Mikhail Vladmirovski watched the French mercenary knights circle warrily in front of the Byzantine lines. They’d gotten a mauling, when they’d charged what had appeared to be the weakest part of the lines, and had found out that, for all their ragged dress, the Balkan Slav mercenaries that the Byzantines had hired in their hundreds were efficient fighters with their spears. That, combined with the withering fire the Italian crossbow mercenaries had hit them with as they’d charged, had been enough to discourage them. The Byzantines looked set to carry the day, he supposed – although it was still early, unfortunately.
The Venitians had underestimated the Byzatine strength when they’d made their plans of invasion, aiming to seize some border towns and hold them, all part of a general effort to push back the Byzantine interference in their trading networks that had become such a source of vexation to their Dodge in recent years. Of course, their estimates had been correct when it came to the size of the provincial army, but they’d neglected the issue of the Slavic mercenaries that the Byzantines could hire. Now, it seemed they would pay for their miscalculation.
Mikhail watched the French knights circle, and wondered if they would make another charge. It was possible, they were proud men even if they were mercenaries. They might try once more to break the Byzantine ranks. If they did, he found himself hoping that they would choose to charge his own section of the line, or rather one near it – for if they did, then when the Slavic mercenaries lept upon them, and speared them through, then he might have a chance to recover some piece of armour, or some other bit of loot, which might fetch a fine price in the traveling market that followed the army. Might buy his drink, to wash away memories of might-have-beens…
The French mercenaries turned, and as one moved towards the waiting Venetian lines. So, the cavalry was retiring. Now it was time for the Venetian infantry to advance… Mikhail examined the banners opposite his own part of the line critically once more – they appeared to be Venetian, so he could expect to face the spear-fighters of Italy. No bother, he’d faced their like before, and won through to victory. It would be worse if he faced some of the German mercenaries he’d heard the Venetians had brought along, who fought with massive two-handed swords that could cut a man in half. Those warriors were threatening, fear-inspiring… even if, he admitted to himself, the fear he felt was all too likely unfounded, if the two-handed sword was as lethal as the rumors had it, then other armies would have adopted its use by now. No, the reputation of those swordsmen no doubt had more to do with the horrifying ways in which their weapons killed than the efficiency with which they killed. At least, that was what he hoped.
The Venetian infantry began to advance, solid blocks of spearmen, armoured in chainmail. The Byzantine regular army troops were as well equipped, if not more so, yet the Slavic mercenaries would find themselves at a disadvantage… or at least, man-for-man their equipment was inferior. The situation at hand, though, that the Venetians would have to advance to fight them, gave them a slight advantage. As did the fact that the Venetians would be advancing up a slight incline… but those advantages were slight, there was little comfort in them. Rather, greater comfort could be had in the presence of the Bulgarian archers positioned behind the Byzantine lines, higher up on the little hill the Byzantines held. They would be able to get off some shooting of their own, before the Venetians could bring their charge home.
The Venetians advanced. Mikhail shifted mervously from one foot to another, and looked at the men to his right and his left. They were men he knew well, his brothers in arms who had fought together long and hard in many battlefields, in many lands, as wandering mercenaries always did. Now they were fighting not so far from their original homeland… somehow he thought that that detail was, in a way, funny. How, when they’d gone as far to the west as Spain and as far to the east as to have, fighting for the Turks against some eastern foe, faced elephants in a great battle in a burning wasteland. And now, now they were back where it had all begun. Something fitting, in that.
The Venetians were within arrow range now, the Bulgarians hammered them. They were firing careful volleys, hitting the Venetians with maximum force. Their fire was effective, too – Mikhail could not hope to feel a bit relieved to see just how effective it was proving. Although soon enough the Venetians would have moved in too close, and the Bulgarian archers would have to stop their fire…
Without warning, he saw light cavalry coming in from both flanks – the Turkish mercenaries he had heard the Byzantines had hired, now they came into play. They were horse archers, and they showed their skill, shooting as they came in towards the Venetians. Their arrows added to the Bulgarian barrage, and even more than that, their sudden presence at the Venetian flanks made the enemy hesitate. Their own cavalry had, after all, been pulled back after its unfortunate failure earlier in the day, and so they had little that they could do to face the new threat…
The French mercenary knights tried to come to the aid of their employers, no doubt motivated by the thought of some rich reward as much as by any sense of duty of loyalty. The Turks shot at them with their arrows, and fell back as they advanced. But kept shooting – even as they retreated, they shot. The French were suffering from their shooting, knights knocked from the saddle here and there along the line. The momentum of their charge seemed to suffer… and then they retreated.
The Bulgarians had kept up their shooting against the Venetians the while, and it was having an effect – the presence of the Turkish cavalry had forced the Venetians into tight formations that made perfect targets for the shooting of the Bulgarians, and now that the French mercenary knights had been run off, they were an even better target. Still, they were closing with the Byzantine lines…
From somewhere down the line, some officer screamed an order in Greek. Mikhail couldn’t make out what it was that he was saying, his own language was closer to Bulgarian that to Byzantine Greek, but he followed what everyone else seemed to be doing. He charged. The Veneians had closed in by then, so that they themselves were almost ready to charge… so it was, that both armies struck each other with the force of a charge behind their rush. As Mikhail began to fight, just before his attention was seized by the immediate, he thought he saw the Turkish cavalry wheeling to charge the Venetian flanks…
Then he was in fierce combat. A Venetian tried to spear him, indeed there were spears everywhere, but he twisted as best he could to avoid their thrusts. His own spear found an Italian, and he heard his foe scream a curse, even though the din of battle was loud all around him. He tried to wrench his spear free from his enemy’s intestines, but it was caught on something, and it came free from his hands. Gulping in sudden fear, Mikhail drew his short sword, thankful for a back-up weapon – any back-up weapon. He hacked wildly at the spears that thrust at him, knocking them aside, and tried to close with the enemy to fight more effectively – at this he succeded, ducking under a thrust spear to knock an enemy back with his round wooden shield, before stabbing him in the belly. There were enemies all around him, he felt as if he was alone…
And then he saw Aleksander to his right, and Vladimir to his left, true comrades one and all, and they pushed the Italians back, roaring as they did. It was good, to fight alongside friends. As they pushed their way through the reeling Italians, Mikhail saw Aleksander go down, and cursed – although he repayed the Italians for his friend’s death a moment later, putting his sword through the face of a startled Italian who’d been trying to draw his own short sword, as his spear had broken off its end, somehow. Three kills already…
And then Vladimir was roaring in pain, and Mikhail looked – his other comrade was wounded, an Italian spear had delt him a light blow to the left shoulder. The spearman in question was off balance, so Mikhail went after him, knocking him back and stabbing him as he fell. Vladimir grunted something, Mikhail couldn’t make it out, and then the struggle went on… for how long, Mikhail could not tell. But for a while. It seemed longer than it must have been, it always did… and then the Italians were running, a blind panic.
Mikhail considered persuit for a heartbeat, then decided to hang back, and took the time to watch just what was happening – the Turkish mercenary cavalry had broken the Venetian flanks, the whole Venetian army was being forced back. Victory for Byzantium.
Mikhail shrugged, looked to his left and his right. Many of his comrades were dead or wounded, the Italians had put up a fierce fight. Mikhail shrugged again, the Byzantines had won. So he would be paid, then. That, he decided as he set about searching the Italian dead for anything of particular value, while the Turks persued the remaining infantry from the field, followed closely by the Byzantine regulars, was what really mattered.
The Venitians had underestimated the Byzatine strength when they’d made their plans of invasion, aiming to seize some border towns and hold them, all part of a general effort to push back the Byzantine interference in their trading networks that had become such a source of vexation to their Dodge in recent years. Of course, their estimates had been correct when it came to the size of the provincial army, but they’d neglected the issue of the Slavic mercenaries that the Byzantines could hire. Now, it seemed they would pay for their miscalculation.
Mikhail watched the French knights circle, and wondered if they would make another charge. It was possible, they were proud men even if they were mercenaries. They might try once more to break the Byzantine ranks. If they did, he found himself hoping that they would choose to charge his own section of the line, or rather one near it – for if they did, then when the Slavic mercenaries lept upon them, and speared them through, then he might have a chance to recover some piece of armour, or some other bit of loot, which might fetch a fine price in the traveling market that followed the army. Might buy his drink, to wash away memories of might-have-beens…
The French mercenaries turned, and as one moved towards the waiting Venetian lines. So, the cavalry was retiring. Now it was time for the Venetian infantry to advance… Mikhail examined the banners opposite his own part of the line critically once more – they appeared to be Venetian, so he could expect to face the spear-fighters of Italy. No bother, he’d faced their like before, and won through to victory. It would be worse if he faced some of the German mercenaries he’d heard the Venetians had brought along, who fought with massive two-handed swords that could cut a man in half. Those warriors were threatening, fear-inspiring… even if, he admitted to himself, the fear he felt was all too likely unfounded, if the two-handed sword was as lethal as the rumors had it, then other armies would have adopted its use by now. No, the reputation of those swordsmen no doubt had more to do with the horrifying ways in which their weapons killed than the efficiency with which they killed. At least, that was what he hoped.
The Venetian infantry began to advance, solid blocks of spearmen, armoured in chainmail. The Byzantine regular army troops were as well equipped, if not more so, yet the Slavic mercenaries would find themselves at a disadvantage… or at least, man-for-man their equipment was inferior. The situation at hand, though, that the Venetians would have to advance to fight them, gave them a slight advantage. As did the fact that the Venetians would be advancing up a slight incline… but those advantages were slight, there was little comfort in them. Rather, greater comfort could be had in the presence of the Bulgarian archers positioned behind the Byzantine lines, higher up on the little hill the Byzantines held. They would be able to get off some shooting of their own, before the Venetians could bring their charge home.
The Venetians advanced. Mikhail shifted mervously from one foot to another, and looked at the men to his right and his left. They were men he knew well, his brothers in arms who had fought together long and hard in many battlefields, in many lands, as wandering mercenaries always did. Now they were fighting not so far from their original homeland… somehow he thought that that detail was, in a way, funny. How, when they’d gone as far to the west as Spain and as far to the east as to have, fighting for the Turks against some eastern foe, faced elephants in a great battle in a burning wasteland. And now, now they were back where it had all begun. Something fitting, in that.
The Venetians were within arrow range now, the Bulgarians hammered them. They were firing careful volleys, hitting the Venetians with maximum force. Their fire was effective, too – Mikhail could not hope to feel a bit relieved to see just how effective it was proving. Although soon enough the Venetians would have moved in too close, and the Bulgarian archers would have to stop their fire…
Without warning, he saw light cavalry coming in from both flanks – the Turkish mercenaries he had heard the Byzantines had hired, now they came into play. They were horse archers, and they showed their skill, shooting as they came in towards the Venetians. Their arrows added to the Bulgarian barrage, and even more than that, their sudden presence at the Venetian flanks made the enemy hesitate. Their own cavalry had, after all, been pulled back after its unfortunate failure earlier in the day, and so they had little that they could do to face the new threat…
The French mercenary knights tried to come to the aid of their employers, no doubt motivated by the thought of some rich reward as much as by any sense of duty of loyalty. The Turks shot at them with their arrows, and fell back as they advanced. But kept shooting – even as they retreated, they shot. The French were suffering from their shooting, knights knocked from the saddle here and there along the line. The momentum of their charge seemed to suffer… and then they retreated.
The Bulgarians had kept up their shooting against the Venetians the while, and it was having an effect – the presence of the Turkish cavalry had forced the Venetians into tight formations that made perfect targets for the shooting of the Bulgarians, and now that the French mercenary knights had been run off, they were an even better target. Still, they were closing with the Byzantine lines…
From somewhere down the line, some officer screamed an order in Greek. Mikhail couldn’t make out what it was that he was saying, his own language was closer to Bulgarian that to Byzantine Greek, but he followed what everyone else seemed to be doing. He charged. The Veneians had closed in by then, so that they themselves were almost ready to charge… so it was, that both armies struck each other with the force of a charge behind their rush. As Mikhail began to fight, just before his attention was seized by the immediate, he thought he saw the Turkish cavalry wheeling to charge the Venetian flanks…
Then he was in fierce combat. A Venetian tried to spear him, indeed there were spears everywhere, but he twisted as best he could to avoid their thrusts. His own spear found an Italian, and he heard his foe scream a curse, even though the din of battle was loud all around him. He tried to wrench his spear free from his enemy’s intestines, but it was caught on something, and it came free from his hands. Gulping in sudden fear, Mikhail drew his short sword, thankful for a back-up weapon – any back-up weapon. He hacked wildly at the spears that thrust at him, knocking them aside, and tried to close with the enemy to fight more effectively – at this he succeded, ducking under a thrust spear to knock an enemy back with his round wooden shield, before stabbing him in the belly. There were enemies all around him, he felt as if he was alone…
And then he saw Aleksander to his right, and Vladimir to his left, true comrades one and all, and they pushed the Italians back, roaring as they did. It was good, to fight alongside friends. As they pushed their way through the reeling Italians, Mikhail saw Aleksander go down, and cursed – although he repayed the Italians for his friend’s death a moment later, putting his sword through the face of a startled Italian who’d been trying to draw his own short sword, as his spear had broken off its end, somehow. Three kills already…
And then Vladimir was roaring in pain, and Mikhail looked – his other comrade was wounded, an Italian spear had delt him a light blow to the left shoulder. The spearman in question was off balance, so Mikhail went after him, knocking him back and stabbing him as he fell. Vladimir grunted something, Mikhail couldn’t make it out, and then the struggle went on… for how long, Mikhail could not tell. But for a while. It seemed longer than it must have been, it always did… and then the Italians were running, a blind panic.
Mikhail considered persuit for a heartbeat, then decided to hang back, and took the time to watch just what was happening – the Turkish mercenary cavalry had broken the Venetian flanks, the whole Venetian army was being forced back. Victory for Byzantium.
Mikhail shrugged, looked to his left and his right. Many of his comrades were dead or wounded, the Italians had put up a fierce fight. Mikhail shrugged again, the Byzantines had won. So he would be paid, then. That, he decided as he set about searching the Italian dead for anything of particular value, while the Turks persued the remaining infantry from the field, followed closely by the Byzantine regulars, was what really mattered.