Part XI
The Roman Emperor Who Lost His Nose
A timeline of Justinian II - The Magnificent Rhinotmetos
Part XI: The Wrath of Hercules
"It was as if the Pagan gods were observing all of us and our efforts and thus determined we had blasphemed against them.", attributed to various sailors on both sides of the battle
710 - Late Summer Stratēgos* (Admiral) Alexander, the commander of Roman forces in Sicily read the message once again that he held in his hand, and then looked out into the bay where an invasion force was being readied with extreme haste. His orders came directly from the Emperor himself, and they were curt:
Take Septum and hold it. Interdict any seaborne enemy forces that try to interfere. Alexander was well equipped to do this. For some time now, supplies, men and vessels had been building up in preparation for a possible attack on Carthage and Tunis. Septum was a far less formidable target, and he felt he would need only a portion of those forces to accomplish the mission. This would mean that any operation against North Africa would have to be delayed until reinforcements arrived from Constantinople and elsewhere since the remaining forces, although considerable, might well not be quite enough to guarantee total victory.
Alexander intended to embark as soon as possible and carry out the Emperor’s orders. However, he had already ordered an advance force under Nicholas his
tourmarchēs* to leave immediately with the mission of sweeping the area around Septum and destroying any enemy ships found there. He had no intention of having his invasion fleet ambushed. The advance fleet had already left and would arrive on station soon.
(*Historical Note: when this term is used in a naval context, it can also mean Admiral. In Nicholas' case this term is more like a Rear Admiral.)
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In the Balearics, a flustered man made his way back to the docks. It turned out that Stephen was not here, and the messenger had little time to waste as he headed for a ship which had been arranged to take him to Spain as fast as possible. Getting that arranged had taken longer than expected, since no ships were actually heading there on this day. A lot of shouting and waving of the Emperor’s order in various people’s faces though had done the trick, and one captain had been found whose loyalty to the Emperor was either very solid, or his hopes for reward very high. Perhaps both. The reason mattered not for the messenger, as he just wished to make his way to Spain without wasting a minute. Wearily, and sweating profusely in the heat, he struggled through the people on the quayside to the ship that was waiting for him.
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A very long distance away in the lands of the Levant, yet another messenger made his way
from the dockside of Tyre intent on delivering his master’s message to the Caliph. He would have arrived considerably earlier had it not been for pirates on the route; however, he would soon take horse and make all haste to Damascus and would reach there quite soon. He wondered what sort of reaction the Caliph would give when he read the Emperor’s message.
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In Constantinople, some days later, early in the morning, Justinian was wasting no time either. Orders had been sent out and a fleet was being gathered to reinforce the one in Sicily, effectively doubling the forces there. The consultations with Tiberius and Heraclius had borne fruit, and Tiberius, being a former Admiral, had made plenty of useful suggestions regarding the expedition. Now, everything had been worked out to the last detail, and the Emperor would be embarking with them – Tiberius being his chief naval advisor and commander, and Heraclius being in charge of the land forces that would disembark for the invasion. Justinian planned to delay only long enough for a reply to reach him from the Caliph. Given that the passage of missives between the two empires was fairly rapid due to the speed of
dromons and the horse relay network, he did not expect to have to wait long.
Myakes marched down the quayside and cast a wary eye at the Emperor’s flagship. “Can’t say I relish going to sea again. The last time that happened, I got a good dunking.”.
Theophylactus looked at the ship and then back at Myakes, “Considering how you described that little fishing boat you were on, I’d say this is an improvement, but still, rather you than me. I don’t fare well off solid land.”. Emphasising the point, he stamped both his feet on the ground beneath him - somewhat smugly if Myakes’ envious expression was anything to go by.
“Well, the grub had better be good, that’s all.”, growled Myakes sourly as he made his way up the gangplank to inspect the Emperor’s accommodations on board, leaving Theophylactus and his retinue to greet Justinian as his arrival from the palace for the inspection of the assembled vessels was expected shortly. After this inspection some final arrangements and dispositions to be made back at the palace, and then embarkation and departure for Crete, where more vessels would be added to the fleet.
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Caliph Al-Walid raised his face from his palms as he thought back over the message he had just received, and then placed his head back in them. Only a few days before, he had received a message from Musa informing him of his decision to invade Iberia. All well and good, and a great opportunity for the Caliphate. However, he was less pleased about the defection of Julian, and the potential problems it could cause with the Romans. Hopefully, they would be too concerned with finding Julian and punishing him to spend much time directing their anger at the Caliphate, but still, he was sure the Emperor would not be pleased. However, the price of gaining Septum may be worth paying, and he could always say that Musa had moved without his approval – which of course was technically the case – and offer some form of compensation to the Romans. He had sent a missive back to Musa tacitly approving of the plan, yet advising caution regarding his dealings with Julian and to avoid direct fighting with the Romans if at all possible. He was certain the Visigoth had his own schemes at play, yet he would make a valuable ally for the time being. But now, by the Prophet, had arrived another message from the Emperor of the Romans! And to say it complicated matters was like saying boiling oil had been put into his private bath whilst he was
in it. And so he now took refuge in his palms.
The Caliph was a cultured man, one who loved his collection of books and manuscripts, who took great interests in the arts, and who took any and every opportunity to embellish and improve his cities with magnificent buildings. He had little use for war with the Romans, and had indeed been most pleased and grateful for Justinian’s gifts and generosity in sending craftsmen to help with the construction of his Great Mosque. Now, it looked like war was staring him in his face as Justinian’s indignant words seemed to fill the air of his library. The Caliph could of course send a missive to Musa ordering him to leave Septum, yet he thought it was at least worth making the offer of compensation in terms of gifts, money and even a parcel of territory to the Romans as a form of restitution since the prize of Iberia was something he did not wish to lose. And so a reply to the Lord of the Infidels had duly been sent offering these terms. Septum after all, would be a invaluable base to have. The Caliph just wasn’t quite sure if it was worth full scale war with the Romans, yet if he made the offer and Justinian accepted it, then he would have a prize more than worth the things he had offered to the Emperor. If there was war, then so be it. The armies of his ancestors had given the Romans plenty of bloody noses in the past, and he was certain they could do so again. With that in mind he sent a message off to Musa warning him of the Emperor’s knowledge of what had happened, and to arrange for reinforcements from Tunis, Tripoli and Alexandria at once, whose commanders Al-Walid also sent missives to. Sighing, the Caliph attempted to read one of his favourite manuscripts, yet troubled, his face fell into his hands again. He didn’t welcome the prospect of war much at all.
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Justinian paced the deck of his flagship as he inspected the crew and arrangements onboard, and thought back on recent events. Yes, he had been angry that day Captain John had brought him news of Julian’s betrayal. He knew that his forces would be closing in on Septum even as he awaited a reply from the Caliph. He was almost certain though that the Miscalled Commander of the Faithful would decline to leave and offer some form of compensation, but for appearances’ sake, Justinian could have at least claimed to have given him a chance to have his forces withdrawn from the outpost. Secretly, he had been hoping for a
casus belli so he could launch his North African operation. And he had one now. Of course, it was possible that the Caliph could back down and using his tremendously fast relay of riders and ships manage to get a message to Septum in time before the invasion fleet arrived. If that was the case, then the city would be handed peacefully back over to the Romans. However, it was equally possible that such a missive could warn the Arabs to be vigilant for a Roman attack. Justinian felt that by launching his ships towards Septum on the same day as he sent the Caliph his message meant that perhaps the Deniers of Christ wouldn’t have time to build up their forces. After all, a relay of fast messengers was one thing. There was no way reinforcements could move
that rapidly. And with an attack on Septum followed up by one on what remained of Carthage and the nearby city of Tunis, the False Prophet’s forces may be spread too thinly, and that would be enough to begin the reconquest of North Africa.
Having made note of some matters to be cleared up onboard and issuing instructions to address them, he rapidly returned to the palace to tidy up affairs for his upcoming absence there, and would wait no longer than necessary for any reply to arrive from the Caliph before heading his fleet off onto its great expedition.
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For his part Musa had finished gathering his ships and embarking his troops, and was ready to cross over to Iberia and reinforce Tariq and Julian. Yet even as he did so, events were about to become more complex for him as the twin forces of Romans and fate descended upon his part of the world. Not far off was the advance fleet of ships commanded by Nicholas who was following a course of due west, and as Musa weighed anchor and set sail from the Southern Pillar of Hercules, it was this fleet to his northeast which spotted the Arab fleet through the haze of the mid-morning sun.
Nicholas gazed out across the waves at the south western horizon. At first, only a few ships could be made out: just masts standing up like needles in a seam. Then as his ship drew closer, the masts rose higher showing they were attached to hulls, and more of the forms crawled up and over the horizon. Nicholas knew they weren’t Roman ships as he had been notified of no others in the area. They could be Visigothic, but the colour of the sails and the cursive writing of the Arabs which were upon them left him in no doubt, and before long a huge mass of ships filled his view.
“Look at that! We’ve caught them just as they are leaving. Looks like an invasion fleet. Turn us towards them. Merciful God, allow us victory and protect us this day!”. Yet even as he uttered those words he looked uneasily towards the heavens. Experienced sailor as he was, he could tell there was something not right about that wind. It had changed direction a few times today already, like something was stirring it up. Something told him bad weather was on the way. “Let’s get this done! Move to it men!”.
Lookouts on Musa’s ships spotted the Roman approach, and it was a somewhat surprised Musa who came up on deck and squinted towards them. “Surely Roderic cannot have so many ships of his own?”, he exclaimed in puzzlement, not aware that the Romans were yet involved in all this since he felt that the Emperor could not have time to prepare and send a fleet at such short notice assuming he had only just heard about things. Of course, he expected the Romans to show up at some point, but not now. Yet as he observed the ships move in closer to him, he had little remaining doubt. “Roman warships, by the Prophet! How they can be here so rapidly escapes me, but we shall deal with them!”. He could feel confident enough as his fleet outnumbered the Roman one by what seemed a comfortable enough margin.
And with that, the Arab fleet turned northeast to engage the Romans. Onboard the ships, soldiers strapped on their equipment earlier than expected as they prepared to repel boarders once the ships came close enough. Truth be told, the number of men on the ships was also considerably more than those embarked in Nicholas’ fleet. He, after all, was not shipping an invasion force. In fact, Musa had a host of 18,000 troops with him, plenty enough to help in the conquest of Iberia, and if the Romans were not careful, more than adequate to overwhelm the numbers on their ships should they be able to board. However, Nicholas was not about to let that happen. He looked down towards the prow of his ship where a group of his specialist
siphonaroi were gathered around a large bronze spout mounted on a pivot jutting at a moderate upwards angle over the bow. “Signal all ships. Ready the siphons and prepare the Liquid Fire.”. Feverish activity broke out across the fleet as those ships which carried the deadly weapon of Greek Fire prepared to unleash it.
Musa was no fool as he saw the Roman ships move in from the northeast and realised their intent. He knew that positioning his ships was especially critical given what awful weapon certain of their ships tended to carry. The wind was blowing from the northwest, and his crews were straining against their oars to cut off and pass ahead of the Romans, thus negating the wind advantage before the enemy could use the wind to make the best use of their terrible Fire. As it was, and despite his crews’ valiant efforts, part of the Roman fleet had already crossed his path and had now turned and was bearing down on his port side from the northwest. This meant the wind was behind them, and would help the Fire’s range, as well as prevent the Roman ships from suffering from their own weapon. Musa had managed to get slightly ahead of the other part though. As he watched the ships to the northwest, he could see small figures turning the mouths of the devilish weapons towards his ships. Although a courageous man, he felt dread spread from the pit of his stomach.
Nicholas had decided to split his forces into two parts mainly because he didn’t trust the wind. If it should turn, he wanted his ships in different positions to take advantage of it so that they could use the Fire to full effect. And he was worried: the waves had become rather choppier, the swell even greater and thus he was certain a storm was on its way. Nevertheless, as he watched, he saw his specialised
siphonophoroi ships to the northwest were opening up with their siphons.
And it was a sight to behold.
Great streams of incandescent death streaked like giant burning spears onto the nearest Arab ships setting them instantly aflame, and sending their crews and embarked troops, he hoped, to an overdue appointment with Hell. Small figures on the ships tried desperately to escape the conflagration, but even on the surface of the sea itself, the Fire burned, water only fuelling its deadly rage. Cheers rose from the decks of his ships, and one sailor yelled out, “Nothing like a good roast!”, which brought bellyfuls of laughter from many.
However, Nicholas did not join in, he was concentrating on the battle and he more than anyone knew what a fickle weapon the Fire could be. “The Lord help us if the wind changes and that Fire hits our own - ”, he said to one of his lieutenants standing next to him.
“Aye, ‘tis dangerous indeed.”, the man beside him answered interjection the remainder of his commander's sentence. The lieutenant’s weathered face bore a grim expression. He had been at sea and in enough battles to know that the Fire could and did easily burn its own ships due to the mores of nature. As long as the wind held, the Roman ships would use the Fire, but as soon as it turned, they would have to stop as it was just as likely to fall on their own ships in such circumstances. For now the breeze favoured the Romans, and the left flank of Musa’s fleet was suffering.
Glaring at the floating furnaces that had once been ships of his fleet, Musa let out a low growl. Foolishly, some of the soldiers on those ships had tried to put the conflagration out with water, which of course only caused it to spread and become worse. He couldn’t afford to lose these men here. Yet if his ships moved in closer to those Romans, they would receive even more intense tongues of flame. His only chance was to row to the north and attempt to overhaul them. Looking towards the east, he saw the other part of the Roman fleet keeping its distance, yet of course, seeking an opportunity to move in and take advantage of any mistakes he made. He did not need to worry about them so much. They were unlikely to attack and get burnt by their own ships until either the wind favoured them, or his fleet had been reduced enough and the other Romans ships stopped using their Fire so that they had fewer soldiers to face when it came to close quarters combat.
“Row faster. Row fast enough to amaze the Prophet!”, Musa exhorted his men with all his energy, and it paid off. Soon the Roman ships to his northwest were on his west, and using their Fire in the steadily increasing breeze was not practical. For his part, the commander of the Roman north-western force had struggled with the wind and current, and had not been able to maintain his position despite lowering his sails and relying upon his oars. Still, he had managed to eliminate a significant number of Musa’s ships from the fight, but it didn’t seem to be enough to even things out to the Romans’ advantage. The wind did not favour usage of fire from the eastern force either, and so both Roman forces moved in to engage the Arabs from both sides, their intent to ram and try to sink the Arab ships in this manner. Musa could not help the position he was in, but it was better than having that damn Fire rain down upon him. Now, he hoped to use his numbers to his advantage. “Now men, we will show them.
Allahu Akbar!”.
If he hoped to do so, it appeared God, or perhaps Hercules, who with his Pillars so close to this battle appeared to have more possession of it rather than Neptune, had other ideas. Within a very short time, Nicholas’ fears of a storm had borne fruit, and not just any storm either. As the sky suddenly darkened, the waves rose angrily and the wind turned into a gale, and each commander knew that battling the enemy was the least of their worries. They had to escape the storm or risk being sunk. “If the Followers of the False Prophet don’t get us, the storm will.”, he murmured under his breath as he gave orders to disengage and head for the African shore.
Musa has already engaged the western Roman force that had rammed its way into his flank. The Romans had succeeded in impaling some of his ships, and a number of their
dromons had managed to reverse, leaving several holed Arab vessels sinking. However, several ships were locked together, and Musa’s numbers were telling as his soldiers overwhelmed the Roman defenders and swarmed onto their decks whilst other warships hurled a variety of missiles at each other. Burning cloth-wrapped balls soaked in highly flammable liquid landed on decks setting them alight. Arrows also rained down upon the hapless crews from the archers carried aboard each vessel. Outnumbered, the Romans were losing the skirmish as the ships grappled with each other.
Somehow a Roman vessel had broken through the screen of ships surrounding Musa’s flagship and it bore down upon him. As he watched, he felt certain the ship would ram him, but a large wave deflected the vessel’s prow at the last moment, and it grazed along the side of his ship, the loud crack of snapping oars and screams of those trapped behind them who had not raised them in time ringing out from below the decks of both warships. Grappling hooks sailed over the bulwarks of the enemy vessel to land on his deck and then hook themselves into the flagship. Despite being outnumbered, he couldn’t help but acknowledge that the Romans were very brave. Shouting to his officers and men, a vicious hand-to-hand battle broke out, the Romans fighting with the desperate knowledge that there was no support coming for them. This made them even more dangerous and difficult to fight. Arrows were slicing through the air, and Musa was hit in the shoulder causing him to turn reflexively, almost losing his balance as yet another large wave rocked the ship. He was fortunate however, as the arrow whilst managing to pierce the lamellar armour he was wearing, had been halted by the thick layer of felt he wore below it, and his skin had been saved from injury. Regaining his balance and unsheathing his sword, he leapt down into the fighting taking place below him and started hacking at the nearest opponent, who went down with a terrifying scream as an Arab arrow shot in from nowhere and pierced his face through the cheek. Musa moved forward and cut down a couple of Roman soldiers before his troops managed to stem the tide and swarm over onto the deck of the infidels’ ship. There, their greater numbers soon put paid to the remaining Romans, some of who shed their armour and jumped over the side before they could be cut down by the Arabs. Setting further fires on the other ship, his troops jumped back over to their own vessel and hacked the grappling lines, freeing it. The other ship drifted off in the gloom, fires marking its form as the silhouette of the
dromon receded.
Musa’s sailors worked desperately to get his ship moving again, and fresh oarsmen replaced those who had been killed and maimed earlier. Spare oars were struck out, and even the soldiers threw down their weapons and joined the sailors straining at the oars. As the storm intensified, Musa’s main body broke off from the battle and struggled to the coast of Iberia which was not far off now, and which could be seen tantalising him and his crews through the gloom. It was imperative for Musa that he get enough of his ships over there before they were overwhelmed by the raging seas which rose and fell as if Hercules himself were flexing his muscles beneath them.
With the wind now coming solidly from the west, the western Roman fleet was blown into that part of Musa’s fleet that yet remained there and they were thrown violently about on the waves. Tossed high into the air and sucked into the troughs, it wasn’t long before one by one, they were claimed by the depths. Neither remnants of the fleet, save a few souls, would ever see land again as the hungry sea consumed them and their crews who were screaming in abject terror, calling for their mothers, praying to their God, or cursing Him for his rage. To the southeast, Nicholas was already running for the African shore. He would live to fight another day, as would most of his crews.
But what of the Arab commander? He was out in the murk, struggling to make landfall, and with a fair number of his ships already on the bottom, his chances were slim. Hercules had not yet had his fill for the day. Nicholas couldn’t help having the blasphemous thought that it almost felt as if the Pagan gods may be trying to exact some measure of revenge on both sides. However, despite wishing to defeat his enemy, Nicholas felt a pang of sadness for the enemy commander. For all sailors, the sea could be unforgivable and man’s common enemy should it choose to do so, and thus he could understand the fear that must be going through the Arab’s mind. Still, it was up to God now, and Nicholas was determined to bring what was left of his fleet to safety. He was fortunate. Before long he had made landfall and most of the ships of his eastern force escaped the storm, leaving him to lament those of the western force that never returned, although a handful of wretched survivors from both sides clinging to wreckage would be found scattered around the area following the storm. Their shivering forms would be picked up from the brine, yet for a few who had been so terrified as to lose their minds, rescue would offer little comfort or release.
In the meantime, the survivors hunkered down to weather out the storm.
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Elsewhere, far from the area of battle, Roderic was a very happy man. His Roman allies had indeed turned the battle near Toledo against the rebels and bought him the victory he so desperately needed. The cost of the Alliance was proving worth it. He had joined his men in a victory celebration that had seen the wine and women flow extremely freely. Osbert had been drunk enough to forget about the lingering pain of his arrow wound received in their first meeting with the rebels. Things were looking much better than they had been, but of course no one knew about Musa, or even the events in the sea.
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In the Roman camp, Stephen was busy writing a missive to be sent to the Emperor regarding the success of the Alliance in gaining their first victory. He had been particularly pleased that the Romans had not needed to risk too much in the battle, thus keeping casualties to the absolute minimum. They may need them later as they had no idea if the rebels could gain reinforcements. However, it seemed to be looking favourable for the Romans and their allies, and he was more than satisfied the terms he had negotiated with Roderic would secure the Empire’s presence here in Iberia – as things should be, he reminded himself. These lands had been lost for too long, and it was high time some of them were restored to the Romans he felt. He was sure the Emperor would be pleased and very generous to all those in the army here. George was certain to benefit, and Stephen, being one of the Emperor’s old comrades had assured him that as long as the rebels were fought into the sea, he could expect more reward than was normal for a successful general. He would see to it personally
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In another part of Iberia as he dined with Tariq, Tarif, and other senior commanders of the army, Julian considered his position and cursed his luck. Still, he had got things moving again as emissaries had been sent off to the court of Agila II. Perhaps some accommodation could be reached which would see the end of Roderic. After all, he knew that Agila had no love for what Julian regarded as upstart regicidal scum. He had managed to gather some more troops together too, but they were really waiting for Musa’s 18,000 reinforcements. The number concerned Julian somewhat. How to deal with them if they decided not to leave? That was another reason for him to work with Agila. It might well be required they join up together and boot the Arabs and Berbers back across the sea if they did not keep to their part of the bargain. Little could he know of the events happening in the sea. If he had known, he might have felt a little better at Musa’s force being whittled down.
Sitting across from him at the table was Tariq. For his part, Tariq was confident that the arrival of Musa’s forces would turn the tide – even against Romans. He lifted his cup to his lips and took a deep draught. He considered his people at war with them now. It had only been a matter of time before they showed up somewhere to avenge their loss of Septum anyway, he mused. Still, he hadn’t been expecting them to be in Iberia making an alliance with Roderic, and that, he thought was enough of a treacherous
casus belli that they deserved the full weight of the Caliph upon their infidel heads for their trouble. Tarif, he noticed was more reticent about it all. He hadn’t been the same since his near escape in the last battle. Tariq decided it was hardly surprising given how near death he had been when he had been surrounded by all those Visigoths and had to fight his way out. Unlike Julian, whose zeal had only been increased by the experience. Tariq still remembered how impressed he had been seeing the admittedly magnificent sight of Julian hacking his way out of the hordes of Visigoths and Romans. Lifting his cup up again, he toasted Julian, “Whatever else has happened my friend, you are truly brave and God smiles upon you. We will have victory yet when our Lord Musa arrives.”.
Julian acknowledged Tariq’s toast by raising his own cup. “You are most generous. Your honour is great indeed, likewise favoured by God.”. He took a great swig as Tariq savoured the comment which he knew was sincerely given, just as his had been. Even Tarif managed a wan smile and rose his cup too, the room resonating to the approval of the other commanders, Visigothic, Berber and Arab. Despite the result of the last battle, they knew they had been lucky. God had been watching out for them they felt, and meant for them to wait for the celebrated and experienced Musa to arrive. Then, they hoped, they would show Roderic and his Roman allies what happened to those who opposed them.
Blissfully unaware of what had befallen Musa, they could not know how much depended upon his fate and not just if he had survived, but if many had survived with him.
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Alright, there you are. A long time coming, but worth the wait one hopes.
Now, you know the drill: get commenting, especially if you wish to see more.
Sargon
