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Anno Domini 826, july 25
POV of Lysander
Well… it seems God is still smiling on me. Basil had been called to arms, and instead of having to march with him and live under the constant threat of a Bulgarian attack, I was left at home. Basil didn't want to leave this place without anyone watching over it, so I—being the only person he trusted who could read and write—was put in charge of everything.
Basil was a strange man. I didn't know his exact age, but I did know he was extremely methodical. Every single day he practiced the Varangian tongue; every single day he filled his papyri with drawings about how to improve his furnaces or with new ideas that came to him. He liked watching his men train, and he also liked beating the hell out of us, because no one knows how the hell he reads us like an open book when we fight him. Even so, he trusted too much in how deeply he believed he knew everyone—sometimes more than he should have.
For that reason, he put me in charge of making sure the numbers of his forge were exactly as he liked them, using a system of accounting employed by the Muslims, which is actually far easier than the Ionic system. More than once I saw Basil suffer while trying to balance the books using the old method, especially when the tax collector came and he had to show him the ledger. Teaching him ours would have been strange—he probably wouldn't have understood it.
At least I no longer had to be surrounded by idiots who never stopped bothering me with my nickname, "soft leg." Ever since that arrow hit me in Bulgaria, no one ever let me forget it, making sure to remind me constantly—even after I stopped limping, my leg healed properly, and I returned to training.
Now I had been tasked with replacing my kapetanios. Basil didn't want to take everyone with him; there were too many valuable things here to leave unattended, especially with so many Varangians around.
Basil had invited those northern giants into his service. I don't know why he favors those barbarians so much, but he made them swear an oath in their strange language, all of them promising to serve him loyally until death. In exchange, he equipped them with the best armor in the company, even ahead of some mercenaries who had already been promised one.
Not that I could complain too much. If there was one thing to admit about the Varangians, it was that they knew how to fight. As soon as they arrived, they dominated the training grounds, reminding us of the Varangians who had once trained us before. The real problem was controlling them. Basil gave me a sort of Greek–Varangian lexicon to learn, and I've been studying it, because he promised to double my pay if I did. Supporting four children and a wife isn't cheap, and ever since I started earning one nomisma a month she's become much more affectionate and pleasant. Being paid double would be a true blessing.
But now, while others had to go crack skulls, I could remain here in relative peace, with the simple task of keeping the inventory up to date and recruiting another two hundred mercenaries. I'd probably have to travel to nearby villages to hire men, or ask that one of our dromons sail to Constantinople to recruit there, but nothing impossible.
"Lysander… the kentarchos of Ainos has complaints about the Varangians. Apparently, local fishermen are saying they're taking all the catch," one of the mercenaries said, staring at me.
"Seriously… right after Basil leaves…?" I said, rubbing my face with both hands.
"Yes. We need to go deal with it… now," he replied.
"I knew it wouldn't be that simple," I said, getting up and heading toward the kastron of Ainos.
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Anno Domini 826, july 25 -26
A new campaign was calling, and fortunately this time I had a properly equipped force. Unlike the last occasion, when we fought mostly wearing simple padded gambesons and mail, I now marched with a force of six hundred and fifty men.
Two hundred spearmen, equipped with brigandines, padded gambesons, greaves, arm protectors, pauldrons, mail hauberks, mail face coverings, gorgets, and kettle helmets—turning my men into true cataphracts on foot.
Three hundred crossbowmen, using crossbows of respectable draw weight with stirrups to ease reloading. They wore armor similar to the infantry, though without greaves, relying instead on mail for leg protection and large pavises to cover themselves.
One hundred Varangians, equipped with the same armor as the spearmen, but instead of spear and shield I had forged polehammers for them. It was the ideal weapon. One thing these Varangians had in abundance was size: most stood well over one meter eighty, and Sigurd himself was close to two meters tall. He also rarely left me alone. More than once I found him standing outside my tent or guarding whatever building I was in, taking his role as hird—or huscarl—very seriously, almost as a religious duty. His father had made him swear before Odin to protect my life.
Taking advantage of the moment, I demanded that the Varangians swear loyalty to me until release before Odin. In exchange, I doubled their pay: instead of the usual five silver coins, they would receive ten. There was some resistance at first, but it was resolved by reminding them of the land grants and everything else they had been given.
The remaining fifty were mercenaries assigned to logistics and reconnaissance. They were the ones I had trained to ride horses, act as scouts, carry messages, or move supply wagons. With us traveled around thirty horses pulling several carts loaded with construction materials, tents, and tools for repairs.
The previous campaign had gone poorly due to a lack of supplies, but now the situation was different. I had gold to spend. Hákon had brought me several kilograms of gold and silver; I only needed to send it to Constantinople. Using the Varangians as intermediaries was far more effective than dealing directly with the capital, where—despite the time, the gifted armor, and the offers—I was still seen as nothing more than a blacksmith without prestige. It made my blood boil. I was literally offering the Empire armor that would not be invented for another six centuries, and still I was unworthy of the autokrator's attention.
Setting that aside, I had been called to the front once again. The strategos' extensive spy network had reported that the Bulgarians were preparing another incursion. Apparently, the same Bulgarian noble was once again seeking slaves—this time within Imperial territory. The frontier was vast, and Skleros needed men.
That year, the strategos was weaker than ever. Many of the fortifications he had requested had been canceled due to lack of funds, and now they would have been crucial. There were no walls, so the only option left was to raise walls of flesh to hold back the Bulgarian tide.
Without delay, we passed through Adrianople. As we were about to cross the river, the strategos intercepted us with his cavalry.
"Basil… Basil…" he said, inspecting my men. "Well equipped, from what I can see. As expected of a blacksmith kapetanios."
"Greetings, strategos," I replied, meeting his gaze.
"I see you brought the men from the north…" he said, observing the Varangians standing in formation.
"Yes. Good warriors. They will kill many Bulgarians," I replied.
"Let us hope their worth in battle matches their loyalty, and that they do not change sides. I am not fond of relying on pagans—unless necessary," he said, before shifting his tone. "However, I have been informed that you are using land that does not belong to you and granting it to the Varangians. You do know you could be executed for that?"
"It is my intention to purchase it once the campaign is over. I did not expect so many Varangians to arrive, and while I was preparing the purchase, your summons came," I replied with a smile.
"I am merely informing you. I am not going to execute you. I just want to avoid some imperial legate seeing this and making me look bad. Make sure you buy the land when you can. Now, to what concerns us," he said, relaxing his tone.
"Kill Bulgarians," I said with a cold smile.
"Exactly… the same idiot I negotiated with last year is back—wiping his ass with the treaty we signed, in which he swore he would not attack the Empire for five years. Well, here we are: only one year has passed and he is at it again. If you capture his grandsons this time, I will send them back to him in pieces so he understands this is not a game," the strategos said seriously.
"I understand… but regarding my orders, where should I act and where should I provide support?" I asked, adjusting myself in the saddle.
"For now… return to the hill where you previously fortified. I already moved the thematic garrison that was there and ensured it became a semi-kastron. Construction was underway until my funding was cut. A proper kastron in that area would block all attacks on Adrianople from the west, but well… the autokrator decided to reduce my resources. I must do what I can to defend the lands assigned to me—so you will do the same. Hold the Bulgarians if they outnumber you… crush them if you can… and loot everything you are able to," the strategos concluded.
"Who will be my superior this time?" I asked, looking at him.
"I will. If you believe you need orders, ask the tourmarches; his camp is where it was before. But I want to see how you use the Strategikon… because you did read it, didn't you?" the strategos asked inquisitively.
"About three times, my strategos… all twelve volumes, every single one. The maxims are my favorite," I replied with a smile.
"Excellent… then you have full freedom. Surprise me," the strategos said, smiling.
"I hope I can live up to your expectations," I replied, spurring my horse forward to cross the river.
Without delay, we began moving toward the hill where we had previously spent long hours on watch. We found the site occupied by a thematic garrison which, upon confirming our arrival, began withdrawing to protect another point, as a Bulgarian camp lay directly ahead of us.
Without wasting time, we began adapting the camp to our needs. There was not much to change—much of the kastron's foundations had already been built using earlier structures, so we only needed to adjust them to shelter all my men. We raised tents and a second palisade to protect those tents that lay outside the main kastron foundations.
From our observation post we began counting how many Bulgarians stood before us. Together with a few scouts we watched them while the rest prepared to sleep, as night was already falling. At that moment we managed to count roughly four hundred Bulgarians—the same group as last year. This time, we had numerical superiority.
I restrained the urge to charge them immediately. We had the numbers and the equipment on our side, along with armor of far superior quality, but my men had marched all day wearing full armor. They needed rest.
The night passed quietly, with only our sentries watching the Bulgarians—who had their own—locked in a silent contest of stares.
The following morning, once the troops were rested and after letting them eat porridge with fresh fruit and dried meat, we began preparations to attack the Bulgarian camp and finally test my forces against them.
"With the Varangians I will lead the central charge, while you flank through this area. From that hill you'll have visibility over part of the camp, and the crossbowmen will be able to plant their shields and support us from there. and you,your task is to apply pressure; there are no good positions for crossbowmen in that sector, but you must force them to divide their attention. they can't focus their strength on a single point, we'll force them to fight scattered. At that moment you move fast and block their retreat. With that… we'll have them like dogs, and we'll kill or capture as many as we can," I said with a smile, reviewing the plan we were about to execute.
All my sergeants nodded, while Sigurd simply followed the movement of my finger across the terrain, watching every gesture and every shift I marked with intense focus.
I then informed the Varangians of what we would do: we would strike hard at the Bulgarian center while my men advanced along the flanks and another unit closed off their escape. Nothing complicated.
With everything ready, we began descending from the kastron. The Bulgarians rose in a hurry; it was still early, and they clearly did not expect anything to happen. Confusion was on our side.
We quickly took the positions I had indicated and began to advance.
With the Varangians we pressed forward in tight formation, and I ordered them to lower their heads, brace arms and legs. Arrows soon began to fall on us. The sound of metal was constant, surpassed only by the sharp crack of arrows striking armor.
On several occasions I felt blows to my head as arrows hit my helmet, but as long as we kept our heads down and the formation tight, the armor did its job.
We kept advancing, compact, pushing against one another to maintain the pace, until we began to see the feet of the enemy archers deployed ahead of their formation. At the same time, I could see our forces spreading out along the flanks, encircling, slowly closing the trap.
When we were close enough to the Bulgarians, I gave the order.
"Now," I shouted to the Varangians.
The Varangians howled like madmen, raising their polehammers and charging furiously at the archers, who immediately turned and ran back toward their own lines.
We crossed the short distance between the two sides and were met by a wall of round shields and spears. We slowed our run and advanced in a controlled manner. There were several attempts to impale us with spears, but aside from striking the steel plates of our brigandines, they achieved nothing as the Varangians forced their way into the formation.
Screams and the sound of bones breaking were soon heard.
The Varangians began swinging their polehammers. Shields shattered. One could clearly hear arms breaking, metal deforming, skulls giving way. The first Bulgarian line began to collapse at an astonishing speed under the Varangian fury.
As if that weren't enough, a rain of bolts began falling from the right. The crossbowmen had taken the rise and now had direct line of sight over the entire camp. The archers attempting to reposition now had a serious problem—my crossbowmen had them completely within range.
The Bulgarian line did not take long to break under the immense pressure exerted by the Varangians, to the point that for a moment I thought I had ruined the plan. Everything was happening too quickly, and I couldn't see the unit meant to cut off their retreat. We had won too fast.
It all turned into brutal close-quarters combat. The Varangians moved like a tide, breaking bones without pause, crushing anyone who crossed their path.
Wanting to take part in the slaughter, I stepped into the fight. When a well-armed Bulgarian charged at me, I prepared to counter with my axe.
"RAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!" I heard Sigurd shout.
He appeared to my right, swinging his polehammer and smashing it full force into one of the Bulgarian's legs. The impact sent him to the ground. The metal warped, and the sound of multiple bones breaking was impossible to ignore.
"Aaaaaahhhhhhh… help… ahhhhh," the Bulgarian screamed, clutching his leg in agony. His cries lasted only a moment before the polehammer came down directly onto his skull, turning it into a mass of blood and shattered bone.
"Good, there—" I said, raising my voice so he could hear me. "Come on, we need to kill as many as we can. I still don't see the unit that was supposed to block their escape."
The troops on the left flank were already charging, and I watched as the Bulgarians had completely lost cohesion, fleeing in all directions without order or control.
As we moved through the camp, we destroyed tents and heard the clash of metal, but louder still were the agonized screams of those left wounded by such devastating polehammer blows. That was when I noticed the encircling unit was already in position; it simply wasn't easy to see due to the bushes in the area, which gave them visual cover.
We had the Bulgarians completely surrounded.
Within minutes, the massacre continued. I watched as the Bulgarians had less and less space to flee, until finally the few still alive began to surrender. We quickly took them prisoner, and once the battle ended, the looting of the camp began.
The Varangians were the most relentless, searching everything without rest, while my mercenaries also began going through the bodies of the dead—pulling off boots, stripping anything useful, and checking the tents for anything of value.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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