He was a bit apprehensive and tense, certainly more than he would like to admit. This was to be the first operation that he carried out in this fashion; he had never, ever, in his whole life imagined himself going to fight in faraway Egypt. He had heard about the place; it was hot, dry, like many of the southern valleys in Baetica, but full of sand.
A desert. He tried not to show his anxiousness, he did not want to perturb his men.
They are probably about to wet themselves, anyway.
His presence, and that of his men, aboard the ship he was in now was due to the diplomatic maneuvers of the Romans, who had offered king Witteric [1] the occupied territories of “Spania” as they called them, for him “to administer in the name of the Emperor,” with the exception of the coastal capital, Carthago Spartaria. The Visigothic king, whose hold on the throne was still rather shaky, thanks to the distrust of the Catholic factions, had gladly accepted. But the Romans, being Romans, had put a hefty condition on the trade; they wanted military help to continue their civil war. Witteric’s intent in complying with their demands had its own hidden purpose: he assembled a large army of three thousand men, which greatly satisfied the Romans, and in it he placed as many of the disgruntled and discontent members of the opposition against him as he possibly could. With one stroke he had honored the bargain, and cleansed the kingdom of insidious venom. Needless to say, there were real soldiers in the force; in fact, most of it was comprised of warriors, and luckily he had some of them with him.
Thank God.
“Lord Wamba the city is in sight” informed him one of his aides.
Although Witteric himself had tasked him with the command of the entire Visigothic force, the Romans had immediately dispersed some of the men into their own regiments, or removed command of large portions of the army and reassigned them to the command of other individuals. He had not complained;
after all if the troublemakers did not return home, all the better.
“Men! Get ready!” he ordered, unsheathing his sword. The rest of the troop on board did likewise. The Roman ship continued to sway gently as it approached its destination.
Before leaving Carthage, he had been present at the briefing by Theodosius, along with Agila, another of the Goths chosen by the Romans to lead one of the Visigothic divisions, on how their offensive would proceed. So far, all of the major cities along the way had surrendered voluntarily; Leptis and Ptolemais, and all the smaller towns in between. The two forces, the one that had advanced by sea with him and the Italian magister Heraclius, and the larger one marching by land with Theodosius, had been meeting regularly at predetermined locations, in order to synchronize their assault against the Egyptian capital as best as possible. At their last stop, Paraetonium, the Western forces had rested for two days before departing again, slightly reinforced by volunteers and some of the local garrisons; but whose numbers did not contribute greatly to increase their overall manpower.
Well, any help at this point is welcome, he had reasoned then. The plan now in execution called for Wamba, along with one thousand of his Visigothic troops and aided by Heraclius and some Romans, to disembark in the outskirts of Alexandria and negotiate with the local garrison; soon after Theodosius himself would arrive with his land army and invest the city if necessary. The Egyptians were expected to give in; Phocas had not proved to be highly popular with his recent persecution of the Jews, and with his vocal opposition to local Monophysitism. His magister, Alexander, had made it as far as Pelusium on his way to enforce the new “imperial” inquisition, when word reached him of the proximity of the Western forces, and he stopped in his tracks.
Though Wamba was imbuing in the memories of these events, trying to calm himself, his gaze soon brought back his attention to his surroundings
. Good God! he thought to himself. Spread out before him stood the megalopolis of the Diocese of Aegyptus. Cyclopean walls extended from the shore to a far distance to his right, deep inland; beyond them lay a small patch of greenery, and further behind the turquoise waters of Lake Mareotis. The other end of the fortifications ran parallel to the beach until the area where the ports were, somewhere along the middle of the city. The Imperial banner flew high on the city walls, waving over the battlements. He could see some troops scurrying high on the ramparts. But, the most imposing sight in the horizon was the colossal Pharos, which seemed to rise up from the very depths of the sea to the edge of the sky, spewing smoke towards the heavens like the ancient turibula, burning votive offerings to the pagan gods. There was nothing like this back in Spain.
Nothing at all. A cold shiver ran down his back; a seasoned warrior though he was, this was otherworldly. Nonetheless, his stupefying amazement was quickly broken by the bump of the ship hitting the grimy shore; it was in fact, a soft thud. In an instant, the board was thrown over the side and down he went, followed by his men, onto the wet sand.
They had landed west of the city, on the tract of land between the sea and the lake. He mentally recalled their objective; to cut off the area quickly and not to attempt any unnecessary assaults. After unloading, the transport ships would position themselves to blockade the harbor.
The ships with the cavalry landed shortly after, a little further down the beach, and the horsemen quickly fanned out under the leadership of Heraclius, as they tried to circumvent the walls, on their way to the southern end. “Let’s get moving!” Wamba shouted mounting his own horse, as his infantry began to unfurl towards the south. Within a couple of hours all of the men were in position.
He then knew that he had to offer Theodosius’ terms. The Emperor would not be arriving for at least another six to seven hours, and his worst fear was that the Alexandrian troops would sally out and scatter his small army. If he could get them to surrender, it would surely be better to wait for the Roman ruler enjoying refreshments, inside the city.
Surrounded by a small guard, he rode to the western gate, while one of the Romans who had sailed with them, shouted to the defenders: “We have come by order of Theodosius Augustus, to free you from the yoke of the tyrant! Send a delegate to confer with us!”
Sweat was dripping down from Wamba’s forehead. He had already removed his helmet, but to no avail; the wearisome heat of the desert did not suit him well at all.
Damn, all we need now is for them to say no and we have to wait here in the fucking sun for Theodosius. He ran his hand over his face, wiping some of the perspiration off. There was no answer from the men in the battlements; they had only been observing mutely as they had landed, deployed, and now approached them. The tense silence continued.
“Well?” he asked the Roman translator.
“I don’t know. I guess they must be deliberating who to send…”
What took place next was so sudden, that he did not expect it at all. Perhaps no one did. In the back of his mind he had known it could happen, he knew it very well, but the easiness of their landing, and the lack of opposition, coupled with the annoying heat, had dulled his senses to the possibility.
The Roman interpreter had been shot dead, falling off his horse; the slender body of an arrow sticking out of his left eye socket. Seconds later more missiles started raining down on Wamba and his escort. “Retreat! Fan out!” he shouted, as he frantically spurred on his horse and raced back toward his lines.
“Shit! What the fuck just happened?” he screamed at Nepotianus, the Roman commander who traveled with his troop, as he got back to the tent that had just been set up, and dismounted.
“I…I don’t…I don’t know…” babbled the Roman. “They must… they must …”
“Shut up already! Witiges, we are now on high alert, send a courier to the detachment in the south end, and warn them that the Romans are not friendly. If there is a sally Heraclius knows not to engage; but should they have to scatter tell them to regroup here. Do you understand me?” he commanded, addressing the younger Goth officer who had approached him on being called.
Witiges nodded his assent and left trotting. “Now you. I want you to send some men to look for the Emperor. Take one of the ships, I don’t care” he ordered Nepotianus.
The Roman had by now recovered from his initial surprise. “What ? I am the one in charge here you impertinent…”
He did not get to finish. Nepotianus landed on his back with a bleeding nose, as Wamba lowered his right arm, having punched him dead in the face. Some of the Romans moved their hands to their swords; all of the Goths present did the same. “If they want to, they can kill us all. All they have to do is venture out, and then where do we run to? The lake over there?” asked the Visigoth pointing to the south, as he turned to look in that direction.
On second thought…
The Roman commander stared in disbelief at the Goth, still on the ground, while holding his right hand up to his face. “No…”
“Then shut the fuck up, and leave me in charge if you want to last the night” Wamba concluded. He turned around and ordered one of the junior Roman officers, “Go send the message to Theodosius.”
The Roman assented, silently and left, in a hurry.
Now all I have to do… The bellowing of the trumpets interrupted his thoughts. He turned to face the city again. The gates were opening.
Nepotianus was finally getting back on his feet, no one helping him to do so. “Oh Christ Almighty…”
Yes, Christ Almighty indeed. The Alexandrian cavalry was deploying in front of the city; light cavalry on the flanks, the famous cataphractoi in the center. “Pull back! Pull back to the marshes on the lake shore! Get the cavalry back over here!” he commanded as he jumped back on his horse.
The orders and shouts in Greek, Gothic, and Latin followed in quick succession. The Romans began to draw up their squadrons and the Visigoths started to marshal their own as well. “Send a message back to the Heraclius to ride back around the city and meet us at the lakeshore. We all need to regroup here now!” he ordered to one of the messengers by him. He quickly studied his possibilities; his best shot was to rally his forces to the marshy, soft ground at the edge of the Mareotis, where the heavy Roman cavalry would be useless. Everywhere else they would be in an open field, making them an easy prey for the Alexandrian horsemen.
All right, now to make sure I still have my head in its place by sundown, Wamba thought, as cold sweat ran down his face.
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[1] Witteric, King of the Visigoths (603-610 A.D.)