Chapter 590: Caesar vs Sultan Part 4
The Aegean coast is usually peaceful after midnight. The fishermen have returned to their cottages, cleaning their fishing nets after a long day at sea. The convoy ships have lowered their sails and dropped their anchors to avoid drifting into unknown darkness. People have retreated to their homes, staying alert for any dangers that might come from nocturnal predators.
But tonight, is different. A grand battle is raging between the ancient rivals, the Romans and the Ottomans. The Romans, relying on their last ounce of strength, willpower, and endurance, are putting up a desperate but determined defence against the advancing Ottomans. Wave after wave, the Ottomans pound onto the Roman formations, seemingly blind and deaf to the increasing sacrifices of their comrades. Bodies fall one after another, staining the grass beneath them with a vivid red, casting an eerie glow in the darkness.
The Ottomans employ various tactical manoeuvres against the Romans. They try flanking, applying pressure to specific points, launching combined charges with armoured cavalry and infantry supporting each other, and executing hit-and-run tactics with their horse archers. Yet, despite the experienced Ottoman field commanders using these flexible war techniques, the Romans refuse to yield. Even when it appears that the Romans are on the verge of collapse, they stand their ground.
The reason behind this phenomenon is simple, for the Romans have their found their belief, which is their Caesar. The new army of Thessaloniki are undoubtedly raised, built and developed by the Caesar himself over the past decade starting with those three hundred plus mercenaries, sailors, varangian and sailor-marines who are now all over the state with various ranks, forming the backbone behind the Caesar’s military reforms, and grinding the sense of a personal cult being loyal to no one but the Caesar deep into the heart and minds of every single trooper who stepped through the gates of the barracks. Yes, most soldiers do not fight for the idea of the Pax Romanum, nor the Orthodox faith, they fight for the peace and prosperity of their families, but in order to do that, they will need to follow the orders of the Caesar, who brought the peace here first.
Now, their faith is here, their belief is here, their totem is here, everyone firmly believed the fact that their Caesar Antonius De’Ricci, has never lost a battle before (although he did), and if the Caesar appeared on the battlefield, then they shall and they must win this battle for sure, without questions, that is what they are taught about since day one of their basic military training.
And with the passing of time, the offensive formations of the Ottomans are getting a little... messy, and disorganised.
"What is going on! What is going on over here! Order! I want order!" An agha roared to his men clashing against one another in the chaotic battlefield demanding them to stand back into their lines, but even a simple demand like this that should have been a piece of cake, is now taking a hell lot of time to fulfil. The Agha grabbed one of his men who just clumsily bumped into him and roared right at his face. "Where do you think you are going! Go back to your lines!"
Then, did the Agha notice something about his man – this little fella’s pupils are unfocused, spinning left and right like a lost soul.
"Honourable Agha! Sir!" Upon hearing the voice of his lord, the soldier bursted out in tears. "I... I cannot see a thing! I have lost my sight! Honourable Agha! Am I punished by God? I cannot find where are my pals, I cannot find where are my enemies, I cannot even see my own blade, what is going on with me?"
It is not the first time that the agha is facing issues such as this, he hastily looked around, only to find out that the flames of the ruins and remains of the forts have been diminishing as they are getting blown away by the "Meltemi" wind blowing towards the North, and the torches in the hands of the Ottoman troopers have mostly been burnt out, making the entire battlefield a much dimmer place than it used to be right at the start.
Upon realising this, the agha could no longer be bothered with this poor fellow before him or the messed up formations of his soldiers as he took up his speed, ran towards the back, and grabbed the kneels of a cavalry, roaring with his eyes bursting open. "I am an Agha, now, I do not care what order you are currently on, but go to the Sultan, and tell him to withdraw our men to resupply! Now!"
This cavalry, obviously a Janissary judging by his distinguished Börk headgear and Cepken brocade, is clearly irritated by this man who suddenly came forward and grabbed his beloved mount yelling at him to do things, but he is no ordinary peasant soldier, he is a Janissary, and he is healthy enough to see things pretty amidst the darkness with little light; he can determine that this man before him is indeed an Agha judging by his blade and his dress code.
Incidents like this has been going on across the entire battlefield of the Ottoman side, with more and more cases getting reported to the central command via various means as time passed by, and eventually reaching the ears of the young Sultan.
The Sultan is obviously panicking, with his forehead full of sweat as he gathered all his courtiers and all the books that he have brought to discuss a possible way to lead his troops out of this as he sent more men carrying new torches passing it to the hands of the Ottoman warriors still fighting vigorously on the frontline.
It took the anxious young Sultan to find this curse by God on the books, described as the Tibb al-’uyun which is a kind of illness that mostly only happens on the poor city dwellers and rural peasants mainly caused by the lack of food, as mentioned in the book, and it can be corrected by a change of diet – which means that there are no possible magic cures of it on the fields, and what makes the Sultan even more despair, is the fact that he was actually taught of this fact that most of his citizens have this curse of God, especially with the folks born after the devastation, but he did not have it in mind when he was making all the decisions for the battle.
The Sultan can feel the scale of victory tilting away from him as each wave of attack by the Ottomans becomes more and more unorganised. But by the basic knowledge of a military commander, he knows that it is even more deadly for him if he is to order a full sudden retreat for his men – for sometimes, planning an organised retreat is much harder than leading an organised attack. A failed retreat can very much potentially turn into a chaotic one, with soldiers at the back thinking that they have lost the battle and run for their lives, and the troopers in the frontline fighting feeling betrayed when they see their friendly forces retreating, and they would push against one another of their pals, or even draw their blades towards one another just for the opportunity of getting away, ultimately destroying an entire force.
With unwavering resolve and a fierce determination burning within him, the young Sultan contemplated his next move.
"Summon all the remaining Janissaries!" The Sultan’s voice rang out, commanding his men’s attention. "Gather the slaves, the cooks, and the peasants. Arm them with torches. I shall lead our depleted forces into a final, decisive battle against these infidels. It is upon my shoulders that their defeat shall rest."
Just like his father, the Sultan recognised that the path to survival lay in relentless aggression. Only through unyielding attacks, shattering the enemy’s defences, could they hope to prevail in this dire predicament.
"Rally with me!" The Sultan brandished his Kilij blade in his right hand and grasped the royal standard of the white horse in his left. Like a thunderbolt, he charged headlong into the Roman formations, his Janissary guards close behind. Their loyalty compelled them to protect their Sultan, urging caution, but the young leader’s determination was unwavering. Following closely behind were the peasants and slaves, organized by courtiers who diligently lit torches and passed them to the front lines.
The sight of the young Sultan himself, adorned with the royal standard and surrounded by an ever-increasing number of blazing torches, infused the Ottoman troops with an indomitable spirit. Each soldier felt an upsurge of strength, yet also a sense of shame as they witnessed their Sultan leading from the front, exceeding their own valour. Emboldened by his example, the Ottomans pressed forward with unrelenting zeal.
In this fiery display of courage and unity, the Ottoman forces surged forth, the clash of weapons and the heat of battle engulfing the battlefield. The air crackled with anticipation as the young Sultan’s resolve set the pace for the offensive, instilling hope in the hearts of his troops. The Romans caught off guard by this unexpected surge, found themselves facing an adversary invigorated by the presence of their leader, pushing beyond the brink of exhaustion.
