Hello fellow FF readers and writers. This is a quickie about a short battle that happened one time whilst playing 'Medieval II: Total War'. I plan on doing many one-shots as they were better than previous TotalWar series that I tried to do in the past.
Enjoy and stay healthy!
For Captain Mathias Rodios, the weather of the southern steppes was never something he could accustom to. Heralding from the Byzantine territory of Nicaea, one of the empire's most developed and prosperous regions in Asia, he was more used to the warmer, drier climate; a slight breeze rolling over the hills, shrubs and bushes mixed with hard, dusty soil, olives, grapes and other fruits growing in the orchards of the villages and farmlands surrounding the settlement. Such thoughts made him smile, and simultaneously internally curse at having to be here so far north.
Yet, on he trudged at the head of his army of nearly 1,000 men, primarily made up of mounted archers - Byzantine Cavalry, Skythikon and one or two units of Vardariotai. Some infantry units – a spear militia, an archer unit he knew were recruited from somewhere in Asia too, and two units of town militia that had been hastily slapped together and instituted into his force before they began their trek into the flat open emptiness they were now. Mud squelched under the horses and soldiers, dirtying their clothes and, if they had any, armour.
Many were chatting amongst themselves, it being a useful distraction and way to pass the time given all the marching they had done over the last few weeks. Some had complained of the weather, others of their being so far from home and why they were even here in the first place. What sort of real purpose could they have from coming into the steppes of the far north? There was nothing here, barely any villages, let alone a city or anything developed.
Under any other commander, notably Konstantinos, one of the members of the Emperor's family (Distant relative Mathias had added numerous times, to the amusement of his fellow soldiers), they would have been reprimanded and punished for questioning such orders. After all, they were continuing the legacy of Rome, so why could they not feel anything but gratitude and heroic for maintaining such a message, such a powerful light of civilisation in a dark, hostile world? Particularly here, one of the most uncivilised places any man had dare set foot and sought to settle in? Were they that ungrateful?!
Mathias, a medium height man of an average build, possessing a crop of brown hair, brown eyes, a haggard face with rough skin and, if it were visible, a body laced with scars and marks of past battles, would do no such thing. While he would never question his devotion to the Empire and serving it loyally, he could not deny that he felt the same way as his men, pondering why it was seen as important to come here. The steppes were not known for their wealth or high population and barely had any trade routes running through them. Economically, there was no real incentive to even be here.
As for the possibility of preventing invasion from another power in the area, well that too was what he thought was a complete waste of time. The Caucasus mountains were nigh on impregnable, save for a few 'paths' – and that was putting it politely – that had been made for travellers and traders, and occasionally small armies. Only small roving bands of rebel groups and bandits dared to roam them, and whilst they were a nuisance to the people of Tbilisi fortress and the many farms and settlements that surrounded it, there was no doubt that they served as a buffer between them and anyone who happened to try and expand across the northern lands of the Black Sea. Any army that wants to break into the Caucasus and then expand further south into Iraq and Syria would need to cross them, an easy task it was not.
But his superiors had deemed it worthwhile to claim this territory and expand Byzantine (Roman as he was constantly reminded of) influence here, and his feelings had no place here, only to get together an army and get on with the job.
And so, he had done and was doing now, but it had been incredibly difficult. The aforementioned bandits, whilst not posing anything close to a threat, or even a minor irritation, had slowed them down once or twice. What was more, the journey through the Caucasus was long and tiresome and he had fallen ill and nearly died, only the quick actions of his army doctor and priest, Gabriel of Palation, a small castle on the Aegean coast south of Nicaea, saving his life. Cold, wet weather had claimed a few lives here and there, but they had soldiered on. They would probably soon meet the opponents they had been warned about before they left, namely the soldiers of Novgorod.
Mathias did not know much about them, only that they were from a land much further north than they were going currently and had expanded across much of the lands once ruled by various dukes and lords, most notably that of Kiev, along with settlements he could not remember the names of. In terms of the area of land they possessed, few other kingdoms could rival them. Their armies too, while not incredibly formidable, were known to relatively vast in size, though this was when they were closer to home, for even here they had, according to traders and some of the local peasantry and villagers, they had struggled to procure a sizeable force to take control of such a large terrain, much less to take the motte and bailey of Sarkel, which was practically the only major settlement in this part of the steppes as far as he knew. The nearest major settlement was the trading town of Caffa in the Crimea.
If anything goes wrong, we can always go there, thank God. Let us hope the scouts will have the eyes of hawks.
The sound of crows calling out overhead made him and several other soldiers look up, watching them circle the centre of the formation. Mathias groaned. Birds were never his thing, crows especially for they were always considered bad omens going back to the days of old Egypt. What was more, he knew that they would soon be feasting on whoever fell here today, something he had taken note of from fighting in the Caucasus and against the Turks on the borders of their empires between Nicaea and Iconium.
"Nervous?" Mathias heard one of the riders the Byzantine Cavalry unit he was part of ask his fellow rider next to him, a younger man of about twenty, rail-thin, short black hair, blue eyes and a small beard covering much of his lower face. A youngling.
The man nodded, instinctively gripping the bow each rider held in their hands tightly, his eyes scanning the horizon, trying to see into the dense fog that surrounded them, the anxiety on his face palpable as he feared something was going to suddenly charge and attack them. Then again, Mathias, even with his experience behind him, could not say such a thing would not happen. If there was one thing his enemies and allies had taught him, if nature provided a way, use it. By God's will, use it and you would have a better chance of winning.
Nothing concrete though He told himself.
A horn blared out from somewhere behind him, one of the riders of the Vardariotai. All heads immediately snapped in that direction and Mathias saw another horseman materialise out of the fog like a ghost, rushing towards him from the left side of the army. One of the scouts he had sent out earlier.
"Sire!" he called out, sword gripped tightly in his hand, expression one of urgency. "Sire, we spotted them!"
At once, he was alert, gripping the reins of his horse and ushering it around to face. "Where?"
The scout pointed behind him, roughly half-way between where he had come from and where Mathias had been leading them. The fog was thick and swirling in the cold wind air, but somewhere out there Mathias knew the Novgorods would be waiting for them, no doubt having heard the horn, possibly even the sound of their marching.
"How many?" he asked.
"Three units, number much smaller than hours." The scout informed him.
A heavy sigh followed, then a glance at his own forces. With a call, he signalled them to form up and move in the direction indicated by the scout.
If there was one thing the Novgorods had not anticipated, it was the size of their enemy. From what their own spies had relayed to them from their travels within the Byzantine Empire's realm, their southern Orthodox neighbour barely had the forces needed to extend their power beyond the territories they held in the Balkans or Greece or across the lands of Asia. The constant scuffles with the Turks and the ongoing war with Hungary, whilst both usually ended in victory, though also nothing more than the maintenance of the status quo, occupied most of their attention and manpower.
Grand Duke Ysevelod, and later his son, now Grand Duke Mikhail, preferred to keep it that way whilst they expanded Novgorod's territories to include everything from the Baltic all the way to Kiev and Moscow and even the fortress of Ryazan. In just a few decades, they had come to dominate the east, save for some far-off settlements in the steppes and in the Crimea.
All of that had changed, however, when the Byzantines had landed in the latter region and taken Caffa, establishing a foothold directly in what rightfully should be Novgorod territory. Any diplomatic demands to hand the territory over were rebuffed, so naval scuffles followed, and that was where it largely stopped. Whilst their leader had been above eager to take the fight to the Byzantines in Constantinople, something partially done with a few ships from Kiev raiding the coast around the Bosphorus, one hard fact stood in his way. The soldiers of Novgorod, whilst hardy and up for a fight if need be, lacked the real numbers to take Caffa – something that only served to enrage the Duke and many of his subjects. Among them, Captain Sidor.
"Stay in formation!" Sidor barked out at his forces, ordering his unit of 150 men to stand in long formation, axes at the ready. On the left and right of his unit, another one stood at the ready, their own axes, clubs and, occasionally, swords at the ready.
Sidor was quoted as an 'ideal soldier' by his superior. His face hard and stern, eyes fierce, hair short, but unkempt, all marks of his many days on the march. While no taller than 6ft and not heavily built, what he lacked in height and size he more than made up for in devotion and persistence. His performance on the battlefield was not to be ignored too. A veteran of the Novgorod army, he had taken part in seizing Kiev from the rebels and then driven out those from Ryazan fortress and even skirmished with the armies of Hungary on the borders of Moldavia near Iasi. A seasoned veteran, a man with tales of his scars and victories for which the history books would talk about for generations to come.
If there was one thing that many would note as a flaw of his, however, it was his overconfidence. No doubt a committed individual, his tactic was largely repetitive in nature. "If you could charge and barge it through, then you can run it through," was his motto. Offense quickly and smash the enemy to ribbons, disorganise and make them scatter, no matter the cost. Effective, but was also incredibly risky, and had so far only just worked with the various warlords and bandits scattered across the territories his people possessed, and much of that being down to their foes' lack of combat experience and organisation as well as being quick to flee when faced with defeat. It had worked in Kiev, on the plains near Iasi castle, and Sidor was sure it would work here. My men are forest dwellers. Their axes are their livelihoods and they're bred hard and strong. The enemy stand no chance of beating us. We push them aside and then we march on Sarkel. Those Romans have no chance.
A horn blared out within the fog ahead of them, all eyes on the Novgorod side looking right at it. A row of large silhouettes began to emerge on the top of a small hill, about twenty. Then more appeared, on the left and right of this first batch, and more on their sides, and then more. A loud battle cry roared out from the mass of soldiers on the hill, which Sidor could make out horses beneath a large number of them, with what looked like infantry marching through the gaps between the cavalry.
Nervous mutters coursed through the ranks of his army, barely audible even to the captain standing mere feet from them over the noise of their opponents. Even Sidor swallowed hard, suddenly feeling less confident. He had always had the support of more men and mounted archers in the past, the latter of which he could see the Byzantines possessed a great deal of here. Plus, his army was outnumbered, barely. His axemen, as powerful and hard as they were, stood no chance of winning.
"Captain!" one of his soldiers standing next to him exclaimed. "W-what do we do?"
Sidor looked at him, expression aghast and at a loss. What could they do? Run? No, they would be shot in their backs and massacred before anyone would even have time to cry out. Attack? Would it even work?
His confident side seemed insulted for it quickly replaced the doubtful part of this situation. Of course! They may outnumber us, they may have archers, but we are tough and hard. They cannot hope to stop us! We will triumph!
Sidor unsheathed his sword and, in his deep booming voice, cried out "Charge!"
The youngling, who had moved next to Mathias in the march, exclaimed. "They're charging us head on! Don't they realise they have nothing protecting them?!"
Mathias sighed heavily. Younglings always had to state the obvious. But he would learn, learn when not to blurt out ridiculous things.
"Take aim!" he bellowed out, followed by the sound of arrows being placed against the bows and drawn back, each man up and down the line ready to fire upon command. Before them the infantry readied themselves, shields raised, spears directed at the charging Novgorods. Never be too careful.
The cries and roars of the woodsmen grew louder as they neared. Now just a hundred feet away.
"FIRE!" Mathias roared.
Hundreds of arrows sailed through the air, their pointed end drawing them right to their targets. Screams and cries followed as the Novgorod army of forest axemen fell into disarray, many falling over the bodies of their comrades who had been taken out quickly. One was struck right through the eye and collapsed in a heap, his body and weapon causing two others behind him to trip over his corpse. Another was struck in the leg and, crying out and trying to maintain his balance, promptly grabbed hold of the nearest person, which happened to be Sidor. Both crashed to the ground as more of their side fell around them, Sidor cursing wildly and promptly ending the man's life with a sword through his chest.
From his vantage point on the hill, Mathias watched as the Novgorods, diminished to now only half their original size and counting, fell apart. Discipline had all but collapsed and many turned and fled, dropping their weapons in the process. The few that continued on were quickly levelled by the constant barrage of projectiles from their opponents, some being felled with multiple arrows lining their bodies.
In short, it was a massacre.
Sidor shot up and roared in frustration at the sight of the few tens of woodsmen remaining rushing past him, some still being hit in their backs by arrows, most of them falling and never rising again.
"Cowards!" He raged, trying to grab one, but the man dodged his attempt and ran on, hoping against hope to escape. "Bastards! Cowards!"
How dare they run! How dare they! Do they not know what they are doing?! Were they real men of Novgorod?! They were to stand and fight to the end! The enemy could still be beaten, and yet they fled like cowards, like children hiding behind their mother's skirts!
"You fools! May God curse you for-"
An arrow to the back of the head stopped him mid-sentence. His muddy body crumpled to the ground and moved no more, the last thing he would ever see were the silhouettes of the Byzantines on the hill.
"Cease!" Mathias held up his arm and those around him stopped firing their arrows, silently taking in the mess before them.
Most of the Novgorod woodsmen had, as expected, been killed, laying in heaps of two, sometimes three bodies high. A few movements could be seen in the pile of fallen, though they would soon be dealt with. Further back, the forms of the few remaining survivors quickly melted into the fog and disappeared from view. Mathias doubted they would get far, not because he wanted to hunt them down, but because of the weather and that the battle would have no doubt affected their minds and many of them would become lost in the wilderness of the steppes.
He trudged forward with his soldiers, quickly becoming entangled within the mass of dead bodies and moaning injured, the latter of who were quick to be put out of their misery by the infantry. Part of him pitied them, the fact that they had come here to fight his forces, despite the Byzantines outnumbering and out doing them in terms of weapons and equipment and skill, was no doubt not something to shy away from complementing to some degree. Yet, they had been doomed from the beginning. Going up against an army of mounted archers was a suicidal endeavour; these men would have been happy just living their lives in their rural villages, chopping down trees, buildings houses, drinking with their local friends and caring for their families – and here they were, being forced into a battle they could not win.
Looking up into the fog, he pondered about what would happen next. Would they run into more Novgorod soldiers somewhere out there? Would they battle again, or only run into one of the many likely roaming bands of bandits and criminals that would probably be running wild across the steppes?
Probably.
Such questions would have to be answered later. Now they would need to rearm and then continue on and find a local village. Sarkel could not be too far away, and taking it would add to their Empire's territory – as pointless as it was.
Orders are orders, and so we must soldier on.
He hoped and prayed god would give him an easy life.
God clearly had a dark sense of humour, for this was to be the last engagement for Mathias, for during the siege of Sarkel, he would fall victim to an arrow through the stomach and die of his wound. Ironically, some would say, Sarkel would become a focal point and back-and-forth conflict between the Byzantines and the Novgorods (whom would one day evolve into the Russians), before falling victim to the 'hordes of the east' that would lay waste to the region.
For the survivors of the battle, or massacre, on the Novgorod side would flee into the surroundings wilderness, and Mathias' prediction came true. Out of the roughly 360 men Sidor had led into battle, barely double digits (and a low number at that) survived the initial confrontation, and of those who fled, the number of survivors could be counted, it was said, only by needing a hand's worth of fingers, and not even using all of them.
As for Sidor, he would be forgotten, lost to time, just another name on some small skirmish on some random field or steppe near some fortress in some far-flung area of the world, and he would not be the last.
