Chapter 632: Being Careful Helps
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
"Surrender! We must surrender!" Yavuz’s voice cracked in utter panic.
"Quickly, wave the white flag! Stop their firing! Let’s send some men out to negotiate!" he ordered frantically, his eyes darting around in terror.
"We can’t endure this onslaught any longer!" another voice echoed in agreement, trembling with fear.
Yet, to Yavuz’s utter despair, the relentless Rumelian artillery unleashed two more thunderous volleys, ensuring that any lingering resistance was thoroughly crushed. Only then did the advancing troops, cautious yet unyielding, approach the fortress. They methodically ordered the Ottoman defenders to disarm and assemble outside, weapons surrendered in a heap stacking high as a mountain. The gates of the fortress creaked open, and the banners of the Ottomans were replaced with the emblem of the Double Headed Eagle.
The fort of Rezovo, a project years in the making and entrusted to Abbas Pasha’s most reliable son, had fallen in just two harrowing days.
The Romans wasted no time. They swiftly processed the prisoners of war, including a shaken and defeated Yavuz, handing them over to the local garrisons and conscripted militias. With disciplined efficiency, the Roman forces prepared to march onward, setting their sights towards Abbas Pasha’s stronghold.
Though Yavuz finally, showed his bravery after this siege, as he did not open his mouth for once when interrogated by the Rumelians through whips, staring down at the ground, with no one knowing his mind.
...
Upon receiving the devastating news of his son’s capture and the fall of Rezovo, Abbas Pasha felt the world spin around him, a mix of rage, disbelief, and despair clouding his judgement.
"...Eyewitnesses report that the Rumelians wielded a new form of artillery," reported a scout, his voice quivering. "Unlike our cannons from the days of Candarli Halil Pasha and Sultan Mehmed II, theirs are highly mobile pulled with only two bulls, devastatingly powerful. Their thunderous roars are like the wrath of Allah sweeping the land, and they launch metal spheres, not mere rocks. Our valiant fighters... they stood no chance against such cursed weaponry..."
"I know! I know! I know!" Abbas Pasha cut him off sharply, his voice laced with impatience as he sat rigidly on his horse. "What I need are details - their command structure, the number of their artillery units, their operational tactics, the firing rate, and whether our wooden shield carts can withstand their bombardment!"
The scout, visibly shaken, stammered, unable to provide the desired specifics, as he hadn’t dared venture close to the enemy’s firing lines.
"Enough!" Abbas Pasha dismissed him with a wave of his hand, a mixture of frustration and helplessness in his tone. "Send out more scouts! Ready the men for battle!" he bellowed, trying to mask his uncertainty with a veneer of command.
Yet, the reality of Abbas Pasha’s army was a complex mosaic of loyalties and capabilities. The force he had mustered, numbering over eight thousand, was a loose coalition of various warlords, big and small, across Bulgaria. Only a third of these were truly his men. The rest, over five thousand, were a motley crew brought in by different Aghas and Beys. This diverse mix meant varied morale, discipline, training, equipment, and marching speeds – a recipe for discord in large-scale combat.
Abbas Pasha understood the precariousness of his position. Despite his title, he was not inherently superior in rank to the other lords who had fled to Bulgaria. He was more an elected figurehead than an autocrat with absolute control over the region. This arrangement, albeit fraught with challenges, was the only feasible way to maintain a semblance of a formidable standing army. Unlike the Rumelians of Thessaloniki, who boasted a professional and consistent military force, Abbas Pasha lacked the resources and authority to establish a permanent, disciplined army. His leadership was a balancing act, one constantly threatened by the varying ambitions and capabilities of his assembled warlords.
Abbas Pasha’s frustration with the Bulgarian army was palpable from the moment they trudged out of Burgas. The chaotic assembly, comprising units from disparate lords, was a study in discord. Different units, each with their own discipline and marching speeds, repeatedly collided. The lack of coordination led to frequent and aggravating traffic jams at intersections, slowing their progress to a crawl, taking almost two days to get them out of the city to the place they are in now.
The simmering rivalries and historical conflicts between some units didn’t help either, leading to occasional clashes that only added to the disarray along the way, creating casualties even before they met the enemies head on. This disorganised movement was a glaring risk, exposing the army to potential ambush and weakening their overall combat effectiveness.
A scout, breathless from urgency, rode in from the woods. "Pasha! The Rumelians have been spotted marching along the seaside. They’ve set up camps in Tsarevo!"
Abbas Pasha’s heart sank.
As a seasoned commander, he knew all too well the implications of this news. The Rumelians had already seized the tactical advantage, establishing their camp a mere twenty Roman miles away. This distance was critical; it was the maximum his troops could cover in a day without descending into chaos. The Rumelians, meanwhile, could rest and rejuvenate, poised to strike at his weary forces.
Abbas Pasha looked around.
Surveying his surroundings, Abbas Pasha’s despair deepened. The area was an expansive plain, a terrain he would have relished back in the days when he was a Janissary cavalry commander under Sultan Murad II. But now, leading an army primarily composed of infantry, the open fields offered no strategic comfort.
Biting his teeth, he instructed. "Tell our warriors to persevere for a little longer! We will have to make it to the high grounds of Bakarlaka! And encamp there by the end of the day!"
His orders were met with a chorus of groans and complaints from the already fatigued soldiers. With heavy hearts and weary steps, the cumbersome army lumbered onward, a giant struggling against its own disunity and the looming threat of an imminent Rumelian assault.
In the dim glow of his tent, Abbas Pasha laboured over the plans for the night’s defence. With meticulous attention to detail, he orchestrated the positioning of guards, patrols, and scouts, drawing upon his extensive military experience. Outside, the night enveloped the camp, its darkness a cloak hiding potential threats. Abbas Pasha, gazing at the crescent moon above, found himself lost in thought, grappling with the weight of command.
The old Pasha’s mind was a whirlwind of prayers and pleas. Silently, he sought divine favour, yearning for just a handful more years – five, perhaps ten – to forge an army capable of withstanding the Rumelian onslaught. But his solemn entreaties seemed to dissipate into the night, unanswered, swallowed by the ambient chorus of nocturnal insects.
Resigned to his fate yet unwavering in resolve, Abbas Pasha, the most senior figure in his army, mounted his horse for a final inspection. He embarked on a thorough check of the concealed guard posts and patrols, a critical task to ensure their readiness against the Rumelian threat looming in the shadows.
...
The old Pasha’s carefulness is proved to be useful.
Unknown to him, a mere Roman mile away, a detachment of Roman cavalry was strategically hidden in the shallow woods beneath the rolling hills. The group was expertly positioned to evade detection by patrols and scouts. Among them were Khalid, the esteemed leader of the Roman cavalry, and his trusted deputy. They watched the Ottoman camp with hawk-like vigilance, assessing its fortifications and readiness.
"That old bastard’s got a full defence with a shallow ditch, a line of mixed palisades with one after another crossing one another, barricades before camps on elevated terrain, that old thief is well prepared for our incoming assault."
His deputy, standing close, inquired, "Should we initiate an attack, General?"
"No, there are too much risk involved in this." Khalid thought to himself for a while and answered. "But we need to tell those Ottomans that we were here, we can’t just sit here with the bugs all over the night wasting our energy for nothing... See those torches moving against the directions of the patrols? That must be some Ottoman commander moving around to check their guard posts."
"Very well, General," his vice commander acknowledged.
"Rally our sharp shooters, gallop to the front of those barricades, and flung a round of arrows in the directions of the moving torches, just give them a bit of scare."
"Yes, general, as you wish."
The vice commander nodded, moving quickly to execute the command. Within minutes, a group of ten elite archers stealthily maneuverer closer to the Ottoman defences, keeping low on their horses to avoid detection. Reaching an optimal vantage point, they loosed a sudden flurry of arrows towards the moving torches, a tactical move designed to unnerve the enemy. With their mission accomplished, they retreated swiftly, melting back into the night with their fellow soldiers, leaving nothing behind except for those arrows, and a series of roars and war cries on purpose.
