Free Web NovelChapter 739: The Battle of Nikomedia (7)
The Turkish army, vast and relentless, encircled the Roman encampment almost threefold, creating a suffocating noose of steel and hooves. Wave after wave of the Sultan’s horsemen galloped forward in a deadly rhythm—rushing toward the wooden walls, then pulling into a graceful arc just before impact, loosing volleys of arrows mid-turn.
These weren’t just ordinary arrows—some were wrapped in oil-soaked cloth and sulfur, set alight before release. Each flaming arrow sailed over the walls with a hiss and a shriek, aiming not just to kill, but to sow terror and ignite chaos. The Roman outer defenses, hastily built and ill-prepared for a full-scale assault, offered little shelter. The rain of arrows pinned the defenders down, leaving them unable to even raise their heads.
Recognising the futility of holding the walls under such withering fire, Giovanni Junior ordered a full tactical withdrawal from the ramparts. Two infantry regiments were stationed behind the walls with drawn swords, ready to intercept any breach, but no longer exposed to the constant barrage.
By the next hour, two boats had already slipped out of the harbor. One sailed westward, bound for Adrianople to deliver urgent news to the Emperor. The other cut east across the water to Nikomedia, bearing a message for Helios—not to intervene, but simply to be informed of the peril unfolding.
In the span of just an hour, the Roman fortifications were already suffering. The wooden walls bristled with embedded arrows, and behind them, chaos reigned. Fires had broken out within the fireproof isolation zone, and the cries of wounded men filled the air. The outer barricades—crude wooden spikes and trenches hastily assembled—had been completely swept away.
Turkish casualties? Minimal.
"Seems like we’ve caught them unprepared, Your Majesty!" one of the nobles exclaimed with a grin. His eyes glittered as he surveyed the sprawling Roman encampment ahead, licking his lips at the thought of loot and captives. Other lords joined in, laughing and cheering, already dreaming of gold, slaves, and glory.
But not all shared the same confidence.
Ali Çelebi, the Sultan’s younger brother, approached with a furrowed brow. Leaning in close, he whispered, "Brother... don’t you find those outer walls a little... low?"
"Perhaps we arrived faster than they expected and caught them by surprise," the Sultan replied, his voice even. Yet his brows knit together slightly, betraying unease.
He fell silent for a moment, then gave the order. "There’s something strange here, yes—but my greater concern is the Rumelian reinforcements. We cannot afford delays. We’ve already failed to take Nikomedia."
And whose fault was that? Ali Çelebi muttered to himself, but dared not voice the thought aloud.
"You three!" the Sultan barked, turning to a trio of Pashas. "Take your own men and storm those walls. Now!"
The three commanders bowed without hesitation and galloped back to their ranks. Trumpets soon echoed through the woods, and the Turkish infantry surged forward under the cover of their cavalry—troopers wielding crude hooks and wooden ladders, charging across open ground. ƒгeewebnovёl.com
The Roman defenders, seeing the cavalry pull back and the endless barrage of arrows cease for the first time, finally found the chance to rise from cover. Archers scrambled into position and began returning fire.
But it was too late.
The Turkish foot soldiers advanced steadily, their shields held high, protected not only by their own formations but by the bodies of fallen comrades who had taken the brunt of the earlier volleys. Roman arrows rained down in waves, but they were scattered and increasingly sporadic. The rhythm of the defenders’ bows grew erratic. Some of the arrows barely had power behind them, thudding harmlessly into shields or the ground.
To the Turkish commanders watching from behind, it was clear, the Rumelian defenders were panicking.
As the Turkish lines surged with optimism, numerous pashas rode to the Sultan, their faces beaming with laughter.
"What a master stroke, Your Majesty! This is the most brilliant move that I have ever seen in my life!"
"Indeed! Striking before the Romans could fortify the camp properly—genius!"
"By the end of this war, we must erect a grand statue in your honour!"
But the Sultan remained unmoved, eyes fixed intently on the distant walls, his expression unreadable.
Then something peculiar happened.
The advancing soldiers—who moments ago seemed ready to breach the fortifications—began to halt. The tide of men approaching the walls no longer surged forward. The lines began to stall. In fact, it appeared as though the pioneers were vanishing into thin air.
"What is going on?" the Sultan snapped, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Go! Check on the walls—immediately!"
Moments later, a few riders darted toward the Roman camp.
Meanwhile, on the Roman side of the battlefield, chaos reigned—but not among the defenders.
It was among the invaders.
Back within the Roman lines, what had appeared to be a stalled advance was, in truth, something far more sinister.
"By the heavens..." Khalid muttered, eyes widening at the spectacle below. "What devilry is this..."
The truth of the Roman defenses was now laid bare: the so-called "outer wall" was no true fortification at all—it was a calculated deception. Built rapidly from earth and timber, the first barrier stood just over two meters high, simple enough to draw the eye and convince the enemy it was the main defense. But it served one purpose only—to block visibility, and to confuse the scouts running back and forth to the Turkish noblemen.
Hidden just beyond that, separated by a narrow no-man’s land, lay a second true wall—a fortified line with towers and archers hidden behind fire hardened hides. Between the two defenses, however, was the true deathtrap: a deep trench, nearly five meters down, dug with terrifying efficiency.
The pit stretched the full length of the supposed frontline, its edges steep and treacherous, curved inward deliberately to trap rather than allow escape. The bottom had been partially filled with sharpened stakes and loose rubble—intended not just to injure but to pin bodies in place, turning the dead into a grotesque cushion for those who would fall afterward. And fall they did—by the dozens.
The first wave of Turkish troops, running under a hail of arrows, had no idea what lay ahead. As they mounted the decoy slope, they expected to meet a wall—and instead plunged into empty air. The weight of their armor and the momentum of their charge gave them no time to stop. The second and third lines behind them had their heads down, shields raised against arrows, unaware of what awaited. They pushed forward, unaware that their comrades were already impaled or screaming at the bottom of a pit. The result was catastrophic: a stampede of men forced into their deaths by those behind them, like cattle into a gorge.
For those unlucky enough to survive the fall, panic followed. The trench walls, slicked with the crushed remains of fallen bodies and crumbling soil, were impossible to climb. Dozens writhed on top of each other, some impaled, others suffocating, as Roman archers fired with impunity from the second wall above. The pit had become a grave before the Sultan’s army could even touch the real defenses.
From a distance, it looked like the front line had simply stopped.
When the Sultan received word of the anomaly, he was stunned. Speechless. His face flushed, contorted between rage and disbelief.
"How could they possibly dig such a trench so fast?" he bellowed, his voice breaking with fury. His eyes landed on the Vizier responsible for reconnaissance. "Why did our scouts not report this? How?"
The Vizier—who had only minutes before been singing the Sultan’s praises—hurriedly dismounted and prostrated himself. "Your Majesty, I swear by the heavens! We only saw the first wall—they built it high to block our view of what lay beyond!"
But excuses fell on deaf ears.
The Sultan’s mustache twitched violently as he pointed a trembling finger. "Cut off this man’s head!"
Before the Vizier could plead, a Janissary unsheathed his blade and, with a single stroke, ended him. The head rolled to the dust as the Sultan turned back toward his commanders, seething.
"This war—this battle—is a gamble with our nation’s future!" he roared. "Many of you think it unnecessary... that as long as Rumelian coins keep filling your coffers, peace is worth the price. But I have warned you again and again: If we do not strike now, in fifty years we will be their subjects! Lose today—and we are already their subjects!"
He paused, his eyes burning. "Our language, our people, our sovereignty—everything depends on this war. I will not tolerate incompetence again. Do I make myself clear?!"
The nobles fell silent, swallowing their fear, and each one raised their hands to the sky in solemn oath. "Yes, Your Majesty. We swear to serve and obey."
The Sultan’s voice thundered one final command:
"Prepare the catapults. Launch relentless assaults. Bring me every siege weapon we have. From this moment onward, I care not for casualties. Crush Giovanni Giustiniani’s army at all costs. Do not stop until they are exterminated!"
