Wow. This is great!
Mind if I book mark it and steal this inspiration to describe the post-Byzantine Tsarist bureaucracies?
Mind if I book mark it and steal this inspiration to describe the post-Byzantine Tsarist bureaucracies?
Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR
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Status update for everyone:
Text of update: ~80% done
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Latest ETA will be sometime this weekend. If you want to know how and why I got distracted, you can blame my friend from Peoria who is visiting.
Text of update: ~80% done
Graphics for Update: ~50% done
Music for Update: 0% done
Latest ETA will be sometime this weekend. If you want to know how and why I got distracted, you can blame my friend from Peoria who is visiting.
Finally, here it is!
“Ah, you wish to ask me about Yaik? I was not there. Deeds were done, men were slain, and we Romans realized something important. We were not invincible.” – Albrecht von Franken, Questions
Battle of Yaik
September 23rd, 1214
Yaik Field… 1:03 PM
Mehtar Lainez blinked in the afternoon sun, then sighed.
It’d be decades since he’d seen a battlefield, and felt the common chill that ran down the hearts of all men before they shed blood. The last time he’d felt that chill had been a skirmish in Spain, back in the days of the Megaloprepis. Thomas had lead his chillarchoi into a ravine, when some eight hundred Moorish cavalry had poured out of the hills around the small Roman detachment.
There were far more banners, far more men facing Mehtar today. The Megoskyriomachos squinted, trying to count, but his eyes failed him. Those heady days were over thirty years in the past, back when Lainez was young, naïve, and hopeful that the world would turn out the way he envisioned it. Now, as the older, wiser man counted, his mind was preoccupied with everything that could go wrong with his plan.
Yes, the northern themes had gathered—nearly 65,000 men, counting the Danes. They were soldiers of all kinds—from Kiev came the Prince’s personal footguards and cavalry, some of the finest in the entire Empire. Imeretia had sent her Abhazkian tribal cavalry. Cherson had sent a horse of kavallaroi and skoutatoi, Azov had sent Cumans, Alania sent her namesake horsemen, and then, of course, there were the Danes—6,000 men on foot, armed with fearsome axes, and another 4,000 mounted. Yet despite this formidable host, easily the largest army gathered on the steppe, Lainez still felt that chill down his spine. The blue banners before them, white birds soaring in the wind, they were something hard, something alien, a menace that was both masked and blatant to the eye.
“How many?” Strategos Isaakios Vataczes asked warily. The Strategos was the official commander of the combined army, but in the realm of deployment and supplies, he’d wisely deferred to Mehtar. After all, it’d been Lainez that had pulled arguably the greatest surprise redeployment in the history of the Roman army—sneaking David Komnenos and 25,000 men from Italy to Spain under the nose of both the Sultan and the infamous Drogo Capet.
Mehtar squinted his eyes. He thought momentarily of counting banners, before quickly realizing this was a new foe… he had no idea how many men might follow a banner. Besides, they were clumped together tightly. He frowned—it was a trick, simple intimidation. Added that the Rus said the Mongols brought their foals with them…
“40,000… our equal, perhaps,” Lainez said after a summary judgment. “They have foals… I’m seeing a few.”
Vataczes grunted. Despite his deferral, Lainez could sense a tone of sharpness in the old strategos’ voice. His father had died saving the Emperor at Menorca, yet Isaakios Vataczes was better known for his failed Italian campaign than any of the long list of heroic deeds he’d done in the service of family and empire. Clearly, it all grated on the old man.
“They definitely have foals.”
Mehtar glanced over towards the source of the words, and the Dane called Skjalm Hvide paid little heed. To the Megoskyriomachos, Knud VI was altogether a strange king, if he was king at all—he was almost never without the elderly Danish “War Leader” Skjalm Hvide by his side, and he looked to the elder man for advice on seemingly everything.
“So how many are really there?” a fourth voice grumbled. Lainez looked over towards Vladimir Rurikovich, Prince of Kiev and forced his face to stay placid and calm. Whereas the others had come to battle in grim chainmail and stout if plain shields, the Prince of Kiev had chosen to wear a panoply that would have made Thomas II frown in disapproval—brightly burnished steel with blue enamel and gold trim, an immense wooden shield with such a garishly painted image of Christ the Savior would have blushed, along with velvet boots and a gilt-hilted sword. The Prince sighed, shifting his ermine lined fur cloak with distaste. “I should hope this whole thing is decided soon. It’s dreadfully hot.”
“40,000 or thereabouts,” Lainez repeated himself, managing to keep his voice entirely calm, even slightly pleasant. “Four divisions, under four different Noyan.” As the Dane raised an eyebrow and the Prince of Kiev snorted, Lainez watched Vataczes sit slightly taller in his saddle. The Kievans might have had fine cavalry, and the Danes might have been brave, but it was the Romanoi who could find out information. “Supreme command is held by someone named Jamuqa, a close friend or blood brother of this Genghis Khan. Subordinates are three young men—the Khan’s son Batu, a relative named Orda, and someone else named Subotai.”
“Subotai was the man who insulted you, Comes Thrakesios,” Vataczes nodded to one of his subordinates. The man had been the first to encounter the Mongols, and his harrowing escape and subsequent report had proven invaluable to the Megoskyriomachos. “So you all know your roles in the upcoming plan, gentlemen?” Vataczes asked grimly.
The principal commanders in the joint army that mustered in the summer of 1214: Isaakios Vataczes, Strategos, Commander of the Roman contingent and overall commanding officer, Prince Vladimir of Kiev, commander of the Kievan cavalry and left wing of the Roman thematakoi, Knud Knytling VI, King of the Danes and commander of the Danish cavalry, Skjalm Hvide, Krigleder of the Danes and commander of the Danish huscarls, and finally Alexios Thrakesios, commander of the light Abkhazian horse.
The one called Thrakesios nodded. “So I lead my Abhazis forward, and punch their lead… tu…
“Tumen,” Mehtar offered.
“…thing,” Thrakesios butchered the word, “across the nose. My Lord,” he glanced warily over towards Mehtar, “you are sure this Orda is in command of front and center? Why wouldn’t the relatives of this Khan take center?”
“The Mongol way of fighting relies on strong flanks, not a strong center,” Mehtar said coolly. Thrakesios would have known that if he’d read the mountains of parchments Lainez had ordered his scribes to copy, detailing the Mongol tactics outside Suzdal, Vladimir, Moscow, and most importantly, Novgorod. “Orda is from rumor their weakest commander. If you poke and prod him enough, he’ll charge.”
“You sure?” Kiev glared sideways at his nominal Lord.
“Yes,” Mehtar said with all the calmness in the world, even as he hoped and prayed he was correct. “And from there…”
The initial Roman plans…
==========*==========
2:12PM
Subotai hissed as he reined up his horse. All around him, the rumbling noise of hooves and men slowly ground to a halt, replaced by the nervous neighs of skittish mares, and the bumps, schinks and other noises of men preparing for battle. He’d forgotten the three feathers he was entitled to wear as a Noyan in the Horde of the Great Khan—it was little matter. Everyone in the so-called Blue Horde knew of Subotai, son of Jelme. Only just entering his thirties, he looked at least a decade younger, and his sharp sword and cutting tactical wit had sliced holes through the lines of Persians, Turks, Kipchaks and Jing alike. He wasn’t pleased with his posting as the reserve, but Jamuqa, blood brother of the Khan, had spoken. Subotai’s men had worn through two sets of mounts, and likely would be good for one charge at most. It was sound to have them as the reserve, with fresher mounts ahead and on the flanks.
The only thing he didn’t like more than his deployment was the small cloud of dust stirring up between the Mongol and Roman lines.
He’d learned much about these Romans—both from travelers and from the people who had fought them. The traders and merchants spoke of an empire vast and powerful, arguably more powerful than the Sung, laden with riches and gold. Their enemies spoke of armies expertly led, skilled at fast marches, ambuscades, and all sorts of trickery. The Kipchaks in particular spoke of the Romans in almost a god-like tone… apparently thirty years before, a Roman Emperor had savaged the Kipchak horde in the mountains of the Caucasus.
On this day, they had deployed in the strangest manner he’d seen. Their coup de grace seemed to usually be heavy cavalry, yet they’d deployed on broken ground, their infantry clearly visible, streaming off to the south till their flank blatantly anchored itself on the Volga. Their center disappeared behind a series of low ridges, and Subotai could only barely make out pennants on their left—likely cavalry.
“Why do they send us a morsel?” he murmured to himself, as the riders ahead of the front tumen of Orda cantered closer and closer. They were rough looking men in furs, armed with bows and javelins. Orda’s men raised their bows, and a hail of arrows cut a swath through those fur-capped men. Just as quickly as they approached, at the first volley they spun their small ponies around and started to gallop away.
“Ah… they want us to follow,” Subotai murmured with a smile. He had to nod in the direction of the Roman lines—their commander thought a little like a Mongol, at least. Quickly, however, his smile faded, and then his heart dropped. Drums rubbled, and signal flags fluttered in the wind, as slowly, first at a trot, then a canter, Orda’s entire tumen started forward, far ahead of schedule. As Subotai watched, riders spread out, stretching to the north and south…
“Orda, you fool!” Subotai hissed. He raised his left hand. “Drummer! Signal Lord Jamuqa and Lord Batu! Orda has charged!”
In response to harassment by Thrakesios’ Abkhazian skirmishers, Orda launched his entire tumen into a pursuit charge, forcing Batu and Jamuqa to move forward as well in an effort to envelop the Roman army.
=========*==========
2:28 PM
The rumble started to grow louder, and for the first time, Skjalm Hvide felt the ground start to tremble. He smiled… a big, toothless maw. The Krigleder had reason to smile—backing him were the 5,000 shields and axes of nearly one half of the Danish shieldwall. He glanced left and right, looking at the stout, steady line of men in the shadow of this nameless hill. Satisfied, he took two steps forward, his hands gripping his massive bearded axe Blood-drinker a little tighter.
The boys were ready.
“Don’t worry, lads!” Skjalm called over the growing thunder. “There’s two of them for each of you!” Another grin. “There’s more than enough to go around, if,” he added, “the Romans smacking their rear don’t steal some from us!” By now, dust was starting to fill the air, and the shouts of individual men echoed from the other side of the hill top. Skjalm braced himself.
“Shield wall!” Skjalm’s roar thundered over the plains. As one, the Danes adopted their ancient, impenetrable line. There was a rumble as thousands of wooden shields came together into an impenetrable wall, axes, spears, and swords poking through its mass.
The Danish shieldwall
Moments later, the first of Orda’s men crested the hill and started to thunder down the opposite slope. These first riders had a chance to see what they were charging into, and all tried to desperately rein up. The first line had only a moment to loose a single volley of arrows, before events caught up with them.
For behind them, their brethren pressed on, unaware that just on the other side of the crest, doom awaited them. So this first line was shoved into the deadly embrace of the Danes, who finally broke their shield wall and charged their enemies. As their blind fellows ran, shoved, and pushed them, the lead line of Mongol horsemen were pinned—they couldn’t run, they couldn’t retreat, as the Danes waded into their midst with a horrifying cry. Blood-drinker whirled through the air.
Both Mongols and steeds began to fall.
2:42 PM
Subotai sat uneasily on his horse, watching the drama unfold before his eyes.
To the left and right, a choking pall of dust already obscured the tumen of Batu and Jamuqa respectively—at the news of Orda’s charge, they’d rushed forward the plan Subotai, the most junior of all, had put forward—pin down the Roman center, then fly to the wings. The Romans would have to respond. If they sent cavalry to protect their flanks—which Subotai was inclined to believe they would—they would be enveloped. If they sent infantry, the Mongols could stay out of reach and pepper them with arrow fire.
Yet it was the center where Subotai’s gaze was focused.
“Damn Orda to hell!” the Noyan snarled, watching the last of Orda’s tumen disappear over the ridge. He knew what was there! The ambush was that blatant, yet Orda—stupid, careless Orda—had not seen it in his eagerness to catch a fleeing foe. As the fur capped Roman riders swung around, disappearing behind the hill onto their former pursuers, Subotai sighed as he saw the first wisps of a great cloud of dust rising just beyond the hill. The other Roman cavalry was charging too.
The moment Orda's troops crested the hill, Knud launched the Danish cavalry around their flank to slam into their rear, pinning them against Skjalm's shieldwall.
Orda would be crushed.
It was plain and simple in Subotai’s eyes—the whelp had rushed forward, eager for the kill, and was now the prey himself. He had to be rescued! As the clouds of dust rose just behind the crest of the hill, Subotai’s mind began to work.
If the Romans had enveloped Orda, that meant they had to pull forces from somewhere. They had a large army yes… his scouts pegged it at some 65,000 or so… but they had to draw their attack from somewhere. The Noyan could still clearly see the Roman infantry down by the river… which meant…
…yes. They drew their men from near the center, directly by where they ambushed Orda.
As Subotai watched, his mind rapidly calculated the distances involved, and combined that with the speed of the counterattack he’d seen. Yes. There was a gap in the Roman lines, behind that hill.
A gap meant he could envelop the very forces that were surrounding Orda.
If he acted—now.
His tumen was low on mounts, true, but if they came in slow… trotted as long as possible before breaking into anything faster… they might keep their horses fresh long enough to unhinge this Roman line.
“Tumen will advance!” Subotai barked his orders. Drums rumbled as signal flags flapped in the wind. Instinctively, the Noyan drew his bow, and tested its string one last time as he snapped out his commands. “Open box formation, flankers will advance ahead of the main line!” The bowstring was good. As Subotai put his spurs into his horse, the slow rumble of his tumen breaking into a trot thundering in his ears, he looked off to the left and right—and hoped Jamuqa and Batu would not repeat the same mistake as Orda… who knew what else the Romans had behind that hill?
Subotai advances with the Mongol reserve…
==========*===========
3:23 PM
“My Lord Strategos!”
Yet another panicked courier galloped up to the small hill where Vataczes had made his command post. Lainez didn’t need to hear the message for Vataczes—his eyes could already see the Mongol warriors headed towards the Roman flanks, and the Mongol reserves slowly moving forward. So whoever was in command over there had decided that a pinned Roman center, even one that was mauling a Mongol tumen was vulnerable. Lainez then looked back over to Vataczes—the man was surprisingly cool despite the pressing danger. Already on the Roman right the infantry was deploying further forward to protect the Danish right flank—it’d stretch the skoutatoi thin, but Vataczes had assured the Megoskyriomachos that on the broken ground to the right, the mounted Mongols wouldn’t be able to break the vaunted skoutatoi line.
The left, however, was another matter…
“…get those two tagma in line!” Vataczes was already barking more orders to worried orderlies, who then thundered down the slope to the waiting thematakoi kavallaroi down below. The Roman infantry couldn’t hold off the Mongols on the open ground to the left, so Vataczes had deployed his cavalry there, behind the Danes, to ambush the Mongols should they head that route.
Mehtar hoped the plan would work.
“…and tell domestikos Pulad that… MY GOD!”
Mehtar shot straight up in his saddle at Vataczes blood-curdling cry. His eyes flashed over to the right—the skoutatoi must have broken! Yet as he looked, he could see the Mongol line of horsemen peeling away from the solid Roman spearline, no doubt showering the skoutatoi hunkered behind their shields with arrows for their trouble. So Mehtar looked left, the place where the Romans would spring their ambush that could, would, crack the Mongol army…
…and he saw the Kievan cavalry rumbling out from behind the hills, a man clad in shining armor and a brilliant cape at their front. Banners of Christ the Redeemer, St. Vladimir, St. Olga, and a host of Orthodox icons streamed from a sea of banners rushing forward, directly towards the oncoming alien horde. Even this far away, the thundering roar of thousands of charger hooves on the ground was deafening, only matched by the distant shouts of “Za zemlyu ruskuyu!” (For the lands of the Rus!) and “Za Sviata Volodimira!” (For St. Vladimir!)
Prince Vladimir, seeing the tumen of Jamuqa coming from the north, panics and launches a premature charge to drive them off. Later iconography would lionize the this momentous mistake.
Mehtar sat on his mount in disbelief. Vladimir charged? He charged?! He charged the Mongol tumen head on!? Despite knowing what had happened at Novgorod, at Suzdal, at Chernigov?
“The fool!” Vataczes exploded, summing up all the discordant thoughts racing through Mehtar’s mind. “That goddamned fool! Why?” Vataczes’ horse walked to the right, agitated by its master’s anger. “They showed a flank for a second, and he charges?! They wanted him to come!”
“What do we do?” Mehtar said quietly, as he watched his plans shatter before him…
3:30 PM
Skjalm Hvide knew nothing of the Mongols moving on the flanks, or the horde slowly moving forward at a trot. He and his axe Blood-drinker were far too preoccupied. There were far too many targets, and not enough time.
The Mongols were hemmed in—at their front, the Danish huscarls of Clan Hvide loomed, two handed axes ripping apart man and horse alike. To their flanks, the Roman light horsemen had returned, pressing hard, while Knud and the Danish riders hacked and slashed through the Mongol rear.
As another swing of his mighty bearded axe brought down yet another of the devil’s horsemen, Skjalm Hvide laughed.
3:32 PM
King Knud’s cavalry, however, was in the perfect position to see Subotai’s oncoming tumen.
The Danish monarch had led his cavalry around Orda’s pinned hordes, then let them slam into the rear of the Mongol horse with devastating effect. The battle, if one could call it that, was over within ten minutes, as the Mongols were so tightly pressed that between Hvide’s axes, Knud’s lances, and Thrakesios’ light horsemen, they stood little chance. Now, the King and his men were trotting about, mopping up the remnants—the Krigleder had ordered no prisoners to be taken.
As Knud yanked his lance from the back of a hapless Mongol trapped beneath his horse, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something told him to look up—and his jaw dropped a the scene before his eyes.
Seeing the Romans pinned, Subotai’s cavalry moves forward, as the Kievans are enveloped in the north. In the south, Batu’s horsemen wisely do not press their luck against Roman skoutatoi on broken ground.
All across the horizon to the east was a huge pall of dust, as large or large than the one made by the first group fo Mongols who had charged.
“They’re coming,” Knud growled. As they watched, the line of Mongol horsemen grew wider and wider, as riders galloped outwards, stretching the Mongol flanks even more. Near the center, the King of the Danes saw that sky blue banner, red on its fringes, that’d haunted the Rus for the better part of a year. His eyes flashed about, till they settled on Torgil Estridsson, chuckling as he pulled his axe from the back of some unfortunate Mongol’s head.
“Torgil!” Knud reined up next to him, “I need you to grab men and disengage! One hundred! Two hundred! I don’t care! Now!”
“Disengage?” Torgil asked, a look of one part confusion, three parts hurt coming across the Danes’ face. Cheers from around them told of yet another Mongol banner stripped from its owner, or another mail clad hordesmen pulled down.
“I need you to ride out, and skirmish with that line!” Knud shouted over the din, pointing towards the oncoming wall of warriors cantering towards them.
“Skirmish with them!” Torgil flashed a positively frightening grin.
“Don’t engage!” Knud cautioned his blatantly over-eager bannerman. The King looked back again—the enemy was still only at a canter. “They’re coming in slowly, trying to preserve their mounts! They might not have fresh ones!” Knud openly hoped. “Pressure them as best you can, but don’t blow your own! We need you to buy us time to disengage and get out of here, not get you and your men killed uselessly!”
“Yes, Majesty!” Torgil grinned, before he started to shout commands to men all around.
“Estrid! Harald! Magnus! Reform the line!” Knud shouted his own orders. “Erik, ride to Lord Skjalm, tell him to reform shieldwall and back away, the horsemen are coming for our flanks!”
Yet even as men scrambled to follow his orders and the shieldwall reformed, Knud could plainly see they didn’t have enough men, they didn’t have enough time…
3:41 PM
“My God.”
Mehtar couldn’t say much more as he watched the absolute disaster unfolding on the left. Just as at Novgorod, at Suzdal, at countless other engagements he’d heard about, the Mongol horse flew around the Kievan charge. The Kievan lancers continued to lunge forward, their Mongol prey on lighter mares simply stayed out of reach, showering them with a deadly hail of arrows. Even from his post, over a mile from the slaughter, Lainez could see the Kievan ranks thinning fast, a stream of dead horses and men left in their wake as the Mongol horse slowly started to surround them.
He looked towards Vataczes. The Strategos’ eyes were firmly rooted just behind the slaughter everyone knew was happening… for behind the destruction of the finest of Kiev, there was a vast, yawning gap of nothing between the Mongol tumen and the flanks of the rapidly disengaging Danish infantry and cavalry. Once the Mongols were finished chewing apart Vladimir’s reckless charge, only an idiot could not fathom where they would go next…
“Strategos, should we…” Mehtar started to say, before his voice failed him. He could easily arrange for men to be in the right place at the right time, for supplies to be waiting, for the arms and equipment to be prepared, but as to the battle…
Mehtar blinked. What could they do? Almost all of the army was pinned, busy, save Vataczes small reserve—the remaining thematakoi kavallaroi. And if they charged the Mongols, even now…
“Keptaris, sounds the trumpets for charge line!”
Mehtar looked up, eyes wide. The old general’s sword scraped against its scabbard as he drew it out with a sigh. “They’ll be cut to pieces unless we send in our horse and extract them! Psellos!” Vataczes had already turned to yet another aide. “Psellos, tell the domestikoi we need their cavalry ready, lancers in front!”
“But if you…” the Megoskyriomachos started to say, but Vataczes snapped around and glared at him. The look in the old man’s eyes stripped all words from Lainez’ mouth. He’d heard stories of that grim set jaw, the Vataczes family trait it seemed. They said his father had adopted the same look at Menorca when telling the Megaloprepis to retreat.
“Megoskyriomachos,” Vataczes turned towards Mehtar, his eyes clear, his voice suddenly sharp and commanding, “you should report to the rear, and retire with the rest of the army.”
“Strategos…”
“That’s an order!” Vataczes barked, eyes blazing, his voice snapping over the din of battle so hard that Mehtar flinched in the saddle. The strategos walked his horse next to Lainez’s, till he was only inches away from the Megoskyriomachos’ face. “In Konstantinopolis, you are ruler, but here is my element. You would be a distraction to the men. Go back, and report what you’ve seen!”
“I…” Mehtar managed to sputter, rooted in place.
“Koutsos!” Vataczes said, with both the calmness and violence of the sea, “Take the Megoskyriomachos to the rear if you please!”
Mehtar started to open his mouth, but before any words could come out, a hand had a hold of his horse’s bridle, and suddenly the Megoskyriomachos found himself being drawn away from the now bustling hillock, as cavalry and commanders all began to form for one desperate, suicidal charge to blunt the Mongol attack. Lainez couldn’t help but watch the slowly receding line of grim men, lances high, pennants flying. Trumpets blared, and just as quickly as the charge line had materialized, they disappeared below the hillock, as if practicing for their future as no more than ghosts.
Vataczes launches as desperate, doomed charge of his own to give the Danes, Abkhazians and Roman infantry enough time to retreat across the Volga
==========*==========
6:02 PM
Subotai slowly reached the crest of the cursed hillock and sighed. The smell of dead men and horses filled his nostrils, along with the first whiffs of smoke from funeral pyres. The Noyan looked down towards the place where Orda’s men had charged, and saw far too many of his own people, and far too few of the Danes, Rus and Romans. The Roman commander had sacrificed himself to make sure these men, the butchers of Mongols, escaped from the field… a thought that enraged the Noyan.
Banners snapped in the fresh evening wind, as other riders approached the hillock—the rest of the tumen commanders arriving, to decide what to do next. Subotai’s gaze drifted off to the north—there was a sight he was used to, a sea of enemy bodies and horses, with only a few Mongols spread in between. The Romans had charged valiantly, true enough, but they had been butchered mercilessly. Jamuqa’s tumen finished with the Rus just in time to take the Roman cavalry in the rear, slaughtering it in the space of a few minutes. However, by the time Jamuqa and Subotai could reorganize their men, they found the Danes were already across the great river, along with most of the Roman infantry. Victory was theirs, but it wasn’t the complete decimation Subotai had hoped for.
With the Kievans enveloped, Vataczes charges into disaster, buying the Danes and others enough time to retreat off the field in the growing gloom.
“What a waste,” Subotai hissed to no one in particular.
Only a true count would tell how many Mongols had fallen this day, but Subotai was sure the total would be near 10,000… a full tumen’s worth. And that wouldn’t be counting the numbers of injured, or even the riders who had fled. Sure, the Romans had easily lost twice as much, but the Blue Horde had been effectively demolished. It would take weeks for the three remaining tumen to organize… and stupid Orda would definitely never receive a command again—if he wasn’t strangled for his disastrous attack.
“Lord Subotai?”
The voice of Batu, young son of the Great Khan, brought Subotai back from his mental morass. The Noyan turned to see the young man, at the head of a retinue of Mangudai, reining up alongside him. In Subotai’s eyes, the young man had performed admirably—he’d bravely gone forward, and once it’d become apparent the Roman infantry were on broken ground, he’d reined his tumen short, and showered the Romans with arrows. The disciplined Roman line hadn’t suffered many casualties, but it had been pinned in place, meaning those soldiers couldn’t reinforce the Roman center, let alone the wing savaged by Jamuqa.
“I believe he was commenting on our losses,” Jamuqa’s scratchy voice murmured. The blood covered man was the blood brother of the Khan, and overall commander of the so called “Blue Horde” that was charged with taking the great steppes to the west. He was well respected amongst the Mongols, with a tactical ability that showed this day. Enveloping the Kievan charge was anything any Noyan could have done, but so quickly slamming the Roman counterattack in the rear took skill.
“And what of the enemy’s?” Orda added to the mix, his face puffed out, his rich furs altogether too clean from the stain of combat. Subotai didn’t try to hide his disdain—something that made Orda’s face turn even redder. “We need to pursue them! They’re across the river, but by nightfall, we could be there too! We could catch them in camp, and…”
“We’ve been hit hard, Lord Orda,” Subotai tried to say calmly for decorum’s sake.
“Is the great Subotai advocating retreat?” Orda turned his head to the side, then walked his horse around Subotai’s. “Are you a coward, you and your half-horsed tumen?”
“Orda…” Batu started to say.
“You hung back today, you didn’t enter the fray until late,” Orda continued. “Is that why you don’t advocate chasing the broken enemy?”
“No!” Subotai snarled. Yes, the Romans had broken, yes they were in flight, but the tumen were mauled, and even he had heard the mutterings from amongst the men. He spun around to Jamuqa, then Batu. “We’ve lost at least two tumen this day! Pull back across the Great River, and call on the Great Khan for reinforcements—even as great a man as the Genghis Khan himself said there is no shame in backing away from an unwinnable fight, to come back and win another day!”
“But we bested the Romans here! Look, Lord Jamuqa!” Orda exploded. The man’s puffy face was positively red with rage. “They’re running for the hills! We slaughtered their commander! We captured three of their banners, and two of their princes! We should give chase!”
“And where is their emperor and his army?!” Subotai shot back. “You heard their prince!” Subotai snarled, almost as loud as the Prince of a place called Kiev had screamed when they were extracting information from him. “Their emperor was not here!” He flashed a look at the Great Khan’s son. “Need I tell you what disasters may fall if you lunge blindly into the darkness, with nary a scout to light your way?” Inwardly, the great Noyan shuddered. Never before had a foe stood and fought so long, so hard, and taken so much from the Horde. “You know now of the riches that lie south, your father will see no shame in you sparing his men, gathering more tumen, then moving on the Romans come spring!” He glared at Orda. “Then we will meet their mythical Emperor, and once he and their last army are aflight, we give chase!”
“Lord Subotai is right,” Batu said finally. “My tumen is the only one untouched this day! Lord Jamuqa, you broke their north, but you lost many men! Lord Subotai’s horses are blown!”
“I have a tumen!” Orda shouted.
“Your tumen lies on the field,” Jamuqa muttered, glancing over towards that small, bloody rise. In the rays of the setting sun, the dark crimson stains across vast swaths of grass between the bodies of man and steed alike were easily visible. “You have no tumen, and as such, you have no voice in this council.” Jamuqa’s worn eyes turned back to Subotai. “Son of Jelme, we’ll follow your advice. These Romans fight like devils, so let’s bring hell to them…”
So both sides emerge from Yaik bloodied, but the Romans by far take the worst of it. Meanwhile, the Mongols decide that, come spring, they will bring more tumen into Rus to strike the Romans again, possibly with the Great Khan himself at their head! Will Thomas arrive in time, and with enough troops to take on possibly Genghis himself? An epic clash continues, in Rome AARisen!
“Ah, you wish to ask me about Yaik? I was not there. Deeds were done, men were slain, and we Romans realized something important. We were not invincible.” – Albrecht von Franken, Questions
Battle of Yaik
September 23rd, 1214
Yaik Field… 1:03 PM
Mehtar Lainez blinked in the afternoon sun, then sighed.
It’d be decades since he’d seen a battlefield, and felt the common chill that ran down the hearts of all men before they shed blood. The last time he’d felt that chill had been a skirmish in Spain, back in the days of the Megaloprepis. Thomas had lead his chillarchoi into a ravine, when some eight hundred Moorish cavalry had poured out of the hills around the small Roman detachment.
There were far more banners, far more men facing Mehtar today. The Megoskyriomachos squinted, trying to count, but his eyes failed him. Those heady days were over thirty years in the past, back when Lainez was young, naïve, and hopeful that the world would turn out the way he envisioned it. Now, as the older, wiser man counted, his mind was preoccupied with everything that could go wrong with his plan.
Yes, the northern themes had gathered—nearly 65,000 men, counting the Danes. They were soldiers of all kinds—from Kiev came the Prince’s personal footguards and cavalry, some of the finest in the entire Empire. Imeretia had sent her Abhazkian tribal cavalry. Cherson had sent a horse of kavallaroi and skoutatoi, Azov had sent Cumans, Alania sent her namesake horsemen, and then, of course, there were the Danes—6,000 men on foot, armed with fearsome axes, and another 4,000 mounted. Yet despite this formidable host, easily the largest army gathered on the steppe, Lainez still felt that chill down his spine. The blue banners before them, white birds soaring in the wind, they were something hard, something alien, a menace that was both masked and blatant to the eye.
“How many?” Strategos Isaakios Vataczes asked warily. The Strategos was the official commander of the combined army, but in the realm of deployment and supplies, he’d wisely deferred to Mehtar. After all, it’d been Lainez that had pulled arguably the greatest surprise redeployment in the history of the Roman army—sneaking David Komnenos and 25,000 men from Italy to Spain under the nose of both the Sultan and the infamous Drogo Capet.
Mehtar squinted his eyes. He thought momentarily of counting banners, before quickly realizing this was a new foe… he had no idea how many men might follow a banner. Besides, they were clumped together tightly. He frowned—it was a trick, simple intimidation. Added that the Rus said the Mongols brought their foals with them…
“40,000… our equal, perhaps,” Lainez said after a summary judgment. “They have foals… I’m seeing a few.”
Vataczes grunted. Despite his deferral, Lainez could sense a tone of sharpness in the old strategos’ voice. His father had died saving the Emperor at Menorca, yet Isaakios Vataczes was better known for his failed Italian campaign than any of the long list of heroic deeds he’d done in the service of family and empire. Clearly, it all grated on the old man.
“They definitely have foals.”
Mehtar glanced over towards the source of the words, and the Dane called Skjalm Hvide paid little heed. To the Megoskyriomachos, Knud VI was altogether a strange king, if he was king at all—he was almost never without the elderly Danish “War Leader” Skjalm Hvide by his side, and he looked to the elder man for advice on seemingly everything.
“So how many are really there?” a fourth voice grumbled. Lainez looked over towards Vladimir Rurikovich, Prince of Kiev and forced his face to stay placid and calm. Whereas the others had come to battle in grim chainmail and stout if plain shields, the Prince of Kiev had chosen to wear a panoply that would have made Thomas II frown in disapproval—brightly burnished steel with blue enamel and gold trim, an immense wooden shield with such a garishly painted image of Christ the Savior would have blushed, along with velvet boots and a gilt-hilted sword. The Prince sighed, shifting his ermine lined fur cloak with distaste. “I should hope this whole thing is decided soon. It’s dreadfully hot.”
“40,000 or thereabouts,” Lainez repeated himself, managing to keep his voice entirely calm, even slightly pleasant. “Four divisions, under four different Noyan.” As the Dane raised an eyebrow and the Prince of Kiev snorted, Lainez watched Vataczes sit slightly taller in his saddle. The Kievans might have had fine cavalry, and the Danes might have been brave, but it was the Romanoi who could find out information. “Supreme command is held by someone named Jamuqa, a close friend or blood brother of this Genghis Khan. Subordinates are three young men—the Khan’s son Batu, a relative named Orda, and someone else named Subotai.”
“Subotai was the man who insulted you, Comes Thrakesios,” Vataczes nodded to one of his subordinates. The man had been the first to encounter the Mongols, and his harrowing escape and subsequent report had proven invaluable to the Megoskyriomachos. “So you all know your roles in the upcoming plan, gentlemen?” Vataczes asked grimly.
The principal commanders in the joint army that mustered in the summer of 1214: Isaakios Vataczes, Strategos, Commander of the Roman contingent and overall commanding officer, Prince Vladimir of Kiev, commander of the Kievan cavalry and left wing of the Roman thematakoi, Knud Knytling VI, King of the Danes and commander of the Danish cavalry, Skjalm Hvide, Krigleder of the Danes and commander of the Danish huscarls, and finally Alexios Thrakesios, commander of the light Abkhazian horse.
The one called Thrakesios nodded. “So I lead my Abhazis forward, and punch their lead… tu…
“Tumen,” Mehtar offered.
“…thing,” Thrakesios butchered the word, “across the nose. My Lord,” he glanced warily over towards Mehtar, “you are sure this Orda is in command of front and center? Why wouldn’t the relatives of this Khan take center?”
“The Mongol way of fighting relies on strong flanks, not a strong center,” Mehtar said coolly. Thrakesios would have known that if he’d read the mountains of parchments Lainez had ordered his scribes to copy, detailing the Mongol tactics outside Suzdal, Vladimir, Moscow, and most importantly, Novgorod. “Orda is from rumor their weakest commander. If you poke and prod him enough, he’ll charge.”
“You sure?” Kiev glared sideways at his nominal Lord.
“Yes,” Mehtar said with all the calmness in the world, even as he hoped and prayed he was correct. “And from there…”
The initial Roman plans…
==========*==========
2:12PM
Subotai hissed as he reined up his horse. All around him, the rumbling noise of hooves and men slowly ground to a halt, replaced by the nervous neighs of skittish mares, and the bumps, schinks and other noises of men preparing for battle. He’d forgotten the three feathers he was entitled to wear as a Noyan in the Horde of the Great Khan—it was little matter. Everyone in the so-called Blue Horde knew of Subotai, son of Jelme. Only just entering his thirties, he looked at least a decade younger, and his sharp sword and cutting tactical wit had sliced holes through the lines of Persians, Turks, Kipchaks and Jing alike. He wasn’t pleased with his posting as the reserve, but Jamuqa, blood brother of the Khan, had spoken. Subotai’s men had worn through two sets of mounts, and likely would be good for one charge at most. It was sound to have them as the reserve, with fresher mounts ahead and on the flanks.
The only thing he didn’t like more than his deployment was the small cloud of dust stirring up between the Mongol and Roman lines.
He’d learned much about these Romans—both from travelers and from the people who had fought them. The traders and merchants spoke of an empire vast and powerful, arguably more powerful than the Sung, laden with riches and gold. Their enemies spoke of armies expertly led, skilled at fast marches, ambuscades, and all sorts of trickery. The Kipchaks in particular spoke of the Romans in almost a god-like tone… apparently thirty years before, a Roman Emperor had savaged the Kipchak horde in the mountains of the Caucasus.
On this day, they had deployed in the strangest manner he’d seen. Their coup de grace seemed to usually be heavy cavalry, yet they’d deployed on broken ground, their infantry clearly visible, streaming off to the south till their flank blatantly anchored itself on the Volga. Their center disappeared behind a series of low ridges, and Subotai could only barely make out pennants on their left—likely cavalry.
“Why do they send us a morsel?” he murmured to himself, as the riders ahead of the front tumen of Orda cantered closer and closer. They were rough looking men in furs, armed with bows and javelins. Orda’s men raised their bows, and a hail of arrows cut a swath through those fur-capped men. Just as quickly as they approached, at the first volley they spun their small ponies around and started to gallop away.
“Ah… they want us to follow,” Subotai murmured with a smile. He had to nod in the direction of the Roman lines—their commander thought a little like a Mongol, at least. Quickly, however, his smile faded, and then his heart dropped. Drums rubbled, and signal flags fluttered in the wind, as slowly, first at a trot, then a canter, Orda’s entire tumen started forward, far ahead of schedule. As Subotai watched, riders spread out, stretching to the north and south…
“Orda, you fool!” Subotai hissed. He raised his left hand. “Drummer! Signal Lord Jamuqa and Lord Batu! Orda has charged!”
In response to harassment by Thrakesios’ Abkhazian skirmishers, Orda launched his entire tumen into a pursuit charge, forcing Batu and Jamuqa to move forward as well in an effort to envelop the Roman army.
=========*==========
2:28 PM
The rumble started to grow louder, and for the first time, Skjalm Hvide felt the ground start to tremble. He smiled… a big, toothless maw. The Krigleder had reason to smile—backing him were the 5,000 shields and axes of nearly one half of the Danish shieldwall. He glanced left and right, looking at the stout, steady line of men in the shadow of this nameless hill. Satisfied, he took two steps forward, his hands gripping his massive bearded axe Blood-drinker a little tighter.
The boys were ready.
“Don’t worry, lads!” Skjalm called over the growing thunder. “There’s two of them for each of you!” Another grin. “There’s more than enough to go around, if,” he added, “the Romans smacking their rear don’t steal some from us!” By now, dust was starting to fill the air, and the shouts of individual men echoed from the other side of the hill top. Skjalm braced himself.
“Shield wall!” Skjalm’s roar thundered over the plains. As one, the Danes adopted their ancient, impenetrable line. There was a rumble as thousands of wooden shields came together into an impenetrable wall, axes, spears, and swords poking through its mass.
The Danish shieldwall
Moments later, the first of Orda’s men crested the hill and started to thunder down the opposite slope. These first riders had a chance to see what they were charging into, and all tried to desperately rein up. The first line had only a moment to loose a single volley of arrows, before events caught up with them.
For behind them, their brethren pressed on, unaware that just on the other side of the crest, doom awaited them. So this first line was shoved into the deadly embrace of the Danes, who finally broke their shield wall and charged their enemies. As their blind fellows ran, shoved, and pushed them, the lead line of Mongol horsemen were pinned—they couldn’t run, they couldn’t retreat, as the Danes waded into their midst with a horrifying cry. Blood-drinker whirled through the air.
Both Mongols and steeds began to fall.
==========*==========
2:42 PM
Subotai sat uneasily on his horse, watching the drama unfold before his eyes.
To the left and right, a choking pall of dust already obscured the tumen of Batu and Jamuqa respectively—at the news of Orda’s charge, they’d rushed forward the plan Subotai, the most junior of all, had put forward—pin down the Roman center, then fly to the wings. The Romans would have to respond. If they sent cavalry to protect their flanks—which Subotai was inclined to believe they would—they would be enveloped. If they sent infantry, the Mongols could stay out of reach and pepper them with arrow fire.
Yet it was the center where Subotai’s gaze was focused.
“Damn Orda to hell!” the Noyan snarled, watching the last of Orda’s tumen disappear over the ridge. He knew what was there! The ambush was that blatant, yet Orda—stupid, careless Orda—had not seen it in his eagerness to catch a fleeing foe. As the fur capped Roman riders swung around, disappearing behind the hill onto their former pursuers, Subotai sighed as he saw the first wisps of a great cloud of dust rising just beyond the hill. The other Roman cavalry was charging too.
The moment Orda's troops crested the hill, Knud launched the Danish cavalry around their flank to slam into their rear, pinning them against Skjalm's shieldwall.
Orda would be crushed.
It was plain and simple in Subotai’s eyes—the whelp had rushed forward, eager for the kill, and was now the prey himself. He had to be rescued! As the clouds of dust rose just behind the crest of the hill, Subotai’s mind began to work.
If the Romans had enveloped Orda, that meant they had to pull forces from somewhere. They had a large army yes… his scouts pegged it at some 65,000 or so… but they had to draw their attack from somewhere. The Noyan could still clearly see the Roman infantry down by the river… which meant…
…yes. They drew their men from near the center, directly by where they ambushed Orda.
As Subotai watched, his mind rapidly calculated the distances involved, and combined that with the speed of the counterattack he’d seen. Yes. There was a gap in the Roman lines, behind that hill.
A gap meant he could envelop the very forces that were surrounding Orda.
If he acted—now.
His tumen was low on mounts, true, but if they came in slow… trotted as long as possible before breaking into anything faster… they might keep their horses fresh long enough to unhinge this Roman line.
“Tumen will advance!” Subotai barked his orders. Drums rumbled as signal flags flapped in the wind. Instinctively, the Noyan drew his bow, and tested its string one last time as he snapped out his commands. “Open box formation, flankers will advance ahead of the main line!” The bowstring was good. As Subotai put his spurs into his horse, the slow rumble of his tumen breaking into a trot thundering in his ears, he looked off to the left and right—and hoped Jamuqa and Batu would not repeat the same mistake as Orda… who knew what else the Romans had behind that hill?
Subotai advances with the Mongol reserve…
==========*===========
3:23 PM
“My Lord Strategos!”
Yet another panicked courier galloped up to the small hill where Vataczes had made his command post. Lainez didn’t need to hear the message for Vataczes—his eyes could already see the Mongol warriors headed towards the Roman flanks, and the Mongol reserves slowly moving forward. So whoever was in command over there had decided that a pinned Roman center, even one that was mauling a Mongol tumen was vulnerable. Lainez then looked back over to Vataczes—the man was surprisingly cool despite the pressing danger. Already on the Roman right the infantry was deploying further forward to protect the Danish right flank—it’d stretch the skoutatoi thin, but Vataczes had assured the Megoskyriomachos that on the broken ground to the right, the mounted Mongols wouldn’t be able to break the vaunted skoutatoi line.
The left, however, was another matter…
“…get those two tagma in line!” Vataczes was already barking more orders to worried orderlies, who then thundered down the slope to the waiting thematakoi kavallaroi down below. The Roman infantry couldn’t hold off the Mongols on the open ground to the left, so Vataczes had deployed his cavalry there, behind the Danes, to ambush the Mongols should they head that route.
Mehtar hoped the plan would work.
“…and tell domestikos Pulad that… MY GOD!”
Mehtar shot straight up in his saddle at Vataczes blood-curdling cry. His eyes flashed over to the right—the skoutatoi must have broken! Yet as he looked, he could see the Mongol line of horsemen peeling away from the solid Roman spearline, no doubt showering the skoutatoi hunkered behind their shields with arrows for their trouble. So Mehtar looked left, the place where the Romans would spring their ambush that could, would, crack the Mongol army…
…and he saw the Kievan cavalry rumbling out from behind the hills, a man clad in shining armor and a brilliant cape at their front. Banners of Christ the Redeemer, St. Vladimir, St. Olga, and a host of Orthodox icons streamed from a sea of banners rushing forward, directly towards the oncoming alien horde. Even this far away, the thundering roar of thousands of charger hooves on the ground was deafening, only matched by the distant shouts of “Za zemlyu ruskuyu!” (For the lands of the Rus!) and “Za Sviata Volodimira!” (For St. Vladimir!)
Prince Vladimir, seeing the tumen of Jamuqa coming from the north, panics and launches a premature charge to drive them off. Later iconography would lionize the this momentous mistake.
Mehtar sat on his mount in disbelief. Vladimir charged? He charged?! He charged the Mongol tumen head on!? Despite knowing what had happened at Novgorod, at Suzdal, at Chernigov?
“The fool!” Vataczes exploded, summing up all the discordant thoughts racing through Mehtar’s mind. “That goddamned fool! Why?” Vataczes’ horse walked to the right, agitated by its master’s anger. “They showed a flank for a second, and he charges?! They wanted him to come!”
“What do we do?” Mehtar said quietly, as he watched his plans shatter before him…
==========*==========
3:30 PM
Skjalm Hvide knew nothing of the Mongols moving on the flanks, or the horde slowly moving forward at a trot. He and his axe Blood-drinker were far too preoccupied. There were far too many targets, and not enough time.
The Mongols were hemmed in—at their front, the Danish huscarls of Clan Hvide loomed, two handed axes ripping apart man and horse alike. To their flanks, the Roman light horsemen had returned, pressing hard, while Knud and the Danish riders hacked and slashed through the Mongol rear.
As another swing of his mighty bearded axe brought down yet another of the devil’s horsemen, Skjalm Hvide laughed.
==========*==========
3:32 PM
King Knud’s cavalry, however, was in the perfect position to see Subotai’s oncoming tumen.
The Danish monarch had led his cavalry around Orda’s pinned hordes, then let them slam into the rear of the Mongol horse with devastating effect. The battle, if one could call it that, was over within ten minutes, as the Mongols were so tightly pressed that between Hvide’s axes, Knud’s lances, and Thrakesios’ light horsemen, they stood little chance. Now, the King and his men were trotting about, mopping up the remnants—the Krigleder had ordered no prisoners to be taken.
As Knud yanked his lance from the back of a hapless Mongol trapped beneath his horse, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something told him to look up—and his jaw dropped a the scene before his eyes.
Seeing the Romans pinned, Subotai’s cavalry moves forward, as the Kievans are enveloped in the north. In the south, Batu’s horsemen wisely do not press their luck against Roman skoutatoi on broken ground.
All across the horizon to the east was a huge pall of dust, as large or large than the one made by the first group fo Mongols who had charged.
“They’re coming,” Knud growled. As they watched, the line of Mongol horsemen grew wider and wider, as riders galloped outwards, stretching the Mongol flanks even more. Near the center, the King of the Danes saw that sky blue banner, red on its fringes, that’d haunted the Rus for the better part of a year. His eyes flashed about, till they settled on Torgil Estridsson, chuckling as he pulled his axe from the back of some unfortunate Mongol’s head.
“Torgil!” Knud reined up next to him, “I need you to grab men and disengage! One hundred! Two hundred! I don’t care! Now!”
“Disengage?” Torgil asked, a look of one part confusion, three parts hurt coming across the Danes’ face. Cheers from around them told of yet another Mongol banner stripped from its owner, or another mail clad hordesmen pulled down.
“I need you to ride out, and skirmish with that line!” Knud shouted over the din, pointing towards the oncoming wall of warriors cantering towards them.
“Skirmish with them!” Torgil flashed a positively frightening grin.
“Don’t engage!” Knud cautioned his blatantly over-eager bannerman. The King looked back again—the enemy was still only at a canter. “They’re coming in slowly, trying to preserve their mounts! They might not have fresh ones!” Knud openly hoped. “Pressure them as best you can, but don’t blow your own! We need you to buy us time to disengage and get out of here, not get you and your men killed uselessly!”
“Yes, Majesty!” Torgil grinned, before he started to shout commands to men all around.
“Estrid! Harald! Magnus! Reform the line!” Knud shouted his own orders. “Erik, ride to Lord Skjalm, tell him to reform shieldwall and back away, the horsemen are coming for our flanks!”
Yet even as men scrambled to follow his orders and the shieldwall reformed, Knud could plainly see they didn’t have enough men, they didn’t have enough time…
==========*==========
3:41 PM
“My God.”
Mehtar couldn’t say much more as he watched the absolute disaster unfolding on the left. Just as at Novgorod, at Suzdal, at countless other engagements he’d heard about, the Mongol horse flew around the Kievan charge. The Kievan lancers continued to lunge forward, their Mongol prey on lighter mares simply stayed out of reach, showering them with a deadly hail of arrows. Even from his post, over a mile from the slaughter, Lainez could see the Kievan ranks thinning fast, a stream of dead horses and men left in their wake as the Mongol horse slowly started to surround them.
He looked towards Vataczes. The Strategos’ eyes were firmly rooted just behind the slaughter everyone knew was happening… for behind the destruction of the finest of Kiev, there was a vast, yawning gap of nothing between the Mongol tumen and the flanks of the rapidly disengaging Danish infantry and cavalry. Once the Mongols were finished chewing apart Vladimir’s reckless charge, only an idiot could not fathom where they would go next…
“Strategos, should we…” Mehtar started to say, before his voice failed him. He could easily arrange for men to be in the right place at the right time, for supplies to be waiting, for the arms and equipment to be prepared, but as to the battle…
Mehtar blinked. What could they do? Almost all of the army was pinned, busy, save Vataczes small reserve—the remaining thematakoi kavallaroi. And if they charged the Mongols, even now…
“Keptaris, sounds the trumpets for charge line!”
Mehtar looked up, eyes wide. The old general’s sword scraped against its scabbard as he drew it out with a sigh. “They’ll be cut to pieces unless we send in our horse and extract them! Psellos!” Vataczes had already turned to yet another aide. “Psellos, tell the domestikoi we need their cavalry ready, lancers in front!”
“But if you…” the Megoskyriomachos started to say, but Vataczes snapped around and glared at him. The look in the old man’s eyes stripped all words from Lainez’ mouth. He’d heard stories of that grim set jaw, the Vataczes family trait it seemed. They said his father had adopted the same look at Menorca when telling the Megaloprepis to retreat.
“Megoskyriomachos,” Vataczes turned towards Mehtar, his eyes clear, his voice suddenly sharp and commanding, “you should report to the rear, and retire with the rest of the army.”
“Strategos…”
“That’s an order!” Vataczes barked, eyes blazing, his voice snapping over the din of battle so hard that Mehtar flinched in the saddle. The strategos walked his horse next to Lainez’s, till he was only inches away from the Megoskyriomachos’ face. “In Konstantinopolis, you are ruler, but here is my element. You would be a distraction to the men. Go back, and report what you’ve seen!”
“I…” Mehtar managed to sputter, rooted in place.
“Koutsos!” Vataczes said, with both the calmness and violence of the sea, “Take the Megoskyriomachos to the rear if you please!”
Mehtar started to open his mouth, but before any words could come out, a hand had a hold of his horse’s bridle, and suddenly the Megoskyriomachos found himself being drawn away from the now bustling hillock, as cavalry and commanders all began to form for one desperate, suicidal charge to blunt the Mongol attack. Lainez couldn’t help but watch the slowly receding line of grim men, lances high, pennants flying. Trumpets blared, and just as quickly as the charge line had materialized, they disappeared below the hillock, as if practicing for their future as no more than ghosts.
Vataczes launches as desperate, doomed charge of his own to give the Danes, Abkhazians and Roman infantry enough time to retreat across the Volga
==========*==========
6:02 PM
Subotai slowly reached the crest of the cursed hillock and sighed. The smell of dead men and horses filled his nostrils, along with the first whiffs of smoke from funeral pyres. The Noyan looked down towards the place where Orda’s men had charged, and saw far too many of his own people, and far too few of the Danes, Rus and Romans. The Roman commander had sacrificed himself to make sure these men, the butchers of Mongols, escaped from the field… a thought that enraged the Noyan.
Banners snapped in the fresh evening wind, as other riders approached the hillock—the rest of the tumen commanders arriving, to decide what to do next. Subotai’s gaze drifted off to the north—there was a sight he was used to, a sea of enemy bodies and horses, with only a few Mongols spread in between. The Romans had charged valiantly, true enough, but they had been butchered mercilessly. Jamuqa’s tumen finished with the Rus just in time to take the Roman cavalry in the rear, slaughtering it in the space of a few minutes. However, by the time Jamuqa and Subotai could reorganize their men, they found the Danes were already across the great river, along with most of the Roman infantry. Victory was theirs, but it wasn’t the complete decimation Subotai had hoped for.
With the Kievans enveloped, Vataczes charges into disaster, buying the Danes and others enough time to retreat off the field in the growing gloom.
“What a waste,” Subotai hissed to no one in particular.
Only a true count would tell how many Mongols had fallen this day, but Subotai was sure the total would be near 10,000… a full tumen’s worth. And that wouldn’t be counting the numbers of injured, or even the riders who had fled. Sure, the Romans had easily lost twice as much, but the Blue Horde had been effectively demolished. It would take weeks for the three remaining tumen to organize… and stupid Orda would definitely never receive a command again—if he wasn’t strangled for his disastrous attack.
“Lord Subotai?”
The voice of Batu, young son of the Great Khan, brought Subotai back from his mental morass. The Noyan turned to see the young man, at the head of a retinue of Mangudai, reining up alongside him. In Subotai’s eyes, the young man had performed admirably—he’d bravely gone forward, and once it’d become apparent the Roman infantry were on broken ground, he’d reined his tumen short, and showered the Romans with arrows. The disciplined Roman line hadn’t suffered many casualties, but it had been pinned in place, meaning those soldiers couldn’t reinforce the Roman center, let alone the wing savaged by Jamuqa.
“I believe he was commenting on our losses,” Jamuqa’s scratchy voice murmured. The blood covered man was the blood brother of the Khan, and overall commander of the so called “Blue Horde” that was charged with taking the great steppes to the west. He was well respected amongst the Mongols, with a tactical ability that showed this day. Enveloping the Kievan charge was anything any Noyan could have done, but so quickly slamming the Roman counterattack in the rear took skill.
“And what of the enemy’s?” Orda added to the mix, his face puffed out, his rich furs altogether too clean from the stain of combat. Subotai didn’t try to hide his disdain—something that made Orda’s face turn even redder. “We need to pursue them! They’re across the river, but by nightfall, we could be there too! We could catch them in camp, and…”
“We’ve been hit hard, Lord Orda,” Subotai tried to say calmly for decorum’s sake.
“Is the great Subotai advocating retreat?” Orda turned his head to the side, then walked his horse around Subotai’s. “Are you a coward, you and your half-horsed tumen?”
“Orda…” Batu started to say.
“You hung back today, you didn’t enter the fray until late,” Orda continued. “Is that why you don’t advocate chasing the broken enemy?”
“No!” Subotai snarled. Yes, the Romans had broken, yes they were in flight, but the tumen were mauled, and even he had heard the mutterings from amongst the men. He spun around to Jamuqa, then Batu. “We’ve lost at least two tumen this day! Pull back across the Great River, and call on the Great Khan for reinforcements—even as great a man as the Genghis Khan himself said there is no shame in backing away from an unwinnable fight, to come back and win another day!”
“But we bested the Romans here! Look, Lord Jamuqa!” Orda exploded. The man’s puffy face was positively red with rage. “They’re running for the hills! We slaughtered their commander! We captured three of their banners, and two of their princes! We should give chase!”
“And where is their emperor and his army?!” Subotai shot back. “You heard their prince!” Subotai snarled, almost as loud as the Prince of a place called Kiev had screamed when they were extracting information from him. “Their emperor was not here!” He flashed a look at the Great Khan’s son. “Need I tell you what disasters may fall if you lunge blindly into the darkness, with nary a scout to light your way?” Inwardly, the great Noyan shuddered. Never before had a foe stood and fought so long, so hard, and taken so much from the Horde. “You know now of the riches that lie south, your father will see no shame in you sparing his men, gathering more tumen, then moving on the Romans come spring!” He glared at Orda. “Then we will meet their mythical Emperor, and once he and their last army are aflight, we give chase!”
“Lord Subotai is right,” Batu said finally. “My tumen is the only one untouched this day! Lord Jamuqa, you broke their north, but you lost many men! Lord Subotai’s horses are blown!”
“I have a tumen!” Orda shouted.
“Your tumen lies on the field,” Jamuqa muttered, glancing over towards that small, bloody rise. In the rays of the setting sun, the dark crimson stains across vast swaths of grass between the bodies of man and steed alike were easily visible. “You have no tumen, and as such, you have no voice in this council.” Jamuqa’s worn eyes turned back to Subotai. “Son of Jelme, we’ll follow your advice. These Romans fight like devils, so let’s bring hell to them…”
==========*==========
So both sides emerge from Yaik bloodied, but the Romans by far take the worst of it. Meanwhile, the Mongols decide that, come spring, they will bring more tumen into Rus to strike the Romans again, possibly with the Great Khan himself at their head! Will Thomas arrive in time, and with enough troops to take on possibly Genghis himself? An epic clash continues, in Rome AARisen!
Magnificent writing! It's really exciting, I can't wait for more. Good music too. Hope to see more of the Danes, they rock.
That's an epic battle, taking out an entire tumen is no easy feat but it does show that even the mongols have a weakness, the same weakness that caused the collapse of the roman army, stupid leaders leading charges into certain death.
The danes rocked, Knud and Skjalm contrast so sharply yet work together in battle so well.
Another Vataczes dies heroicly to enable the bulk of the army to escape.
Now that Mehtar has seen for himself how the Mongols operate it's unlikely they'll be broken again. The mongols had better have alot of men up their sleeve if they want to stand a chance once Thomas joins the fray.
The danes rocked, Knud and Skjalm contrast so sharply yet work together in battle so well.
Another Vataczes dies heroicly to enable the bulk of the army to escape.
Now that Mehtar has seen for himself how the Mongols operate it's unlikely they'll be broken again. The mongols had better have alot of men up their sleeve if they want to stand a chance once Thomas joins the fray.
Epic, just epic. As usual. You really have a hang on this General. I had little time when I read this a few hours ago, had no time to read. I did though. You will destroy me someday.
BT, that was really terrific!
Your epic battle sequences are unmatched, and yet you've outdone yourself again. I eagerly anticipate the coming updates; this AAR is awesome!!!
Your epic battle sequences are unmatched, and yet you've outdone yourself again. I eagerly anticipate the coming updates; this AAR is awesome!!!
What a treat! I will have to study this one closely... I mean.. Rohirrim posing as Danes /drools.
Good leaders make all the difference - and when leadership is determined by birth, you'll inevitably run across more than a fair share of goddamned fools like Orda and Vladimir.
At least Mehtar escaped - with him giving Thomas the play-by-play of Yaik, the Emperor will obliterate the Mongols wherever they meet next, whomever takes the field!
... Or so we can only hope.
At least Mehtar escaped - with him giving Thomas the play-by-play of Yaik, the Emperor will obliterate the Mongols wherever they meet next, whomever takes the field!
... Or so we can only hope.
To be honest, the end result there is a draw, and I don’t think that the effective allied losses are as heavy as they appear. To be sure, the Kievans were destroyed, and the Roman cavalry forces which were deployed to the battle were mauled, but none of these losses are irreplaceable. Almost all of the Roman forces in the battle were Thematakoi—which have suffered from an increasing fall-off in quality in recent years. The vast majority of the Tagmata are with Thomas and have yet to be committed to the war. Meanwhile, Mongol warriors are essentially irreplaceable. So I don’t think that this battle has really placed the Mongols in all that great of a position.
I'm actually surprised Jamuqa is still around.
Things must have gone quite differently in the recent Mongol past from OTL.
Things must have gone quite differently in the recent Mongol past from OTL.
Damn that was epic one of your best updates so far and it seems those Mongols aren't done yet.
Oh if you need some pics for the mongols you should check here: http://www.kinokadr.ru/gallery/2007/08/08/mongol/#a they are from the Russian/Mongolian movie "Mongol" and I'm sure you can get some pretty nice pics from there.
Oh if you need some pics for the mongols you should check here: http://www.kinokadr.ru/gallery/2007/08/08/mongol/#a they are from the Russian/Mongolian movie "Mongol" and I'm sure you can get some pretty nice pics from there.
I'm gonna start wearing diapers whenever I read this AAR, I've lost too many pants...
EPIC
EPIC
EPIC - the one word good enough to expalin what I think of this chapter.
So, a draw it is? And both sides, while being badly beaten for the most part, will recieve ample reinforcements within a few months. Sounds nasty, and I actually think that the Basileion ton Romaion will be forced to secede in the end. However, from those far gone previews you threw our way (curse you! :rofl: ) it seems that a Roman successorstate will be fighting Tamerlane in the Zagros, so we'll see. I do hope they wreck through Russia/Poland though, the more impact the Mongols have the better.
So, a draw it is? And both sides, while being badly beaten for the most part, will recieve ample reinforcements within a few months. Sounds nasty, and I actually think that the Basileion ton Romaion will be forced to secede in the end. However, from those far gone previews you threw our way (curse you! :rofl: ) it seems that a Roman successorstate will be fighting Tamerlane in the Zagros, so we'll see. I do hope they wreck through Russia/Poland though, the more impact the Mongols have the better.
Why has Thomas stayed in Turkish lands this long? Are you roleplaying the game to character's traits, or perhaps keeping Thomas there because historically the Romans would not have known the true threat? I'm curious, since you knew the Mongols were there, why you did not immediately remove Thomas from Persia and bring him to aid Mehtar. Probably some reason, just wondering, because you could have destroyed them easily with your entire army...
Excellent update to an amazing AAR. You truly capture the grandeur and intrigue of Byzantium.
However, I have to say that this battle would have been fought far more differently in real life. The Romans were well aware of the advantages and disadvantages of a steppe army. They have fought them ever since the time of the Sarmatians and the Alans. They had numerous tactical manuals advising a general how to counter them. He was advised to use the terrain, to use foot archers and light cavalry, to have a significant reserve at hand (at least 1/3 of the army), to use spies and money to divide the enemy army. In the battle of Yaik, there is no reserve, the crucial left flank is left to the Kievans lead by a fool, when the much more disciplined and effective Roman cavalry should have been there. Also, archers would have been placed on the left to keep away the Mongol light horse archers (foot archers had a greater range especially when shooting from higher ground) with the Kievan cavalry as a reserve to protect them from a charge of the Mongol heavy cavalry.
You seem to have fallen to the Mongol fanboy syndrome. The Mongols were not the only ones who could employ deception on the battlefield. It is hard to see a man like Lainze not realising that the Mongols would be desperate to provoke the Roman left to attack since it would pretty much the only way to win the battle. I mean, not only he comes up is a ambush Subotai can see from the first second, he also has not the foresight to read a manual on two on how to counter a steppe army? He survived all those years in Byzantine politics by being cunning, smart, informed and decisive. He has so much information on how the Mongols fight yet he makes no provision to guard the army from Mongol deception, nor does he guard the single most vulnerable point of his army, the one the Mongols would be bent to break? This is the conduct of an amateur, not of the Byzantine spymaster.
I realise that you probably lost the battle in the game, so you had to write a matching AAR but the way the battle was conducted seemed quite improbable. I hope the rant above sounds a constructive criticism. If not, my apologies.
However, I have to say that this battle would have been fought far more differently in real life. The Romans were well aware of the advantages and disadvantages of a steppe army. They have fought them ever since the time of the Sarmatians and the Alans. They had numerous tactical manuals advising a general how to counter them. He was advised to use the terrain, to use foot archers and light cavalry, to have a significant reserve at hand (at least 1/3 of the army), to use spies and money to divide the enemy army. In the battle of Yaik, there is no reserve, the crucial left flank is left to the Kievans lead by a fool, when the much more disciplined and effective Roman cavalry should have been there. Also, archers would have been placed on the left to keep away the Mongol light horse archers (foot archers had a greater range especially when shooting from higher ground) with the Kievan cavalry as a reserve to protect them from a charge of the Mongol heavy cavalry.
You seem to have fallen to the Mongol fanboy syndrome. The Mongols were not the only ones who could employ deception on the battlefield. It is hard to see a man like Lainze not realising that the Mongols would be desperate to provoke the Roman left to attack since it would pretty much the only way to win the battle. I mean, not only he comes up is a ambush Subotai can see from the first second, he also has not the foresight to read a manual on two on how to counter a steppe army? He survived all those years in Byzantine politics by being cunning, smart, informed and decisive. He has so much information on how the Mongols fight yet he makes no provision to guard the army from Mongol deception, nor does he guard the single most vulnerable point of his army, the one the Mongols would be bent to break? This is the conduct of an amateur, not of the Byzantine spymaster.
I realise that you probably lost the battle in the game, so you had to write a matching AAR but the way the battle was conducted seemed quite improbable. I hope the rant above sounds a constructive criticism. If not, my apologies.
Well in truth the Byzantines would have been one of the few forces able to meet and defeat the Mongols in their prime, but IOTL they were too severely weakened for the Mongols to even pay attention. In this story, BT obviously needs to write in such a way as to reflect, I presume, an actual in-game battle which happened. If he lost and had to withdraw, he has to have a good story-excuse to do it with. Within the story-verse, presumably, Mehtar simply hasn't spent all that much time reading tactical manuals on steppe tactics.