Chapter 729: How To Utilise Your Enemies
The rebel forces of Serbia and Bosnia had long been aware of the emperor’s approaching army. Though their ranks were initially thrown into confusion, they quickly reorganised, steeling themselves for what they knew would be a battle for survival.
"Hold firm, my brothers!" roared one of the noble commanders, his voice ringing across the encampment. "We have over ten thousand men ahead! Even if they fail to halt the enemy’s advance, they will at least buy us the time we need to prepare—"
Before he could finish, a sharp voice interrupted him from the watchtower.
"Smoke and dust on the horizon!" the scout cried out, his hand trembling as he pointed. "Men are approaching!"
A ripple of dread passed through the rebel ranks. But the noble remained steadfast, gripping the hilt of his sword as he barked out orders. "Silence your fears! Remember, we outnumber them three to one! If we stand united, we will overwhelm them! The river is behind us—they cannot flank us. And reinforcements are on the way! Hold your positions! Spread my command!"
Slowly, the panic subsided as the rebel ranks formed up. They arranged themselves into a spiked defensive formation, their two hundred cavalry clustered in the center—protecting the nobles who knew, should the tide turn against them, they could cut a path through the chaos and escape.
Meanwhile, on a ridge overlooking the battlefield, Giovanni Junior and his officers observed the enemy’s preparations.
"Your Highness," a lieutenant said gravely, "we should hold our position and wait for His Majesty’s reinforcements. We are severely outnumbered. These are the empire’s finest cavalry—we cannot squander them against such a force."
"Who said we are outnumbered?" Giovanni replied, a smirk playing on his lips. He gestured toward the fleeing enemy forces in the distance. "My father, Emperor Antonius—may he rest in peace—once taught me this: ’The wisest commanders make the enemy fight for them. They lead their foes like their own soldiers, using their fear as a weapon.’"
The lieutenant’s eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
Giovanni did not answer. Instead, he raised his whip high into the air and bellowed, "Watch and learn!" before spurring his horse forward.
The Roman cavalry thundered behind him, maintaining relentless pressure on the retreating rebels. The Turkish, Mamluk, and Mongol archers among their ranks unleashed volley after volley, their arrows whistling through the air, forcing the enemy to keep running, never allowing them the luxury of stopping to regroup.
It was a spectacle unlike any other.
Through forests and plains, over hills and narrow valleys, the retreating rebels were herded like cattle, their once-mighty ranks collapsing under their own chaos. Many fell beneath the crushing hooves of their own comrades; others, realising the futility of escape, cast down their weapons and surrendered.
But for the desperate majority, a singular hope burned in their minds—the columns of smoke rising ever closer on the horizon.
Their kings and lords awaited them at Vidin.
If only they could reach them in time.
...
The rebel formations stood rigid, gripping their weapons tightly as they felt the earth beneath them tremble. It was as if an earthquake had struck the battlefield. Instinct and experience told them the truth—an immense force was approaching.
Yet, as the army they had been waiting for finally emerged on the horizon, the Serbian and Bosnian rebels stood frozen in disbelief. Their jaws dropped, eyes widening as they realised what they were witnessing.
A tide of men—tens of thousands—rushed across the battlefield, charging toward their supposed sanctuary. But something was terribly wrong.
These were not enemy soldiers.
These were their own.
Like helpless sheep driven by relentless wolves, the scattered remnants of their forward army were being herded directly into them. The rebel commanders stared, horrified, as the realisation set in. Their forces had been routed, turned into a panicked stampede fleeing for their lives.
And now, it was up to the despot to decide—what was to be done?
His hands tightened into fists. His teeth ground together. There was no time for hesitation.
"Riders!" he bellowed. "Spread the word—tell them to split to the flanks! Do not disrupt the formation!"
At once, his cavalry surged forward, galloping to deliver the order. But chaos had already taken root. The fleeing men, their minds consumed by terror, paid no heed to the commands. They did not slow, they did not veer aside—they charged onward, desperate to reach safety.
The despot’s face darkened. His jaw clenched.
He had no choice.
"Archers!" His voice carried over the battlefield, a command as heavy as a death sentence.
A long, eerie horn blast followed, shaking the battlefield as hundreds of archers behind the infantry took their positions. Yet hesitation hung in the air.
"Shoot!"
Some of the archers wavered. How could they? These were their comrades, their countrymen—friends, brothers, fathers. The thought of loosing their arrows upon them paralysed their fingers.
But orders were orders.
With a snap of bowstrings, the first volley was released.
In an instant, the air darkened with a deadly rain of arrows. The fleeing men barely had time to comprehend what was happening. One moment, they were running toward salvation—the next, they were struck down by the very people they had fought beside.
Hundreds collapsed in the blink of an eye, their bodies littering the field, pinned to the earth like lifeless dolls. Agonised cries filled the air as those who had once fought together now lay dying by each other’s hands.
Disbelief filled their fading eyes as they looked up at their supposed sanctuary—only to see more arrows being nocked, more bowstrings drawn.
The ones at the front tried to halt, only to be shoved forward by the relentless wave of men behind them. Some tripped, others were trampled underfoot in the stampede.
A few—a pitifully small number compared to the mass of fleeing soldiers—understood the order, breaking away to the flanks and surviving.
But most did not.
The cavalry, seeing the chaos unfold before them, faltered. Even hardened warriors hesitated. This was no longer a battle; it was a massacre.
The despot clenched his teeth, his hands trembling on the reins.
"Fire again."
Another rain of arrows soared over the battlefield.
He knew then—he had become the god of death for his own people.
The retreating troops quickly realised their grim fate. Desperation and rage swelled in their hearts as the horrifying truth sank in. Of course, they had no way of knowing that their despot was ordering the arrows to prevent them from crashing into friendly formations, an act of damage control in the face of the impending Roman cavalry charge. Such reasoning was lost on the men being slaughtered by their own.
To them, there was only one undeniable truth—betrayal.
The nobles, the lords they had fought and bled for, had cast them aside the moment they had been defeated. They were no longer soldiers—they were expendable.
Anger boiled over.
One of the rebels, bloodied but unbroken, ripped his blade from its scabbard, raising it high as he bellowed, "Brothers! The enemy is behind us, and these noble bastards ahead have abandoned us! Why do we still fight for them? If we go back, we die. If we go forward, we die. So let us die pulling those treacherous dogs from their high horses!"
A roar of agreement erupted through the ranks. Swords flashed from scabbards. Spears leveled against the very men they had once called leaders.
Chaos took root like wildfire.
What had once been an army shattered into madness. Waves of furious, betrayed rebels surged toward the center, cutting through their own formations with reckless abandon, their hatred now directed toward the nobles who had left them to die.
The nobility, watching in horror as the tide turned against them, panicked. Some fled outright, deserting their men, leaving behind a rapidly disintegrating chain of command. Without their orders, the rebel army collapsed further.
The battlefield became a gruesome frenzy of misplaced loyalties and blind rage. The once-disciplined defensive formation that had posed a serious threat to Giovanni Junior’s cavalry was gone, reduced to little more than a disorganised mob.
Seeing this, Giovanni let out a whistle of excitement, a grin flashing across his face. He twirled the blade in his hand and raised it high.
"Alright, gentlemen! The time is now!" His voice boomed over the battlefield. "Come, charge with me!"
And with that, he led the cavalry forward, this time at full speed, unleashing their full force.
The thunder of thousands of hooves shook the ground, an unstoppable tide of steel and fury descending upon the rebels.
The Serbian and Bosnian ranks, already paralysed by infighting and sheer panic, were utterly helpless. Their king desperately tried to rally his cavalry to intercept the charging Romans, but it was already too late. The battlefield was clogged with stampeding men, trampling one another in a frenzied attempt to escape.
Seeing the chaos unfold, the frontline soldiers, who had once braced themselves for battle, now threw down their weapons in terror. Shields and spears clattered to the ground as they turned and pushed toward the rear, driven by the same animalistic fear that had already infected their comrades.
