Chapter 634: Battle of Rosen (1)
On the third of January, near the village of Rosen, the day dawned clear. The sky stretched above in a vast expanse of unblemished blue, the recent snows melted away, leaving behind a landscape ripe for battle. This day, with its firm ground and open skies, was tailor-made for the grand manoeuvres of war.
Don’t get me wrong of course, if does not mean that both sides have wasted days in advance sitting there without doing a thing. The armies had been testing each other’s mettle, cavalry clashing in a series of brutal skirmishes that left the fields littered with the fallen. Khalid’s cavalry, skilled though they were, found themselves at a stark disadvantage. Hemmed into the corners of the battlefield, their situation grew increasingly dire.
The Ottoman cavalry, in contrast, rode with the confidence of men for whom horsemanship was as natural as breathing. These warriors from Anatolia, barely five years confined within Bulgaria’s borders, possessed an innate connection with their steeds, a skill honed from childhood. This gave them a formidable edge over the Roman cavalry, composed largely of affluent farmers more accustomed to guiding agricultural reasons than warhorses.
Abbas Pasha, observing from his vantage point, felt a surge of hope. The battlefield, a vast tapestry of open plains interspersed with clusters of barren woods, was an ideal arena for his cavalry-dominated strategy. Seizing the opportunity, he gathered every mounted soldier at his disposal, amassing a force of about a thousand riders. This formidable cavalry unit dwarfed the Roman cavalry in both size and prowess, boasting a two-to-one advantage in armed combatants.
Now, with the Roman cavalry force pinned down by the marvellous performance of his men, Abbas Pasha decided that it is now in the fullness of time for his forces to stop squeezing on top of the hills, and start a grand assault on the Romans, before these bastards run away.
Horns are blown, troops start marching, and the old Pasha is here with brightness all over his face, here to teach these young and naïve Rumelians that horsemen, especially Ottoman horsemen, are always the dominant species in the battlefield.
"I am sorry, your Majesty, I disgraced your name on the battlefield."
In the midst of the thawing battlefield, with remnants of snow clinging to the earth, the Egyptian cavalry commander, Khalid, knelt solemnly. Around him, Roman soldiers busied themselves in disciplined formation, their movements precise as they polished their gear and prepared for the march ahead. Emperor Antonius stood imposingly before Khalid, his gaze piercing, as if weighing the commander’s worth.
"You disappointed me, Khalid," the emperor stated, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and regret.
Khalid’s arms trembled slightly, not just from the cold, but from the weight of his failure. The dampness of the melting snow seeped through his armour, a chilling reminder of his defeat.
"I have told you, for countless times since last year, that our cavalry force is yet at its initial stages of development, these cavalries, were seeds I had hoped to cultivate into experienced commanders, not to be squandered in an ill-fated skirmish, you too knows that it is far too early for them to challenge the Ottomans aren’t you?"
Khalid’s fist gripped around a handful of snow, the cold water oozing between his fingers.
"And who gave you the order to harass the Ottoman camp? You were fortunate the first time, but that old cunning Abbas Pasha is no novice. He’s a seasoned strategist with decades of experience. What made you think you could outmanoeuvre him again?" Antonius’s tone was stern, his disappointment evident.
Overcome with remorse, Khalid drew his dagger and held it shakily over his left hand. "I am deeply sorry, your Majesty!" he cried out, tears mixing with the snow. "Let my blood atone for my folly!"
"Shut it! Your punishment shall come later, after this battle concludes, but first, you will have to continue commanding over this force, and protect my flanks, with the guilt in your heart! Remember, I need as many experienced cavalries alive as possible!"
Without another word, Antonius turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode away. Mounting his horse, he joined the ranks of his moving army. Khalid remained kneeling, his head bowed in the muddy snow, the dagger slipping from his numbed fingers. His heart was heavy with the weight of his failure and the daunting task that lay before him.
"Commander, it is time to go." His knight nudged his commander by the side. "No matter what we still follow your lead."
Khalid made no response, with his head continued to sink inside that muddy snow before him.
The fellow knights exchanged eye contacts with one another and pulled their commander away by force.
The two armies finally met with one another at noon, finally marking the start of the ultimate battle after an entire month of various pre-plays of various smaller clashes by separated units. Furthermore, Antonius has reasons to believe that this Abbas Pasha has all reasons to seek for a quick battle with him ending the threat here, as the troops of Julian have already marched off, and begun their first siege on forts along the Bulgarian border, the Hungarians and Serbians too, have begun taking various actions, Abbas Pasha might potentially face a battle on four fronts. Though the other three armies can hardly provide any form of assistance to Antonius, as he said himself, this shall be his own fight, a gem that is going to be used to decorate his coronation.
Antonius wanted no ordinary coronation ceremony, seated in the middle of the Hagia Sophia, he wanted something... different.
The sun hung heavy in a cloud-streaked sky, casting a pale light over the sprawling battlefield. A tense stillness hung in the air, broken only by the occasional clank of armour and the restless shuffling of feet. Soldiers in both armies adjusted their gear, the metallic sounds echoing faintly across the field, a prelude to the chaos that was to come.
A sharp, biting wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the earthy scent of the open fields, mingled with the briny tang from the nearby sea. It whipped through the ranks, fluttering banners and tugging at cloaks, as if urging the men towards their inevitable clash. The wind seemed to carry the whispers of battles past, stirring the dust of centuries into a ghostly dance around the soldiers’ feet.
The mood amongst the troops was a complex tapestry of emotions. Some faces were etched with determination, others with a grim acceptance of the task ahead. Amongst the younger soldiers, there was an undercurrent of nervous energy, a mix of fear and excitement at the prospect of their first major battle.
Antonius seats tight in the middle, with Abbas Pasha opposite him, almost face to face. The Varangians closely hurdled before their lords, with axes and hammers held tight in their hands. To the sides there exists three infantry regiments and a rear-guard regiment behind. Each of the infantry regiments have three lines of gunmen, archers, followed by shields and spikes a distance behind ready to offer immediate covers. Khalid’s cavalries have taken their positions up at the right flank on the high grounds, and the dozen plus artilleries have taken their effective positions in a line, aiming right towards enemy positions.
Above them, the sky seemed to reflect the mood on the ground – a canvas of light and shadow, with clouds drifting lazily, indifferent to the imminent conflict. The Earth below, soon to be marred by the violence of war, lay quiet and unsuspecting, its green expanse a stark contrast to the grim assembly above.
As the moments ticked by, the tension grew, the air thick with anticipation. The soldiers gripped their weapons tighter, their knuckles whitening, as they waited for the signal that would unleash them into the fray. The wind continued its mournful howl, a lone harbinger of the tumult to come, as two armies stood on the brink of a battle that would echo through history.
Abbas Pasha took a look at the sky, pulled out his weapon high into the air and bellowed to his men with a voice that cut through the crisp air, imbued with a fiery zeal. "Warriors of the Ottoman Empire! In the sacred name of Allah, I implore you to muster all your courage on this day of destiny! Remember, the eyes of Allah and the spirits of our forefathers’ gaze upon us from above, witnessing our valour in this magnificent battle. We vanquished these infidels at Varna two decades past, and by Allah’s grace, we shall triumph again!"
"Charge, brave Ottomans! Let your arrows rain down upon these Rumelian foes, swift as the wrath of Allah!"
As if ignited by his fervour, the line of Ottoman archers surged forward, a wave of relentless force. They thundered down the slope, hooves drumming a furious rhythm into the earth. Each archer, with bow in hand, became an instrument of war, poised to unleash a storm of arrows. Their strategy was as cunning as it was brutal – a lightning-fast assault, arrows loosed in deadly volleys, just like how they have done it in Varna.
The leader of the Ottoman cavalries, a Bey, shouted back. "We have no threat in front of us my boys! Our cavalries have already defeated their immature cavalries! Come! Without fear!"
"With our blades! Towards the enemies! Without heading back! God bless us! God Is The Greatest!"
