Free Web NovelChapter 733: The Battle of Nikomedia
"What are they doing? Why..." Helios bellowed in rage — but before he could act, the guards seized him, dragging him down from the walls and shoving him onto a waiting mount.
"Go, General!" they roared. "We still need you! This is the only chance — this is the only mount we have!"
Helios paused — listening to the cries of battle rising from outside the walls. He looked at his five faithful guards, their faces resolute.
With a heavy sigh, he bowed his head in respect — then turned and rode out through another gate, galloping towards Nikomedia.
Twenty minutes later, the battered banners of the Roman Empire — already torn to shreds by countless arrows — toppled from the fortress walls. They fell to the blood-soaked earth.
And from the ruins, wild cheers of victory erupted — Turkish battle cries filling the air.
No one else ever returned to Nikomedia.
...
This was a full-scale war between the two dominant powers — stretching from the northern front to the southern seas. A front line spanning hundreds of miles. No one would be spared.
It was not only the common folk who sacrificed in this war — but also the overlords.
Helios’ second son had fallen while evacuating the citizens of Ephesus to the garrison at Chios. Brave to the end, he chose to lead a small contingent of soldiers against some five hundred cavalry, buying just enough time for half the citizens to escape. But he paid the price — his head was severed and hoisted on a flagpole, a brutal gesture meant to break the Roman defenders’ will to resist.
No one could be spared.
All illusions of peace between the two empires had been shattered. The trust once forged through trade and diplomacy had crumbled to dust. A new generation — one untouched by the horrors of past wars — now grew up bathed in fresh blood and forged in resentment. Though there were rare scenes of compassion — Turks holding back comrades from unleashing violence on helpless civilians, sparing refugees out of mercy — they were mere flickers of light in an overwhelming storm of darkness.
The region of Nicaea stood as the Romans’ final foothold in Anatolia.
Even the Peninsula of Erdek — a territory that had withstood every siege for decades, ever since Emperor Antonius first secured it — had finally fallen.
Nikomedia had become a full-fledged fortress — designed and constructed by General Helios himself. It served as the vital headquarters linking Constantinople to Anatolia. Strategically nestled in a gulf region, the city’s southern flank opened to the Marmara Sea. Metal chains and fortified sea walls lined the coast, with armored artillery emplacements and patrolling naval ships standing guard, ensuring no enemy vessel could sail unchallenged into those waters.
To the east, the Hippodrome had been repurposed — transformed into a sprawling wartime barracks and field hospital, rallying troops and treating the wounded from across Nicaea.
To the north, three additional garrisons had been raised, interconnected by four barbicans. Towers were erected every hundred meters along the walls, each armed with artillery capable of launching stone shells, and ballistae that could strike targets over a hundred and fifty meters away. Within the city walls, even civilian homes had been torn down to make space for a line of massive trebuchets.
Yet not all hope was lost — for several nearby fortresses such as Koubalta, Leptola, and Arbella had not yet fallen. Their resistance prevented the Sultan from fully encircling Nikomedia, leaving a land corridor open between the city and the broader region of Nicaea. Though Turkish light cavalry launched raids and sabotage missions along this narrow passage, a lifeline still remained.
It could be said, if the Sultan truly wished to pluck this fortress from Roman hands — he would have to pay dearly. Not like the swift conquests of coastal cities that came before. No — this time, the price would be no less than ten thousand men.
The Sultan knew it as well as he stood upon the high, rugged terrain, carefully scrutinising the sprawling city below.
His two brothers, Ali Çelebi and Hamza Pasha, sat astride their steeds at his side.
"What is our plan here, brother?" asked Hamza Pasha, anxiety tinging his voice. "I still insist we first capture the nearby garrisons before besieging Izmit..."
The Sultan shook his head. "No — we have no time. According to the dispatches in this morning’s Roman newspapers, our so‑called infidel rebels have already been completely and utterly crushed. We can expect enemy reinforcements in just a few weeks."
The brothers’ expressions hardened, and Ali Çelebi flung his whip to the ground in fury. "I expected little aid from those rebels," he spat, "but I did not know they would truly and utterly collapse so swiftly this time..."
The three brothers fell back into heavy silence. frёewebnoѵēl.com
It had been only a short time since they returned to their old capital of Bursa, yet one critical factor threatened their entire campaign: they possessed no naval superiority whatsoever. Without control of the sea, their position could prove fatal. That was why they had to conclude the Anatolian war swiftly, then divide their forces among the three brothers as mobile units — ready to respond at the first sign of enemy landings on the coast, striking without hesitation, swiftly before the invaders could secure a proper foothold.
In other words, time was truly no longer on the Sultan’s side.
"Bring out the Rumelians!" the Sultan roared, raising his hand. Instantly, the banners and standards behind him snapped to attention, fluttering high above the assembled host. The army split into two great wings, while a column of foot soldiers — a fleet of infantry in tight ranks — marched forward to form a living wall before the main lines, as if awaiting some unseen signal. What emerged next froze every Roman defender on the ramparts: not armored cavalry, but ragged civilians — men, women, elders, even small children — clad in filthy, torn garments. Driven by shouts and whipped by their captors, they huddled together in a trembling mass. With each cruel crack of the lash, they were pushed forward, step by painful step. It was clear: the Sultan was using them as human shields, placing them before the massive siege engines now rolling from the Turkish encampments.
Despite the distance, every defender on the walls felt their breath catch and their hearts pound as they stared below. From ragged garments, hollow eyes, and fearful tremors, there could be no doubt: these were Romans — prisoners of war in Turkish hands.
Such cruelty was nothing new in the long course of history. Yet many of the defenders on these walls were second‑generation Anatolians — born and raised in these lands. They knew all too well that somewhere beneath those stones lay their own families and friends.
This was the very evil of war.
As Helios raised his arms with effort, every eye turned to him.
Behind those prisoners, the Turks rolled their massive siege engines out from the encampments.
"If only we had five hundred cavalry..." sighed the general’s lieutenant, his voice barely reaching Helios.
The entire army waited anxiously for the general’s command, though each soldier knew that Helios’s resolve was unshakable. This was a battlefield: any hint of mercy would doom every soul in the city — and all the remaining Roman strongholds in Anatolia — to the Turks’ blades. Yet in their hearts, not one man truly wished to loose arrows or hurl bombs at fellow humans — their own kinsmen, their friends, their families — even if the general’s iron will demanded it — though their battered hearts beat with sorrow.
The archers watched, gulping, as Helios kept his hand raised, eyes fixed on the prisoners inching ever closer to the walls. The defenders could almost read their faces—tears streaking down sorrowful cheeks, each step a march toward the grave.
Then, without the general’s command, the Gate of Cappadocia—next to the Hippodrome—swung wide. Four hundred soldiers poured forth, led by their veteran battalion commander. Helios had known the man for nearly twenty years: a hardened warrior who had followed him into countless battles.
The mission was nearly suicidal.
Helios rang the retreat bells, but those four hundred stood firm, ignoring his orders as the Turks closed in. Before the enemy could charge, the battalion commander struck from the flank, catching the ill‑prepared Turks by surprise. His armored troops smashed into them, driving the light horsemen into a panicked retreat—and cleared a path for nearly six hundred civilians to surge through the gate. The Romans formed a protective screen, shepherding the refugees inside, but panic and poor coordination turned the gateway into a deadly bottleneck, threatening a stampede.
The Turks answered with furious war cries, unleashing fresh cavalry to punish the Romans. The situation grew dire. Helios clenched his fist and bellowed, "Archers! Muster on the south ramparts! Loose every bolt in your quivers to halt those barbarians! Artillery—ready your aim!"
Instantly, archers and crossbowmen lined the walls, releasing a deadly storm of arrows and bolts. Dozens of Turks fell, pinned to the ground. Their cavalry commander, seeing his men cut down at a distance, halted his horsemen just beyond arrow range.
The Sultan, witnessing the Roman defense, drew his scimitar, threw back his head, and roared to his ranks: "Brothers! By the grace of Allah, our foes have revealed their weakness through folly! Armored men, follow me! Seize that gate!" With that, he led the charge, banner aloft. A roar of approval swept through the Turkish lines as more soldiers surged forward, vowing this would be the moment they stormed Nikomedia.
