vanin - Thomas does bear many resemblances to Commodus (especially looks!
). Both are bullies because they're secretly afraid, and both seek complete power that they aren't capable of wielding. Thomas, however, does not lust after his sister!
AP, Estonianzulu, Leviathan07 - Thank you for all of the ideas! Hopefully this weekend I'll get a chance to post a couple more banners as well as the next update proper!
September 16th, 1190
Sulieman Arslan closed his eyes and sighed.
September normally brought a slight period of coolness to northern Mesopotamia, and when Sulieman was in and around Baghdad, this was his favorite time of year. Yet, this year, there was no time for merriment.
The Romans had come.
The Sultan cursed himself once more. What a fool he’d been! Murad had warned him. Kilijc had warned him. Even Sulieman’s grandson Selim, barely past his sixteenth year, had warned him.
In July, of the Year the Christian’s reckoned as 1190, the Romams had come. A torrent, a raging river of soldiers the likes the Turks had not seen since the days of Demetrios Megas. 200,000 Romans stormed across the border – 50,000 into Armenia and Azeribijian, another 50,000 crossing into the Hejaz, threatening the holiest cities of Islam. Yet these immense forces weren’t what frightened him. Another 100,000 men, under the leadership of that brash, forceful son of Basil’s, lunged through Mosul, a dagger pointed at the heart of Sulieman’s empire.
Baghdad.
The Sultan looked grimly towards his second son Kilijc and sighed. The man had reason to be bitter. As the Emir of Mosul, he’d repeatedly tried to warn the Great Sultan over the past year the Romans were coming. It hadn’t been until three months before the Roman invasion that Sulieman had listened, leaving the Afghanistan campaign to Murad, and bringing 50,000 hardened veterans back to Baghdad in a gesture he’d intended to be a warning. Clearly, the Romans had ignored him. Yet, when Sulieman looked, he didn’t see an angry, vengeful son, only a focused warrior, one among many thousands gathered here this day.
“Bah, I have always hated Kirkuk,” Kilijc groaned swatting in the air. “Damn flies.”
“Once the dust comes up, they’ll be gone soon enough,” Sulieman said quietly. He kicked his horse slightly, and the brilliantly barded stallion whinnied. Gathered around the Sultan were his top commanders, the leaders of this hastily assembled force. They all had come to the same realization as Sulieman – battle was inevitable, and the low hills south of Kirkuk offered the best terrain for the mobile Turkish way of war.
All… except for one, however.
“I still say we should have pulled back, and taken refuge behind the walls of Baghdad!”
The Sultan turned to his youngest son Malik, and sighed yet again. Malik was barely twenty, and filled with all the exuberance and excitability of youth. Unlike his older brother Murad, however, Malik was also filled with the caution of a man twice his age. Sulieman didn’t discourage this – sometimes caution was better than vim and vigor.
But not this day.
“If we’d withdrawn to Baghdad we would have ceded to the Romans the northern Tigris and Euphrates Valleys,” Sulieman said simply. His horse stirred under him, and the Sultan gently patted the animal on the neck. “He’d camp beneath our walls, and get fat from the plunder of the land while we discovered new ways that rats could feed a city of a quarter million.”
No… they couldn’t hide behind the walls of Baghdad. The city’s private forces could man those walls – except to a determined foe, they were nigh invincible. Sulieman knew marching his army into the walls would simply mean another 30,000 mouths for the city to feed. No, it was better to bloody the Romans here, and make them incapable of laying a siege.
“The Romans are deploying, Majesty,” Kilijc whispered. Sulieman looked up, and watched. The formation was formidable, but not particularly brilliant. The Romans were deploying their infantry in a long, massive line and no doubt a formidable reserve of cavalry. If Sulieman’s chief scout Tukhabeg’s count of the banners was right, the Sultan faced over twice his number, nearly 70,000 Romans.
Sulieman had tried to react as best he could against the onslaught – he’d spread his forces with specific instructions to skirmish, but not engage, hoping to lure the Romans into thinking his armies were more numerous than their true, pitiful numbers. 10,000 troops under his fourth son Ackbar had rode north to harry the Roman Vataczes in Azeribijian. Another 10,000 had rode west, to threaten to flank the Emperor’s enormous army. Yet Thomas had only detached 30,000 to watch this force, while the backbone of his army continued forward…
The Fourth Seljuk War. Imperial armies streamed across the Seljuk border, while Sultan Sulieman had only 50,000 men from his standing army ready to defend himself. Local emirs and their forces were defeated at Petra, Mosul, and in Armenia, often with heavy losses. Sultan Sulieman found himself defending the Fertile Crescent itself with only his forces, and finally made a stand south of the city of Kirkuk.
…here. To this place. This day.
Sulieman looked at the immense, hazy dustcloud, and coughed. Today, of all days, he felt every second of his 63 years weighing on him.
He’d genuinely wept when Basil Komnenos had passed on. For so great a man, the consummate warrior and caretaker of his fellow humans to pass at such a young age was a tragedy of the grandest scale. For him to leave his mighty empire in the hands of one like Thomas was folly greater than that of any previous ruler.
And yet this folly of a man had managed to seize Mosul and Azeribijian in the space of five weeks, and was already thundering into the heart of the Turkish Empire west of the Zagros Mountains.
“I was too slow,” Sulieman whispered to himself.
“Father?”
Sulieman watched the worry in Malik’s eyes, and put on a smile for his youngest son.
“Nothing but the ramblings of an old man,” Sulieman added gently. “Malik, what can you tell me about the Roman formation?” Better to get his youngest son and commander of his light cavalry to not think about his father’s age or frailty, and more towards the task at hand.
“Um… they’ve deployed their heavy infantry in the middle, cavalry to the rear,” the Emir of Luristan muttered. “The Roman has options. He could either weaken us with his infantry, then launch a cavalry charge against our tattered lines, he could let his cavalry fly to the wings and flank us…”
“And he has superior numbers,” Sulieman said with a slight smile of irony. ‘Superior numbers’ was an understatement. “He will think that he can dictate the battle using his superior numbers and front. We must not let him do that. We must take the initiative, and harass and annoy him. Since he believes his numbers should decide the battle, he will do something rash. Horse archers will fly to the wings,” Sulieman said simply.
“But father, that will leave you unprotected!”
“Horse archers will fly to the wings,” Sulieman turned slowly and looked at Malik. The young man’s eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. “I know that will leave me and the
ghulams uncovered,” the Sultan said calmly, quietly, “that is the point.” Sulieman looked off towards the massive Roman army, banners fluttering in the wind. It was a terrifying sight. “That Thomas,” the Sultan pointed towards the enormous purple silk banner at the head of a large array of particularly fearsome looking mailed cavalry, “is rash. He’ll see me. He’ll come to me, straight at me, without using his superior numbers to try to flank our lines. Then, Malik,” the Sultan turned back to his son and smiled.
“Oh,” Malik whispered, a smile coming to his face, before he slapped a clenched fist against his palm. Sulieman smiled slightly – Malik understood the plan. The boy had always been quick to catch on to his father’s strategems.
“Yes,” Sulieman’s smile grew wide. He looked up, into the clear blue sky above. So the Romans were ignoring the prophecy. A cool wind kissed the Sultan’s face. He had prayed to Allah when he’d heard of the Roman incursion, and he’d been consoled. Neither he, nor his sons, would live to see the scourge of the East arrive in the Turkish lands. Sulieman knew the role God had intended for him, finally – hold the Romans here, now, today.
“Kilijc!” he barked with the voice of command the Turks had known for almost forty years, “I want the infantry deployed behind my
ghulams, spears to the front, archers behind! When you see my men raise those banners,” the pointed to the orange, silken strands fluttering at the sides of his standard bearers, “they’ll charge forward, at the Roman cavalry!”
“Yes Majesty!” Kilijc bowed, a broad smile on his face.
Sulieman, called the Lion, grinned back at his subordinates. They might not be able to defeat the Roman army, but they could kill enough Roman soldiers that Baghdad could not be besieged. Allah had appointed every man’s time to die. If it was to be today, Sulieman reasoned, he would take as many Romans with him as he could. Let the Emperor Thomas charge valiantly, and watch as his men were butchered valiantly around him. Sulieman had only a quarter of the Turkish army… as long as Murad still held the bulk, there would always be the Turk, ready to resist the Roman, or the evil from the east…
Sulieman jerked his horse around, and waved his hand. “Off with you!”
An hour later, the Sultan found himself alone, in a sea of his
ghulams, clad in brilliant silk tunics and chainmail. The distant drums of the Roman army grew louder and louder, and the Sultan watched as the vaunted Turkish light horse galloped to the flanks, and began to harass the Roman lines.
Sulieman had spent several days in Baghdad reviewing all the reports from the frontiers soon after the Romans had commenced their invasion. While the Turks had not been able to hold the frontiers, all the news had not been of gloom and doom. Apparently, the Romans had problems of their own. The Sultan wasn’t quite familiar how the Roman
theme system worked, but he knew since the days of his youth, each province had been charged to maintain its own army. Many of these provincials had not seen combat since Sulieman invaded the Roman Empire all those years before – and it showed.
Outside of Mosul, while Kilijc had lost the city, his horse archers had charged a line of these
thematakoi from some place named Ikonion, and the Roman foot had fled. It’d only been the intervention of the Roman cavalry, most of it from the Roman Imperial Guard, that had overwhelmed the Emir’s army. Sulieman’s spies had done the best they could, and it appeared the majority of the infantry in the vast host before him were of this
thematakoi type. They were the fluff, not the core, of this Roman army.
Even as the Sultan watched, the Turkish archery was already doing its job. The Roman advance slowed, then stuttered. He could see individual Roman banners halting, sheltering behind improvised shield walls instead of resolutely pressing forward and driving off the horse archers. Roman bow fire was sporadic at best, too little to discourage Malik’s horsemen. It was like watching a great, sickly elephant stumble about in a stupor.
The Roman lines shuddered for several minutes, as the horse archers fanned further and further to the flanks, causing chaos and disruption. Sulieman knew what was happening – the rash Emperor’s impatience was building. If Thomas had been his father, Sulieman had no illusions. Basil would have found some way to get the whole Roman army moving again. Yet this boy, this impatient, stubborn boy, would do something far riskier.
Someone shouted. There went the Roman cavalry!
The center of the Roman infantry shifted, and from the sea of spears and shields erupted a torrent of horsemen, their mail blinding in the morning light. At the trot, they slowly poured out, a massive sledgehammer, aimed directly at the center of the Turkish lines. Thomas wanted to end things, here and now, and even as his archers nipped and pecked at the Roman lines, the Sultan stood before them, offering his throat, tempting the Romans to make just this mistake.
Sulieman steeled himself. The nervousness amongst the
ghulams was palpable, as the enormous mass of metal, horse and men formed before their eyes, intent on their destruction. Slowly the Roman horse formed itself into a series of massive wedges. The center was led by a man clad in an immense purple cloak, brilliant golden mail, with an enormous banner of Jesus, made of purple silk and gold, hanging above his head. The banner tilted forward, the immense icon’s eyes looking directly at Sulieman, as if peering questioningly into his soul.
“My soul is fine, Insha’allah, I shall soon be in Paradise,” Sulieman said to no one in particular. The old Sultan breathed in and out as Roman cavalry broke into a gallop. The Sultan smiled –they were still quite a ways out, their horses would be worn by the time the heavy cavalry finally hit the Turkish lines. Sulieman looked to the Roman flanks – there were the horse archers, pecking at the sides of the Roman horse, nibbling, squeezing them further and further towards the center as they rocketed forward. Sulieman smiled – Malik knew his role. The Roman cavalry crowded closer and closer, away from a broad assault to a concentrated strike directly at the Sultan…
“
Ghulams!” the Sultan shouted, cantering down the front of his line as the air began to fill with the thunder of ten thousand horses. “Do not be afraid! For it is written, those that die in the service of Allah, protecting his people, shall surely go to Paradise! Many of you have ridden with me from the plains of Afghanistan, to the Amu Darriya, to deep into Anatolia! My brothers! I ask you to ride with me, one last time! Allāhu Akbar!”
“Allāhu Akbar!” Sulieman frowned. The cry was general, but he could hear tentative voices. As if to encourage them, the banshee wail of thousands of voices screaming their battlecries split through the thunder of hooves.
“Allāhu Akbar!” Sulieman stood in his stirrups, shouting as loud as he could. This time, the
ghulams roared their reply. Their blood was up. Death might be imminent, but such was when brave men came to the fore.
The Sultan turned his horse to face the enemy, and watched as the Roman horse clustered more and more, the point of the entire assault slowly aiming at him, at this one point, that golden mailed man in the lead. Sulieman counted down the distance… 200 yards… 150 yards… 100 yards… 50 yards…
The Sultan turned to his bannerman, and nodded. As the orange banner, covered in calligraphy praising God fluttered high in the sky, the Sultan drew his blade, and dug his spurs into his horse. Now the Turks belted their own battlecry, and he felt the ground shake under his horse as the Turkish infantry and the
ghulams charged – fresh men and mounts meeting the already tiring Roman horse.
In the last seconds before the Roman Emperor’s deadly lance lowered, aimed at his throat, Sulieman thought he could see the man’s eyes, hidden between a helmet and golden mail. He’d seen the eyes of true Romans before – sometimes calm, sometimes angry, sometimes calculating. But as he saw the Turkish horse wheel in the corner of his eyes, bearing down on the rear of the Roman cavalry, Sulieman saw something else in the eyes of this Roman.
Fear.
As the Emperor thrust his lance forward, the Sultan slid a little to the left in his saddle, letting the spearpoint pass cleanly to his right. Sulieman knew he might die this day – but he would not die at the hands of
this Emperor! With all his might he swung…
…and the battle began in earnest.
The Battle of Kirkuk. Seljuk horse archers (light green) harassed the flanks of the numerous Roman thematakoi, causing their advance to break down. Impatiently, Emperor Thomas launched the Imperial cavalry of the Hetaratoi, Athanatakoi and Scholarae tagmata in a charge at the apparently weakened Turkish center. Turkish infantry swarmed in and around the flanks of the Roman charge, and as the thematakoi huddled, unable to move, the Turkish light horse swarmed into the rear of the now isolated Emperor and his cavalry…
