Here it is at last:
[font=palatino_linotype]Chapter IV – A Batalha da Toscana[/font]
The silence was absolute as the misty winter fog lifted from the fields of grain. 35000 men were to make their destiny in these distant mysterious lands, and many would never return, but the atmosphere was one of expectation, and of imminent victory. The war was not yet officially declared, but Sebastião had now rallied his troops to the trading province of Genoa. Next to the encampments was the river-border that led to the unfortified, undefended riches of Mediolanum, and to the East they heard tales of towns that honour only the arts and good wine, cheese, and meat. All were impatient to sink their teeth into the Italian beauties they’d heard described by traders, and all had decided that to miss this conquest would be to miss life’s most glorious opportunity for fame and riches.
But the Emperor had other things on his mind. As a matter of fact, he had
one other thing on his mind: ROME. For no other reason could they call themselves S.P.Q.R. They knew the location of ROME. The Pope’s descriptions of it as a desolate place, home to the slaves of a civilized Empire only strengthened Sebastião’s resolve:
He must find Rome. He must build his capital in Rome. He must become Rome.
***
The news spread quickly through the Roman towns.
“Barbarians are attacking! Barbarians have invaded the North!”
The ancient fears that had so haunted the Roman people were now awakened, and it had been so long since the Barbarian Hordes had decided to ravish the countryside that the people knew not what to do, and so fell without resistance.
Pope Leo knew these were no barbarians. It was as he had feared: The young Emperor of the West had found in the S.P.Q.R. a certain fancy, and now he took whatever he could. Was it not enough for the Lord to decimate his armies in the conquest of Apulia? Why was He being punished for bringing the word of God unto these African heretics? Yes, the ways of the Lord seemed inexplicable at times, and now was another of those times… a time where Romans would fight aligned and disciplined armies once more, in defense, and in unfounded hope of rescue.
The Triumvirate would not help him now: The Romans to either side of him had left him without reply nor assistance, and the Senate would have to push back these invaders by own force. The Lord, it seemed, had forsaken the Pope, and left his flock to the brandished blades of the heathens.
***
The conquest of the North took no longer than expected: No organized resistance, no Roman armies. The only calamity in five months of conquest was the bitter winter cold as the Horse regiments staggered between the highest peaks of the Alps in search for non-existent Roman towns. The Romans were liars. The Romans were scum. The Romans had wasted a good 2000 Horse in their fibbing, and on the way back they were all slaughtered, man, woman, and child.
What these frustrated soldiers were unaware of was that this was precisely the instigation the Romans of the North, Regnum Romanum Transalpinum, wanted. Now they had a cause for war, and they soundly used it to prepare their grandiose royal army for the battlefields of northern Italy.
***
Sebastião had but one target: Rome. Once he occupied Rome, he thought, he could impose any sort of peace treaty. But the naval force of the Senate was to be reckoned with, and meant that sea-transport was not an option: The Great March for Rome had begun.
From Liguria to Emilia to Toscana, Sebastião marched with his 16000-man detachment in his eternal quest for Rome. He had heard it described that Siena, the seat of the Senate, had been founded as a second Rome, only a few days’ riding to the North of the fallen and degenerate VRBS.
No resistance in these parts either; Sebastião began to under-estimate the enemy: If he could find himself at a day’s march from the seat of the Senate without once having encountered organized resistance, he expected he never would!
And that is where the Empire’s flag fell from its mast, and where all future hung on by a silken thread:
The Battle of Tuscany
19 January 1524 – 12 July 1524
The mists kept their cover secure on the Lusitanian Army, and stopped man and beast from seeing further than fifty steps in any direction. The gritty cold of frozen dew on the bare grain-stalks in the Tuscan fields drew shivers from the less experienced, and nostalgic reminisce in the veterans of the battles in the heights of Andalusia. It scraped the boots of the endless columns of foot-soldiers, and froze the hooves of the great escort of Horse. It was the coldest winter in hundreds of years, they would later learn, but for now they saw in Tuscany but the Realm of the Devil. There was no water to be drunk, only ice to be sucked. There was no more food than there were lice: All living things died in those wretched plains, except for the Grand Lusitanian Army. Sebastião had quickly understood that there was no way to cross this Hell without greater organization, and so he set up a cavalry task force to prepare food and water at quarter-day intervals. Whether the farmers were cooperative or not was not their concern, and this meant human flesh became a part of the menu often in those terrible times of necessity.
But on the morning of 19 January 1524 the clouds lifted and the Sun shone unto the armoured pack of wolves that were the Lusitanii. In the distance a red banner shook with the wind, and a solitary migratory bird took off in search of its retired travel-companions. Shook the Earth with the roar of thunder as the Sun turned red, and the Lusitanian army slowed to a halt. Even Sebastião could only stare at the glorious event with wonder. A wonder that soon turned to fear as the cries of his men brought to life the most cowardly sentiments of foreboding.
The first to fall was the standard-bearer. He had been honoured to carry the flag just this once, all in vain as his body crashed to the ice-hardened earth. His blood cleared the ice and uncovered the grain of wheat, and an insect-nest, and the arrow that had made of him a dead man.
It was hailing arrows as the greater part of the Lusitanian Grand Army fell. The Horse fled, the infantry struggled over the fallen corpses, but the Emperor stayed and stared. He was in a trance, it seemed, and by some magic not a single arrow pierced his flesh. The vanguard was now the rearguard and the left column fled to the right. All in all the great fighters of the West were reduced to a fearful mob kneeling and uttering prayers and a half to their heathen God.
In the distance the Roman archers reloaded, and waited for the signal to unleash hell in a second volley…but the order never came. The Roman infantry had already run towards their target and firing now would kill as many Romans as Lusitanii. The clash had begun, and would not end for another seven months.
The opposing armies were now involved in the most heroic battle ever to shower Roman soil since the fall of Rome: During the day they fought, during the night they healed, like two Titans in an eternal struggle for justice, vengeance, and honour.
The Pope was glad to hear the Regnum Romanum Transalpinum had sent over 16000 men. The great fighting skills of those warrior-Romans would prove invaluable if they could make it to Siena on time, for the Emperor of the West was losing men every day, and Roman reinforcements pressured him every day to surrender. Retreating from Siena to Tuscany and back again repeatedly, the Lusitanii began to lose hope. By then the surrounding provinces had been recaptured, and Sebastião would have nowhere to run. He would die the most horrid of deaths at the hands of the most Saintly of Popes.
But then a miracle, later attributed to God, saved the Empire from the most dreadful military loss of its new history. Martim Alegre had been denied the right to leave the port of Genoa under pain of death, and had hesitatingly accepted the restriction, until he heard the news from Tuscany that made him speed for the west-coasts of Latium. If the Emperor died, Martim would lose his authority and his rank, so he gathered the nine warships and the 7000 men stationed in Genoa and made for the Tyrrhenian Sea. If the Emperor had to, he could then be able to flee aboard his ships rather than die at the hands of the Catholics.
On June 29th 1524 Martim reached his destination, and met with a double warship patrol on its way to Siena. Fighting was now an inevitability, but superior firepower scared the Romans into retreating to the banks of Sardinia, just as had so often happened to Martim before.
It was then that God called: Floating among the debris a sailor spied a group of scrolls, which he immediately fished out of the water and brought to Martim. They were maps of the West-Roman seas and provinces! Sadly, the patrol-ships seemed to be a detachment reserved for the West-coast, because most of the Eastern world was excluded. BUT IT WAS ENOUGH! THEY NOW KNEW WHERE ROME WAS!
Immediately the 7000 men tried to disembark and take Rome. By now the Emperor was back in Tuscany, but without the harrying of his rearguard: On 12 July 1524 the battle of Tuscany was over. 2824 Horse were all that was left, but the victory was theirs: The Regnum Romanum Transalpinum had retreated its Royal Army to their unmapped abodes across the Alps.
The fleet of Martim Alegre disembarked its 7000 men in Rome as reinforcements were rallied in São Felipe, Kabylia. The Roman armies were finally dispersed. The greatest battle of Lusitanian history was now over. The war itself had to soon be over too.