Chapter Two: The Battle of Athens
It was a glorious morning in Constantinople; only two weeks ago a tenth of the city's population had been caught up in a great march, and every person in the Queen of cities felt buoyed. Their lot was no better, and there was no more evidence of divine favour, or any change bar the sudden loss of husbands and sons – but still, the city was a happier place. In a public house, with a sign bearing upon it the Palaiologid eagle handing from a metal pole, two young girls and an older one, heavy with child, armed with rags and buckets, were set about washing wooden tables, upon which were empty glasses and stains from the previous evening.
Merchants came here, every night when the marketplaces were closed and nobody would buy anything – they would come here, and drink and be merry, and perhaps afterwards they would seek a whore and break the Lord's commandments, and in the morning they would resent their sin and seek the advice of a priest; all these things could happen after a night at the Eagle. Fortunes were made and lost in this place, and a small fortune was forming in the family vault in the Jewish quarter, where every month Ambrosius the Innkeeper paid his monies to a financier – his family had been plying their trade in the city since the reclamation of Constantinople by the Empire, pleasing merchants and keeping the breweries of Constantinople in business. Beer was a rarity in Thrace, with so much grain going to fill the bellies of the great city, but wine was quite a normal beverage, the water of the area.
The merchants who came to the Eagle sought something different, and the beers here had gained an excellent reputation, being imported from the north, from the Bulgars and the Hungarians, their strange goods finding a special niche in the warm bellies of the burghers. Doubtless the Patriarch had all sorts of reservations, and while the Arsenoi family were devout Orthodox Christians, they also had long known the problems of balancing the saving of one's soul with the worldly limits of gold and silver; the family was bound by the rules of the Stavratoi – it was silver that commanded the lives of men in this world, and it was only through the use of that silver in a good way that the Arsenoi could become saints in the next.
The heir of the Arsenoi, a boy of only fifteen years of age, Leon, was not to be found in the Eagle. He was outside Constantinople, as far away as almost any Roman had been from the city in decades, a smile on his face and his breeches below his knees completely covered in mud. Strapped to his back were an innumerable number of spears, and he currently was watching one of the lochoi* show the volunteers how to fight with a spear. His voice was that of a Bulgarian, yet he was fighting for the Roman Empire – and Leon could not understand why. “Tight together, wait for your command – and thrust!” The trainees were not adept, but their thrust came at once, and despite a lack of unity of timing, the wall of spears that came forward was indeed threatening.
“Shit!” barked the Iochos, in his leather armour and pointed helmet, a cone reaching up to the skies like a church dome. He had a trimmed beard which, the rumours had already told him, he kept in place with a sword-edge. He had a name for harshness and invulnerability, and while none of the soldiers knew his name, they knew his moniker – 'Mastiga', the Scourge. Certainly, he was the scourge of the men beneath him – he drove them hard, and more than once his volunteers had collapsed. Mastiga always insisted that his men marched at the vanguard, much to the chagrin of the noble soldiers – the cavalry were always at the lead, but Mastiga's men were invariably just behind them.
“March! March!” A rider stormed along the path, blowing a horn and calling out, “March!” He rode off toward the horizon and the rearguard, and Mastiga's harsh voice quickly blew out.
“Move, you scum! Form column!” The men, weary and groaning, picked up their things and formed a column, four men wide and ten deep, along the paved road, and began to march. Elsewhere, the clang of metals and weapons filled the air as the eighteen thousand men began their march again. Under the weight of all these spears strapped to his back, a shield on his left arm, the short figure of Leon Arsenios creaked beneath all the weight. His legs were dead with weight, but the constant rhythm of footsteps, the sound of feet swinging as one kept him going, impelled the young blond boy to keep going, to fight past the groaning pain in his legs and the growing pangs in his belly which threatened to throw him to the floor. His pride, too, kept him going on, staring upwards toward the man in front of him, marching, daring the back he saw to stop. He loved his Emperor and his God, and the thoughts of bravery and honour that had sustained him as he left Constantinople maintained him now; the thought of slaying the Turk, winning a crusade and going to Jerusalem, a pilgrimage to see the Garden and the Hills, those holy places he had heard of in stories and in church.
The sweat from his brow dripped onto the floor before him, his head steady and still, bobbing up and down as his feet landed upon the earth beneath him. Marching behind the old guard, with their fine scaled armour and swords, their kite shields and their old banners flying proudly above their heads, casting a shadow over their helmets. Their drums pumped an old tune that Leon did not know, and when they began to sing the songs of old, he did not know the words, but the rush of blood to his head, the strengthened pumping of his heart, and the increased desire to go forth and crush all those who angered his Basileus grew, forcing him onwards.
An hour passed like this. Blisters were beginning to form in his boots, and his legs were utterly dead, his spine surely cracked into a thousand pieces by the weight he bore, but the shouts of the Iochos and the pride filling Leon would not let him stop for even a moment. Another hour passed, and then it was noon. Helios in the sky was indeed a harsh taskmaster, and the only break in the monotony was the sudden appearance of a rider, storming down the columns, occasionally striking a banner with his sword's flat side. Mastiga's banner felt the harsh click, and he called out to his men. “To the left! Off the road!” The men turned ninety degrees and jogged, the column behind them catching up to fill the gap. Four similar detachments formed further along the line, and after the passage of a few moments, the rider returned, a thin figure with a grey cloak around his neck and a dun stallion between his thighs, chomping at the bit.
“You men are to go west, and attack a group of Turks we have spotted approaching the main column. They are approaching a village to the west – take the village, slay the turks, take whatever you deem useful for the Basileus and his army, and then rejoin the line.” Without another word, the thin soldier kicked his horse and sped away towards the cavalry at the head of the line. Leon undid the straps holding the spears to his back and handed them around, and took his place in the two-hundred strong force moving towards a copse of trees, beyond which was a village and, presumably, those Turks. How proud Father would be, thought Leon, when he returned holding the head of a Turk and laden with gold they had stolen from the peoples they oppressed in their heathen's empire.
The City of Constantinople
In the Hagia Sophia, inside Constantinople, heads were bowed in prayer. The church, normally empty during the week, was now full of mothers, sisters, daughters, aunts and neices, all praying for sons and fathers, fighting so very far away now. Only the Lord could protect them now, outside of the walls of Constantinople which had protected them for so very long – it had become hard to imagine soldiers leaving the City, and the collection plates were completely full, stavratoi overflowing onto the floor. It was hard to imagine that such wealth remained in the city, and as the Patriarch lead prayers, the terrible suspicion that they might not come back. A full tenth of the population of Constantinople – for all intents, the population of the Empire – was gone, and now the streets seemed emptier.
This newfound peace was disquieting. This was the largest, grandest city in the world, and the absence of any shouting or the normal hustle-bustle made it feel like a dream, a dream that nobody could wake from; certainly not the Despotes of Morea, Theodore I Palaiologos. He was the younger brother of the Emperor, and was engaging in a military campaign of his own. The Knights of St.John had returned Mystras and Corinth, returning to their island, and he was not one to simply allow the adventures of his elder brother to stop his own ambitions. Theodore was happy with his own lot, unenvious of Manuel as Andronikos had been, but he was a Palaiologos, and their motto was, after all,
Basileus Basileon Basileuon Basileuonton – Kings of Kings, Ruling over Rulers.
The Latins, to the north, in Athens, had always been troublesome, but now, Theodore had an army that he could defeat them with. Stood on his horse in a hill at the Isthmus of Corinth, he stared down at the camp behind the broken Hexamilion – Albanian shepherds turned skirmishers, good honest greeks vested in armour, with the swords and shields of old, and the nobles and merchants who had bought horses forming his cavalry. His force was modest, only four thousand men and two hundred horse, and it was a mere fraction of the forces that his elder brother Manuel could call upon, but it was more than enough to slay the Latins, cooped up in Athens like rats.
The Albanians who Theodore had invited to the Morea now formed a quarter of his troops, armed with long javelins and little armour; these hardy hillmen would form his skirmishers, to bring down and ambush the Latins – they would be the first to be bloodied, and would have the honours of choosing which lands they would take for their farms first. Gold and silver might have been strong influences in the past, but Theodore was a fundamentally honest man, and he would have none of that corruption as in the old days of the Empire. When the Latins and the Turks were destroyed, then there would be time for lies and dishonesty, but until then the ageing statesman would act as he deemed fit, free of the limitations of the demands of merchants. The Venetians, handy as they were in bringing trade to the region, were not Basileus, and he would not bow to their demands.
One such demand might have been to prevent the death of their Catholic cousins beyond the Hexamilion, and this was another demand that Theodore would have ignored. The advice of Herakles, his
Strategos and friend directed the troops, and Theodore was man enough to admit that he was no great militarist. His beard was grey with age, the hair beneath his helmet gone and his eyes flecked with the drag of time and the years, but below him, on foot, was a muscle-bound young man, only thirty years of age, keen of mind and body, a guard and friend any man would be proud of. He would be a fine
Strategos both for his remaining years, and for whoever Manuel appointed to be his successor.
“Go, Herakles. Bring down the castle of the Latins, and deliver me the city.” Herakles nodded.
“Gladly, Despotes.” He turned to his master, gave a salute, and walked down into the valley below, down the hills with his lieutenants to lead his men away. Theodore sat on Megas, his black gelding peaceful beneath him. The sun beamed like his satisfied smile as the men packed up their camp, and began the march to Athens. Within a week, he was sure, Athens would be theirs.
Herakles himself was not availed of such fanciful notions. He had no intention of tiring his troops and sapping their morale with a forced march, so it took a week for the column to arrive near Athens. The walls were almost totally crumbled away, and no force had attempted to interdict the soldiers as they approached; surrounding the city was not his goal – he needed to draw out the Latins, fight them, and claim a victory. His knowledge of these people was extensive, and sitting in his tent near the city, in the camp that now formed a town by the city, in the shadow of the city walls, he sat, pondering the situation. Surrounded by folding furniture and encased by the shadow cast by the white canvas over his head, his mind turned to the task of luring the Athenians out of their hole – into the open ground outside the city where his men could destroy them piecemeal.
The Walls of Athens. By 1403, they were very worn, and almost no deterrent to the Roman armies.
It took two nights for the idea to come to him, after the second emissary from the city came to him, asking him to leave. He was dressed in traditional italian finery, great blue breeches and a fine white tunic, a fur-lined cap and a seal of the city in silver tied to his breast. “Go and tell your master,” said Herakles, “That I call upon him as a nobleman and a man of honour to fight me fairly. I will let him show this final courage and die like a man, and his city will not be harmed. If he does not marshal his forces by dawn, a siege shall begin, and every person in the city will suffer, and it will be all his doing.” He threw a solidus at the messenger, who caught it swiftly, with dexterity that seemed ill-fitting for his profession.
He rested calmly, that night, as ever, inside the tent, in his armour. When the cocks cawed and the morning sun pierced the thin canvas, he staggered out of the flap which served as a door, and looked out toward the city. In the dim light, he saw the gates of the city open, and the men of Athens prepare to defend their home. By the end of the day, resolved Herakles, it would belong to the Basileus. The bugles rung out, and the men roused themselves from the mists of Morpheus, and armed themselves for the coming battle.
As the companies formed squares and rectangles at the top of the hills, the very lip of the city boundaries, a rider from the army before them came forward, his horse stamping over the grass and kicking loam in it's wake. A nobleman, clad in armour, with his lance held high rode up to Herakles, dropped a solid gauntlet at his feet, and with a clang he was off, back to his own lines. “The gauntlet, it seems, has been thrown.” The strategos bent onto his knee, lifted the gauntlet, and placed it on a folding table within his tent, before stepping back outside and taking his position at the front of his troops.
It was an old tradition, to give a rousing speech before a battle, and today was no exception. Turning back to his men, albanian skirmishers in the front, greek and french troops at the rear with a small corps of cavalry, Herakles spoke. “Men of Rome! Before you lie the Latins! These are the men who stole Constantinople! These are the men who robbed her glory and stole her wealth! These are the destroyers of dreams!” His rhetoric even began to stir pride within himself, anger, the desire to kill the invaders – but a moment of rest dispelled such emotion. He was strategos, and needed to retain a cool head at all costs. “Some of you are not Romans. Some of you are sent to us from our friends in the West – I say to you, are you men of honour? Will you prove your chivalry today, or cower and fail? You may, but not I!” He raised his sword above his head, and the troops followed in kind.
“Skirmishers, advance!” The iochoi in the ranks ordered the loose formations of skirmishers forward, and they began to march towards the enemy, their javelins ready. At the flanks, two groups broke off, while the central unit came closer, closer, stopping only when they were able to see the very whites of their foe's eyes. Their arms drew back, clutching the shaft of their weapons. The shields of the franks locked together in a wall. There was a swing, and a thousand shadows casted over the field by the flurry of shafts. There was a thunk of the metal piercing shields, a scream or two, and then another flurry. The sky was filled with heavy javelins for the best part of a minute, before the poorly-armoured men began to approach, closer to the line, ever closer – they broke!
The first two ranks of the formation broke, rushing forwards with swords held aloft, frothing at the mouth. Already twenty men were dead from these skirmishers, these armourless, honourless Albanians, their rage commanded them forward; in their fine armour with their tall shields, they would surely slay these barbarians who threatened their home, for God was on their side. As they pursued the fleeing foreigners, the cheers of their fellows sent them onward, chasing the cowards, up to the lip of the hill; they turned and prepared to face their foe, shortswords drawn. They broke ranks, running at the soldiers in a disorderly mob, great space between each soldier. It would be a massacre, they thought.
Then the flank units arrived. As the soldiers began to hack at the poorly-armoured shepherds, running circles around them, the soldiers from the sides of the field surrounded them. One landed a blow on a shepherd, his sword cutting through his gut; turning to face a new foe, a sudden pain crippled his back and he fell to his knees, pushed down. As he fell, he turned to see the unshaven shepherd's cruel smile before the sword crushed his skull and Aaron of Aragon went to his Lord. It did not take long; they were outnumbered and surrounded, and the shepherds eager for the lands Theodore had promised them.
Enraged at the loss of their companions, the marshal of the Athenians raised his sword and ordered the advance. Eating up ground with their march, the skirmishers melted away before their charge, the solid infantry of the Romans locking shields and presenting their weapons. Their bright, purple shields overlapped and as the weight of a thousand angry Franks came crashing down upon it, it held. The men absorbed the shock, they pushed back, and they presented their line to the Franks, fighting from behind their shields like the legionaries of the Caesars. Their long swords formed a prickly, impenetrable porcupine, sword points against the fine armours of the Latins.
Michael Mousoulmanos , one of the men fortunate enough to be in that first rank, an Iochos, was glad to be in his place. His shaven head and bearded chin felt the weight of his helmet as he grimaced, spitting and howling at the Latins before him in their almost demonic helmets, enclosing the entire face. Clutching his sword in his right hand tightly, he shoved and pushed at the foe in their chainmail and tunics, his shield and strength outweighing that of his opponent by no small margin; this strength came from Allah, the Almighty and Merciful, and to slay these infidels was no small blessing. The Muslim was not, perhaps, the first candidate to fight in the armies of the Greeks, but the reasons were complicated and did not matter now; what mattered now was the Christian before him.
He swung his sword, and Michael saw his chance. He pressed his shield upwards against the blow, knocking the crusader off-balance – he staggered backward, and Michael followed through with his sword, ramming it through the belly of the soldier, the edge of his sword cutting through chainmail and eviscerating his insides. Stepping back into line, roaring, he dared the crusaders to come at him again – and he was obliged. There was no shortage of these ignorant, unwashed fiends to kill; they would all be sent to and tried before Allah, who would surely find them unworthy and dispatch them to Jahannam, where they belonged after their behaviour upon the earth.
His sword-arm tired, yet the horde did not stop and the Christians did not break. Four, five, six men fell to his blade and yet they came. Seven died, and yet they came, his face covered with blood and his beard matted with the filth. At this rate there would be no time for Salah, and even though he was covered in scratches and wounds, and his left shoulder bled, Michael refused to stop even for a moment – for if he did, he would be dead. Even when the more cowardly began to flee he did not stop. When the group encircled them entirely, he did not stop; blocking one blow with his sword, he cut horizontally with his weapon – the crusader skipped backward only to catch another blow from another soldier. The battle was over; all that was left was to butcher the final survivors.
The Albanians had a good night, that time. They got a rich haul, being able to search bodies while the infantry were still fighting, and the cavalry who had never seen the fight were able to share, cutting down fleeing troops and stealing from their bodies. That night, celebrating in the central plaza of Athens, flying tall flags from new, shining buildings in their new city, Herakles gave an order, standing atop a barrel of wine that was nearly empty from the drunken revelry of the victorious soldiers. “Men of Rome! We have won this day!” There was a great cheer, a mirror to the silent terror of those civilians within the city, fearful for what they suspected would come; revenge for Constantinople. Revenge for the two hundred dead Romans on the field of battle. “But we must celebrate like civilized folk, not Turk savages!” There was a cheer, for all present hated the Turk and his filthy, heretic religion. “There will be no looting, no rape, no pillage! We will send for learned men from Mystras, and Constantinople, and Thessalonika, to assess the wealth of Athens, and then we shall all gain our reward. Until then, you have my word that any man who wishes a farm or a house in this city will get it – if not from the scholars then from my own purse!” There was another cheer, and a chant began, a chant that had not been heard in the Empire for many, many years.
“Megas Strategos! Megas Strategos!” Great leader.
Athens belonged to the Empire, as did the Peleponese – and it was Herakles who had delivered it unto them.
Megas Strategos indeed, he thought, with his mind turning to the reward he might expect.
Nay.
The reward he would demand.
Next time: Really the Battle of Adrianople! Any comments or ideas for the future of Herakles, Manuel, Michael and the Empire are encouraged!
