Chapter 636: Battle of Rosen (3)
"Quick! Crossbows!" The command echoed urgently through the ranks. The Roman archers, along with their allies, were momentarily stunned, their senses overwhelmed by the sudden eruption of violence and noise. This initial shock almost cost them dearly, as they struggled to respond to their commander’s orders. Only a handful of archers managed to shake off their disbelief in time, hastily notching and releasing a round of bolts towards the Ottoman cavalry, before the Ottoman cavalries charged into the disguise of the chaotic white haze.
In mere seconds, the remnants of the Ottoman cavalry burst through the dense, white fog, their charge a desperate blaze of glory amidst the chaos.
Of the original five hundred heavy cavalries, only a scant fifty reached the Roman lines. The rest had fallen victim to the relentless shelling, the unyielding rain of bullets and bolts, or had been swept away by their panicked mounts in a frenzied stampede. Those who managed to break through did so with their mounts barely under control, themselves reeling from the shock of their pals decimation and the devastating storm of shelling.
Their charge, though valiant, tore only through the first layer of the Roman arquebusiers, scattering soldiers in their wake. But this fleeting success was met not with triumph but with the grim reality of battle. Roman shield-bearers and pikemen methodically advanced, closing in around the now isolated Ottoman riders. The once proud charge of the Ottoman cavalry, now lost its momentum and speed, was methodically surrounded one by one, pinned down onto the ground, and exterminated.
In the first brutal hour of combat, the finest of the Ottoman cavalry was wiped from the battlefield, their presence erased as if they had never been. The horse archers, too, found themselves in dire straits, harried and scattered by Khalid’s own cavalry as they made desperate forays towards the artillery. Their bey, driven by a reckless determination to neutralize the deadly cannons, charged heedlessly, paying no heed to the soaring cost in lives. His end came swiftly; in a ruthless confrontation with Khalid, a single, decisive stroke sent the bey’s head tumbling across the blood-soaked earth – a stark end to a once courageous leader.
In just the start of the battle, the thousand plus finest cavalry that Abbas Pasha could master have lost their strength, meeting their proud ends in a not so proud fashion.
"You see, Grand Prince." Antonius took a sigh of relief, turned back and smiled towards Ivan. "That is why I told you to be patient for a little longer."
But Ivan stood frozen, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock, terror, and awe. He seemed to be lost for words, his mouth opening and closing silently, unable to articulate his disbelief.
"Grand Prince?" The emperor nudged the big man, which only then came back to awake with his eyes full of shock, terror, surprise and awe, as the man kept making an ’Ah’ sound, but failing to express any language.
The rest of the foreign guests could not behave any better.
Around them, the reactions of the other foreign dignitaries were equally varied and intense. Zaganos Pasha and his son stared, eyes bulging, as the reality of the Roman firepower sank in. The Hungarian delegation, usually so composed, sat in stunned silence, their writing quills forgotten and fallen. Skanderbeg, normally so stoic, fidgeted with his mustache absentmindedly, not noticing as he tugged out several hairs in his agitation. The Mamluk envoys, renowned for their cavalry prowess, nearly toppled from their vantage point, their expressions a mix of disbelief and fear. And the Serbian observers shivered uncontrollably, their earlier ambitions on Bulgarian lands now replaced with prayers that the Greeks’ military might would not turn towards them.
On the battlefield, an eerie silence reigned momentarily, before descending into pandemonium. The once-formidable Ottoman cavalry, a force that had shaped empires, lay decimated, reduced to mere corpses in a matter of moments. This was not the warfare they knew – this was something beyond their comprehension. To many, it seemed not just a defeat but an encounter with the supernatural.
"Wicked sorcery..."
Whispered a pale-faced Bey standing next to Abbas Pasha, his voice barely a murmur of horror. His sudden, frantic claims of "Sorcery! The Rumelians have used sorcery!" spread like wildfire among his troops, igniting panic and confusion. The Ottoman formation, already teetering on the edge of collapse, began to disintegrate as the rumour took hold. Many in the rear ranks started to drop their weapons, their instincts screaming to flee from this monstrous display of power they could not understand.
In that moment, the battle shifted from a clash of armies to a confrontation with the unimaginable, leaving soldiers and leaders alike grappling with a reality that had forever changed.
In the midst of chaos, Abbas Pasha finally started reacting. With a burst of frenzied energy, he dismounted his horse, his movements urgent and decisive. He confronted the Bey who had sown panic among the troops, his anger palpable. With a swift, unyielding motion, he kicked the Bey to the ground, his elegant sword, previously untouched by battle, now plunging deeply into the Bey’s neck. The crimson blood spilled onto the snow-muddied ground, stark against the white, creating a chilling tableau beneath Abbas Pasha’s trembling form.
"Listen to me, all of you!" Abbas Pasha bellowed, his voice a roar in the wintery silence. "These are no sorceries! Remember, it was our Sultan Mehmed II who first used these weapons at the siege of Constantinople! These guns, they are slow to reload, they are not invincible! Stand firm, Ottomans! We have no retreat!"
The pure blood of the Bey splashed out of the corpse, slowly tainting the muddy Earth beneath Abbas Pasha’s boots in a vibrant red, almost reflecting his shadows in the pool of blood, forming a strong contrast with the white beard of the old Pasha waving against the winter wind.
These words seems to have used up all the energy and strength of the old Pasha, as he fell back, and leaned onto his mount, gasping for air.
Sudden unprepared intensive activities are no good for an elderly’s heart.
Messengers rapidly disseminated Abbas Pasha’s rallying cry across the battlefield. The morale of the Ottoman army, though still shaken, began to recover slightly. Veterans amongst them recalled the heavy bronze cannons of the past, transported by twenty bulls, and wondered if perhaps their Pasha’s words held some truth.
Probably, the Pasha’s words are right?
"Boom!"
The Pasha’s words are wrong.
The Romans did not waste the time when the Ottomans are stuck in chaos, as the Roman artilleries took the precious opportunity to move forward by a few hundred meters, making them barely enough to be in the range to touch the Ottoman troops a mile away, and readied themselves in firing position again, just in a shocking mere thirty minutes. The artillery commander only dared to make a daring move like this, moving his artillery positions without under the protection of friendly forces, because of the destruction of the enemy cavalry force.
This flicker of hope was brutally extinguished as the Roman artillery, having stealthily advanced and repositioned during the Ottoman’s moment of confusion, unleashed another ferocious barrage. This time, the cannon fire was not a distant terror, but a direct and devastating assault upon the Ottoman formations. The earth shook under the relentless bombardment, eroding not just the ground but the resolve of the Ottoman army, proving Abbas Pasha’s reassurances tragically wrong. The Romans, methodical and merciless, were closing in, their artillery rewriting the rules of engagement with every thunderous boom, with shells again falling onto the heads of the Ottoman footmen, these canon balls, rolled through Ottoman formations, creating a line of blood wherever it visits, striking on both the minds and ears of all Ottoman soldiers who managed to survive.
Abbas Pasha felt the world revolving around him, as his mount, the war horse that used to stay faithfully with him going through multiple dangers too could not bare a sudden explosion right beside its ears and started running around, making the old Pasha who was leaning on his pal fall onto the pool of blood of that poor Bey with a thump. The old man tried getting up, but the blood, combined with the muddy Earth, made his actions a difficult job, as the more he tried, the heavier he fell, depleting all of his energy.
The massive Ottoman army began collapsing.
And before the old Pasha could realise it, a boot suddenly came stepping on him, stepping tight onto his back, making him fall heavily onto the ground again. But the owner of the boot seemed to have not realised that he has just stepped on his sovereign, and immediately a second boot came, followed by a third boot, a fourth boot, in the middle of all the curses of the old pasha.
Ultimately, the cursing of the old Pasha became weaker and weaker, until it became almost inaudible, and finally, stopped.
