Chapter 637: Battle of Rosen (4)
The Ottoman army, once a formidable force, descended into nightmarish chaos. The relentless shelling shattered their formation, ripping through the once disciplined ranks like a tempest. Commanders, their voices lost in the pandemonium, frantically searched for their units, but the soldiers, gripped by an uncontrollable terror, refused to regroup. The army, a sea of men, began to unravel rapidly.
The contagion of fear spread like wildfire. A single soldier’s panic ignited a frenzied stampede, each man desperately fleeing for his life, their thoughts consumed only by survival. The disciplined warriors, who had once stood ready to face death, now found themselves helpless in the maelstrom of retreat.
And in this dire situation, the head of the Ottoman army, Abbas Pasha, is nowhere to be found.
The scene resembled less a battlefield and more a frantic exodus. The Ottoman infantry, a force of seven thousand, crumbled without a single clash of swords with their enemy. They transformed into a wild torrent of humanity, surging across the plains in a desperate bid to escape the hellfire that rained down upon them. Their belongings, once treasured possessions, were discarded haphazardly in a mad dash for life, slowing them down only for a moment before fear urged them onward.
In a stunning reversal of roles, even the Ottoman commanders, once respected and feared, found themselves powerless. Their attempts to restore order through execution only fuelled the hysteria. The soldiers, no longer recognizing authority, responded with brutal retribution. Commanders who dared to stem the tide of retreat were mercilessly overthrown, their authority trampled under the hooves of their own men’s mounts as they too joined the frenetic flight.
Zaganos Pasha closed his eyes in pain.
"Full army, march forward!" Antonius ordered on horseback, and immediately, the waves of Roman infantries started moving, in a coordinated manner as one straight line maintaining a constant speed. This, of course, is not to chase up the running Ottomans and slay them, but instead is to create an immense pressure on the remaining Ottoman troopers who chose to fight, forcing more to join the fleeing gang, or to drop their weapons and surrender.
The ones taking up the jobs chasing down the escaped prisoners of war soon to be are Khalid’s cavalries, who have been pinned down and bullied by their Ottoman counterparts for a graving period of time, it is time for them to seek their revenge.
As the Roman legions advanced methodically, Zaganos Pasha and his son Ali stood amid the chaos, witnessing the unravelling of the once-mighty Ottoman force. Ali’s voice, heavy with anger and frustration, broke the silence. "It is a disgrace for an Ottoman warrior to die with a hit on one’s back. These men have disgraced the name of the Ottomans!"
Zaganos Pasha, usually a fighter of strength and resilience, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the unfolding tragedy. The sight of his countrymen fleeing in terror, mercilessly pursued by the relentless Roman forces, had drained the vigour from his soul.
In that moment, he appeared not as the formidable Pasha of legend that united Anatolia again, but as a man weighed down by the heavy burden of defeat and sorrow.
Breaking his pensive silence, he turned to his son, his voice carrying a gravity that betrayed his inner turmoil. "Ali, write to your brothers,"
"Yes, father!" Ali took out his paper in excitedness. "Is it an order to prepare our armies and cross the Bosporus?"
Zaganos Pasha’s next words, however, were not of war but of caution and a profound strategic shift. "Tell them that I would not want anyone of your brothers to become enemies of the Rumelians for the next ten... No, twenty years to come. Withdraw our troops from Erdek. If the Rumelians want it, they can take it back."
"But father!" Ali exclaimed, but immediately pinned down his voice as he realised that the Mamluks are looking in his way. "Why do you admit defeat without even testing about it on the..."
Zaganos interrupted and continued, his voice now tinged with a sombre pragmatism. "...And tell your brothers to start gathering all kinds of knowledge from the infidels. Invite scholars, books, all those carriers of knowledge, especially those on military knowledge. Learn ways to transform our army. Are you clear?"
As Zaganos turned to face his son, Ali saw a change in his father that struck him to his core. The battle had aged Zaganos Pasha, adding years to his appearance in mere hours, looking like an elderly despite the fact that he is only in his late thirties. His hair bore streaks of white, and his face was etched with deep lines of worry and exhaustion. In that moment, Ali saw not just his father, but also the embodiment of the Ottoman plight.
With a heavy heart, Ali bit his lip and began to write the letter. It was a message that would reshape their approach, a humbling call for adaptation and learning in the face of overwhelming defeat.
The Roman infantry, a relentless tide, surged forward to engage the remnants of the Ottoman forces. These last defenders, a motley crew of desperate souls, stood their ground in a futile effort to stem the tide, to buy precious moments for their fleeing brethren. But their resistance was akin to holding back an avalanche with bare hands.
The Roman soldiers, methodical and unyielding, penetrated the crumbling Ottoman lines with ease. Like a jagged blade through tattered silk, they tore through the disorganised and poorly led enemy ranks. The Ottoman defence, already riddled with gaps from the mass desertion, crumbled like a sandcastle against the relentless waves. The Romans, with disciplined precision, exploited every opening, suffocating any semblance of resistance, until the beleaguered Ottomans, overwhelmed and outmatched, broke entirely.
Till this point of time, the supreme commander of the Ottomans, Abbas Pasha, is still no where to be seen. Some rumoured that he has already flet ahead of all others, while some rumoured that he has already died, – a more honourable end, they reasoned, to justify their surrender to their commander.
The Varangians did not even have a chance to show their colours in this battle.
The aftermath presented a problem of abundance for Khalid – too many prisoners and not enough guards. He found himself exasperatedly shouting to the captives, "Stay to the side of the roads! I have no time to take you as prisoners of war!"
In the wake of the battle, the spirit of the Bulgarian Ottoman army was irreversibly broken. From this day forth, their resilience and might existed only in the annals of history.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of crimson and gold, a sober tally was taken. Of the eight thousand Ottoman forces in Bulgaria, nine hundred lay dead for various reasons. Over a thousand were wounded, two thousand captured as prisoners of war, and the remainder had either fled or were in hiding among the nearby woods and hilltops or had retreated to the nearest cities. Among the Ottoman leaders, Abbas Pasha was conspicuously missing. Two of the Pashas were captured, along with five out of ten Beys.
Yet, perhaps the most symbolic loss for the Ottomans was the capture of their iconic war flag - the white horse standard of Sultan Murad II, a symbol of their past conquests and glory.
The battlefield lay in a macabre stillness, a stark tableau of the day’s horrors. The once vibrant plains were now a tapestry of death, strewn with the bodies of men and horses. Abandoned weapons, shattered shields, and tattered banners littered the ground, a mute testament to the ferocity of the clash. Crows circled overhead, their haunting calls echoing across the field, as they descended upon the fallen, adding a sinister chorus to the scene of desolation.
Amidst this grim landscape, Emperor Antonius and his Varangians searched diligently. "Where the hell is that old bastard?" the Emperor muttered, his eyes scanning the remnants of war. "Where is Abbas Pasha!"
"Go! Search for Abbas, dead or alive! There are questions only he can answer!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the eerie silence.
"Your Majesty! Here!" a Varangian suddenly shouted, pointing towards a gruesome sight on the ground. "It’s his cloak!"
Rushing to the spot, Antonius peered down at the barely recognisable remains. The figure lying in the dirt had been robbed of its human form by the violence of war, identifiable only by the distinctive robe and cloak amidst the carnage, accompanied with that beautifully polished blade of his in a distance away, still with the scent of blood on top. A solemn air fell over the group, as the reality of the once-formidable adversary’s fate sunk in, a poignant reminder of the brutal finality of war.
Antonius gazed at his old rivals beneath his boots.
"Ha."
"Haha."
"Hahaha."
"Hahahahahahaha...."
He bursted out into a series of wild laughter.
"Abbas... Abbas... Abbas! My old friend! My old friend! We have been enemies since fifteen years ago, and who on Earth would expect our very first meeting, face to face, will be like this?"
"Nice to meet you, honoured Abbas Pasha!"
