Anniversary Update!
Thanks to all loyal readers, casual commentators, and silent lurkers! Here's to another year of intrigue, battles, and whatever else!!!
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“How dare the goddamn rabble! How dare the filthy dogs!” Phocas bellowed, as he pounded a fist vigorously on the table, making the half empty wine cup fall off the side, to the ground below. With the scar on his face purple again, he kicked the soldier who brought the news angrily on his side, while the man was still on the ground, prostrated. The warrior withstood the blow with stoic silence.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck it! The bastards betrayed me. I knew it…I knew they would…
“Kyrie, we are ready to depart; the scouts have returned, and there are enemy themata advancing toward us” he heard off to his side. Glancing in the direction of the voice, he saw a young tribune standing at attention by the tent’s entrance, lifting his gaze hurriedly from the man on the ground.
I will slaughter them all.
Everyone last one of the treacherous bastards. “Let’s go” he replied snippily, before adding, “bring my horse!”
The war that had afflicted the Roman Empire for four years had reached its climax. He had marched with the majority of the European forces into the Anatolian provinces, a march which had lasted for a full two weeks; but he had arrived to his destination at last. Here, by the banks of the Halys, he was now presented with the opportunity to end the fruitless struggle by the reactionaries and bring the heathen Persians to heel afterwards. The upsetting news of the ongoing tumults in Constantinople would not change this; he could always return victorious and his feeble enemies would scatter, like the vermin they truly were. The bitter aftertaste left in his mouth by the perfidy would have to go away. He was on the verge of finishing all of his enemies: Theodosius and his minions, to be followed by Shahin and his devil-worshipping host.
Exiting the Imperial pavilion, he mounted his horse, accompanied by Valens, a Thracian like himself, and his new Comes Orientis. Looking about the buzzing activity, he noticed the majority of tents had been packed, and the soldiers had deposited their belongings within the wooden walls at the center of the small camp. Briskly, he then rode forward, towards the head of the already marching column.
“Are the Excubitores in position, Valens?” he asked his companion, as they rushed ahead.
“Yes Domine. They left last night, and sent messengers early this morning confirming their position,” the general answered.
The plan they had put together the night before, had thus been set in motion. The Persians, as far as he knew, would not be participating, but it was only prudent to be cautious, hence the small detachments scattered about such as the Imperial guards. Theodosius would be lured into the field and Phocas’ forces would engage him. At a predetermined moment, the Imperial kataphraktoi would feign a retreat, forcing his enemies’ cavalry to pursue them. If all went well, so isolated from their allies, Theodosius’ mounts would be lured to one of the narrow paths into which an ambush had been carefully prepared, and crushed with giant boulders. And when the enemy army had been left with only infantry, Phocas would release his own mounted reserves, conveniently hidden back at camp, and sweep them off the field. Everything had been set then. Nonetheless, with the news arriving from The City, he was beside himself with rage, and all the more ready to gamble the success of the war in a single battle.
Demetrios and his whores. Oh God Almighty, please just give me just enough life to see theirs extinguished!
They were not far off from the plain where the initial combat was supposed to take place. A few minutes later, he was there, as the first regiments had begun their deployment. In the distance, he could see the enemy soldiers already at their positions. To their right seemed to be the Visigoths, notorious for their irregular uniforms, the center held by
some light cavalry, and to the left, a few Roman infantrymen. He strained his eyes, trying to distinguish, and possibly recognize, familiar faces amongst the Romans. But though unable to count, or identify anyone, he clearly noticed that this could not be all of Theodosius’ force. His spies had notified him of the landing of over fifteen thousand men in Cilicia; numbers which were then bolstered by the former Army of the East, when they betrayed him.
Is something else going on? …Certainly.
“Recall the Excubitores immediately” he ordered. “Tell Lilius to rush his men back to the camp.”
The Comes, with a look of surprise on his face, was silent for an instant. Phocas only turned his head deliberately slowly to look at him, dead in the eyes, without a sound.
Don’t fuck with me now Valens.
“Right away Domine!” blurted out the soldier, avoiding eye contact.He shouted something to some man on his left, who then turned his horse around, picking up speed as he left the scene.
Maybe someone from the camp tipped them off. Shit. “We need to change the whole fucking plan. Theodosius knows what’s going on; what’s before us is clearly a token force!”
His general kept quiet for a brief moment. “Perhaps we can talk with the Goths, see if they will remain aloof from this whole issue…with some gold…” he started to suggest.
“That would never work” the Emperor concluded. He quickly realized he needed to make use of his cavalry, which was a formidable force of about twelve thousand horsemen. If the Maurician scum was attempting to surround him, then he had to secure the river crossings further down, as well as keeping a decent force back at the camp for his counterattack; hence the need to recall his bodyguards. In frustration, he ran a hand over his face.
“Recall half of the kataphraktoi from the base and send them south to guard the riverbank. Deploy the rest of the forces as planned, but no one under pain of death, is to move unless I say so,” he growled.
“Yes Domine!”
Valens gave the instructions, which were shouted down the chain of command. Attempting to distract his mind somewhat, Phocas decided to survey the terrain, with a heavy sigh. The salty shores of the Tatta [1] glistened softly in the distance, some four miles to the southwest; to the east, in front of him, down a gradual incline from the prominence where he was, lay the open plain that stretched all the way, down to the banks of the Halys; to the west, behind him, were the rugged passes through which one needed to travel to get from the camp to the field; and finally to the north, were even more jagged mountains, skirted by the meandering course of the nearby river.
Evaluating the possibilities, he outright knew his enemies would not attack from this direction; those who did not drown, would break their heads trying to scale the steep and rugged slopes. This left them two other options: a frontal charge through the field ahead, which he discarded as the enemy numbers were clearly lacking; or an attempt to outmaneuver him by marching around the lake to the south, and attacking the camp. But the time it would take to circumvent the large body of water, should they made it past the horsemen he was now deploying there, also made him suspicious.
If anything, we can get the sideshow here over, and march south to find the rest.
The chilled winter wind blew some dry dust onto his face, making him narrow his eyes, and raise a hand slowly as cover. In the valley below, the largest part of his men were already expectant; their chaplains blessing their last moments on earth. Inspired by the martial display, he tried to think positively. If the rumors that he had picked up were true, and Bonosus’ attempt had truly ended Theodosius life, then the men opposing him would surely be demoralized, and willing, if not intimidated by his veteran force, to surrender. And after that, it was just a few formal beheadings, before turning on the eastern dogs.
Or should I return to Constantinople to deal with the upstarts instead?
His indecisive musings were brusquely shattered, as the bellowing of trumpets made him turn his eyes to the Western force; apparently they wanted to parley. A small detachment of five men, under a lowered flag was approaching his lines. Maybe there was a chance that they would surrender after all; maybe the holy icon of the Hodegetria accompanying the army was already channeling the powers of Heaven on his behalf.
“Valens; go tell them that the only terms We will accept, are their unconditional surrender, and their handing of corpse of Theodosius over to me.”
The Imperial commander assented with a grave expression on his face, and rode forward, surrounded by a guard of ten men. Phocas fixed his eyes on the diminishing shapes as they neared center of the field, and talked. The back of his mouth tasted dry with anxiety; his tongue stuck to its niche in thick saliva.
God, I still need a drink. “You there!” he called out, pointing at the nearest soldier by him. “Go fetch me some wine!” The man vacillated for a second at the abruptness of the request, before riding back to the camp hurriedly.
Could the gossiping about Leontia be true? If that son of a bitch is still alive…
But his eyes kept his mind from wandering any further. Below, he saw the parties separating and riding back to their lines, with the news of the conference. As the Comes, galloped back, breathing heavily with a defeated look, Phocas smirked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Caesar…they did not accept the terms…” the disappointed general informed him.
“Did you expect otherwise?”
“No, Imperator.”
“Let’s have a battle then. Sound the charge; hold the reserves. You will lead a cavalry assault on their right flank; I will do so on their left. Hit and run, but do not get bogged down understood? The rest of his men are still out there!”
“Yes Domine.”
With the Comes Orientis’ order repeated through the ranks, the trumpets blasted their calls across the valley, and the larger groups of comitatenses advanced forward slowly under a rain of arrows from the archers behind. The Goths and Romans on the opposing side, utilized their shields as bests they could to protect themselves from the enemy fire. Yet slowly, under the continuous torrent of missiles hitting the ground, or other intended objectives, the Romano-Gothic force began their own movements as well. The center, held by their light cavalry remained in place, far from the Imperial archers’ range. Nevertheless, the two wings of infantry started their slow trek forward. As the two armies came closer together and the archers stopped firing, a second trumpet, with different notes, was blown on the Imperial side, and Phocas’ men sped up their pace, charging at the enemy, the name of their leader ringing out from thousands of throats. Like two tidal waves, the legions crashed into each other; a few men flying overhead, others trampled underfoot.
As Phocas beheld the carnage atop his mount, the courier returned from the camp with a canteen cradled in an arm, which the Emperor quickly snatched away from him. Without wavering, he guzzled down as much as he could of the bitter drink, in plain view of his high command, before putting on his helmet; a real piece of art, made of silver with golden incrustations, and a vibrant red crest on top. Taking a second, and last, gulp of the delicious wine, he tossed the empty flask on the ground, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ride to your post Valens. I’ll see you in the field.”
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[1] Lake Tuz in OTL Turkey.
