sky. The veteran propped up a stick to check something, then replied flatly.
“About twenty minutes.”
“We fought like that for only twenty minutes?”
“Yeah.”
“The heroes' tales say they battle all day...”
“You believe that? The enemy charges for your throat, you pour everything into shooting back—strength fades fast. Time flows the same for everyone.”
The veteran's blunt wisdom. The rookie stared silently at his hands, still trembling from the battle's aftershocks. It was a far cry from the heroic tales he'd imagined—a brutal reality.
“Rest when you can. And drink as much water as possible while you have it.”
“Why the water?”
“You've sweated out your humors fighting. Replenish them.”
Common medieval medical lore: the body held vital humors that needed balance for health. Many believed illness came from bad humors, drained by lancing the body. Sweat counted too, so they drank to rebuild them.
“Ah, right. I'll head down for a bit. Grab some food too...”
The veteran pulled something from his pouch and handed it over.
“Climbing walls is work enough. Eat jerky sparingly, sip water slowly.”
“Th-thank you.”
The rookie ate the jerky and drank as advised, a satisfying fullness rising. “Thanks for the help. Um... may I have your name...?”
“Hansen.”
“Ah, I'm Adelrius. So, Hansen from...?”
“Bohemia. Mercenary who settled here.”
The rookie nodded. “Hansen, sir...?”
“No 'sir.' We're just soldiers. Call me Hansen.”
“Still...”
“Arrows flying, and you'll yell 'sir'?”
“...Got it. Hansen.”
“Good.”
Silence fell again. Feeling awkward, the rookie spoke up.
“Hansen, did you join to defend your homeland?”
“What? Didn't you hear? My home's Bohemia.”
“I remember, but you said you settled here.”
“Settled doesn't make it home. Truth is, I tried to leave, got caught, conscripted.”
Hansen sighed. Adelrius smiled awkwardly in solidarity. “Same here.”
“Yeah? Where you from?”
“Near Athens. Got nabbed heading home.”
Common in the Middle Ages. Adult men were prime military assets; war halted all travel. Locals or not, every able-bodied man—even elders and boys—got drafted.
“Tough luck. And facing him? We're as good as dead.”
“The War Terminator... right?”
Hansen nodded. As an ex-mercenary, he'd heard tales of the legendary Rogerius.
“I was on the Bulgarian front. His feats aren't exaggerated.”
“Did he really cleave men in half with one axe swing?”
“One? Two or three, easy.”
Adelrius gaped. He'd felt firsthand how hard killing even one was. Desperate foes fighting for survival, on death's edge. The emperor was a reaper amid that fray.
“But we have walls. We can hold out till they tire...”
“The emperor I saw doesn't balk at walls. He's attacking for a reason.”
“A reason?”
“Yeah.”
Hansen stood abruptly. Adelrius looked puzzled.
“What's wrong?”
“Commotion below.”
Indeed, unrest stirred inside the walls. Some civilians grumbled, jars in hand.
“The stream's weaker, isn't it?”
“Not much coming out.”
“Move if you're done!”
A minor uproar. Adelrius shrugged. “Aqueduct issue again. Debris in the pipes.”
“Too convenient.”
Hansen grabbed his canteen and headed down. Adelrius followed.
Crowds buzzed at the water source. Suddenly, Hansen drew his sword. People backed off; he filled his containers to the brim.
“Why...?”
“No time. Stock up. Who knows what's next.”
Hansen's grim face brooked no argument. Adelrius filled three leather flasks. Hansen led him to a wall corner.
“Listen, rookie. Believe it or not, this fort falls soon.”
Adelrius's eyes widened. As he opened his mouth, Hansen clamped it shut.
They held their breath. Patrols with drawn swords passed. Adelrius whispered urgently.
“Sudden fall? Impossible. Thick walls, ample food—we hold, they retreat.”
“I said it before: the emperor's no pushover. He found a way in.”
“How?”
“He's assaulting the walls, and suddenly water supply fails. Coincidence?”
“No way...”
“He dammed the inflow somehow.”
“No water...”
“Walls and food won't save us.”
Hansen's cold analysis rang true; Adelrius nodded.
“Wh-what now? Staying means death...”
“No sinking ship for me. We escape.”
“How...?”
“One gate guard's my countryman. Dawn, when all sleep, we slip out.”
“They'll catch us?”
“Better than dying here. Play it right, we live free.”
He planned to defect to the emperor post-escape, trading fort intel for merit and a fresh start.