Crown Prince Athanasios sat on his horse, with his helmet in his hand. He could feel the cool breeze blow through his wavy, sandy brown hair. He was only 17 years old, but he felt far more grown up. Being on a battle field, in command of one thousand men, tended to give you that feeling. He wondered if this was how Megas Alexandros had felt at his first battle, for Alexandros had been only 17 when his father, Philippos II, had given him command of the Makedonian cavalry at the battle of Chaeronaea. That had been a glorious day for Alexandros, perhaps it would be for Athanasios as well.
He looked to his right, to his closest friend and companion, Stephanos Beroiaios. Stephanos was a year older than the Prince, with dark brown hair. He spoke with a strong accent, because his father had come to the Morea from the province of Makedonia, and the Makedonians had always spoken with a different accent, and even a slightly different dialect, than the Greeks. Stephanos was a testament to his race. Devout, courageous, fiercely loyal, foul mouthed, and a lover of the finer things in life, which to a Makedonian were two things and two things only: wine and women. Ofcourse, now that they had been Christian for over a millenium, Makedonians were not the druken womanizers they once were, but they still had exceptional taste in wine and in women.
Athanasios smiled. As he watched his friend, he could see the Makedonian praying for God's blessings. Perhaps that was the only flaw in the Makedonian race, the Prince mused, they were too dependent upon divinity. In ancient times it was the gods, now it was the Triune God. But regardless of who they looked to, Makedonians never did anything without first praying about it. But in the Prince's mind, Stephanos did not need to pray to God for help. Stephanos was one of the best warriors in the Morea, perhaps the best of all, after ofcourse Athanasios himself. And... Nikephoros Dekanos as well, the Prince admitted grudgingly.
The Crown Prince looked up to the walls and saw that by now the towers had reached the city. The battle had officially begun. He put his helmet on and shouted so that his men could hear him, "Ready yourselves, boys! Soon those gates will open and we will storm the city!"
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Despite being over sixty years old, Arsenios Karamallos led his men from the front. Indeed, when the bridge dropped, he was the first Morean to leap onto the walls of Medjerda. He raised a loud war cry which was carried on by his men as they joined him in the fray.
The Tunisians had been weakened and frightened by the volleys of crossbow bolts which had struck them as the towers advanced, and now the Morean soldiers were easily gaining ground.
One Tunisian tried to push Arsenios off of the wall, but the old soldier pushed against him, and broke free of his grip. He then took his sword and pulled it across the Tunisian's stomach. The man screamed in pain as he dropped his sword and shield to hold his innards in with his hands. He sank to his knees, and died.
As the fierce melee continued, Arsenios noticed that the Moreans were no longer gaining ground. In fact, they were now losing ground. The Tunisians had found a new resolve and were fighting now harder than they had before. Men fell left and right, and before long the situation on Arsenios' side of the battle was looking grim.
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Things were no better on Nikephoros' side of the battle. He had already lost hundreds of men. He wanted to strike out, but he remembered St. Alexios' words, "
...Be wary, at first. Wait for my sign..." and so he waited. Clouds had covered the sun, casting a dark shadow over the battle. As Nikephoros deflected a blow, and then drove his blade into his attacker's heart, he saw a small break in the clouds. A sliver of sunlight broke thought them, and landed upon a banner of the Morean Cross, illuminating it. He heard a voice in his head say, "
Now, Nikephoros! Now!"
He was suddenly overcome with adrenaline. He felt his heart beat so fast he was sure it would burst. He could feel his muscles tighten and strengthen, until his sword and shield felt weightless in his hands. From deep within, he felt a shout rise up. It swelled within him until he could contain it no longer. At last, he cried out at the top of his lungs, "For God and the King!" and with that he rushed forward into the mass of enemies.
The sheer force of his charge sent the enemy lines reeling back. He lashed out with his sword and caught a man across the face. The Tunisian screamed as he fell off of the wall from the force of the blow. He reached out to one of his fellow soldiers in an attempt to save himself, and ended up bringing the man down with him. They both fell, screaming, to their deaths.
Nikephoros continued to shout and lash out with his blade. By now he was the only Morean on his side of the wall actually fighting. The rest of his men simply looked on, awestruck. The Tunisians could not comprehend what had happened. Some thought that he was demon possesed. Others thought he actually
was a demon. Regardless of what he was, it was clear to them that they could not withstand him.
Men continued to fall to his relentless attack. It seemed that with every swing of his blade another Tunisian would die. At last, they broke, and many fled from the walls into the streets and to the palace. Nikephoros looked back and saw a line of bodies trailing from where his attack had begun. He could not guess the exact number, but it seemed to be close to one hundred.
He saw his men still standing there, in complete shock. He pointed his sword down the stairs and shouted, "After them, fools!" The men obeyed and rushed to pursue the fleeing Tunisians. Nikephoros, however, rushed into the gate house to finish his mission.
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Khazim looked around him at the ten men who were with him in the gatehouse. These were among the best warriors Tunisia had to offer. Veterans of Abdul-Rahman's campaigns against the Toledans and the Cordobans. They would sacrifice their lives before letting the gatehouse fall, and he knew that each of them was worth at least two Moreans.
He heard foot steps as someone ran up the stairs into the gate room. Odd that it sounded like only one pair of feet. A messenger perhaps?
He was shocked when he at last saw this lone person emerge from the stair well. His armour and his once white cloth were stained red with blood. His shield was splattered with gore, and his sword was red to the hilt. He had lost his helmet and his face and hair were also red. It looked as if this man had come straight out of hell.
The man was breathing heavily. One of the soldiers looked to Khazim, and though he said nothing, it was clear by his eyes that this soldier was asking what should be done. Before Khazim could answer, the man spoke, shockingly, in perfect Tunisian Arabic, "I am Nikephoros Dekanos. This gatehouse now belongs to King Georgios III of the Morea. Step away from it so that I may open it for him, and your lives will be spared."
Khazim replied, "There are eleven of us and only one of you. Who are you to make such a demand?"
Nikephoros bowed his head and said, "Then I am to assume you will not relinquish control of the gatehouse?"
"No," said Khazim.
Without another word, Nikephoros let out a loud battlecry and rushed the ten defenders. One was dead before they could do anything about it. As the others began to react, Nikephoros quickly cut two more down. The seven remaining soldiers encircled him, and for a moment they seemed to have the other hand, but within seconds they were somehow all dead, slain by Nikephoros' sword.
Khazim was reminded of stories that his father had told him of Viking warriors who would call upon their god Odin, and he would possess them with his living spirit, giving them the strength of one hundred men. The Vikings had called this
berserkergang. Khazim knew in his heart that whatever strength was given to Nikephoros was a thousand thousand times greater than the
berserkergang. He readied himself to defend the gatehouse, though deep inside he already knew that he was going to die.
He said to Nikephoros, "If I am to die, let me die with honour."
Nikephoros nodded. The two of them discarded their shields, put their shield arms behind their backs, and proceeded to fence. The fencing match lasted for close to five minutes, but at last, Nikephoros won, and Khazim was slain.
Nikephoros opened the gate with ease, and suddenly his strength was sapped. He collapsed to the ground, breathing hard. He could hear the horns sound the advance of the other two thousand Moreans, and knew that victory would soon be theirs. He looked up to heaven, and said, "Thankyou." He then proceeded to cry for all those who had had to die to achieve this victory.
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Crown Prince Athanasios saw the gates open, and shouted, "The Gates! The Gates! To the Gates!"
His thousand let out their battle cry, "For Christ and Glory!" and rushed behind him into the city. Soon after, their cry was echoed by the King's thousand, and now all of the Moreans were pouring into the city.
But the battle was not won yet. There were still Tunisians on the walls fighting against Karamallos, and two thousand more within the city. In addition to their remaining numbers, the Tunisians had yet to employ their secret weapon against the Moreans...