Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 392: An Unexpected Battlefield

On October 5th, the remainder of Basil's army arrived in Rome right on schedule. The city now boasted eighty thousand soldiers, and that number was still steadily climbing.

"The Vikings are the attackers. They require a massive amount of troops to transport supplies and garrison various regions. Their field forces could never exceed seventy thousand men. This is a battle we can win," Basil declared.

Basil brimmed with confidence. He devoted the bulk of his energy to training the militia, striving to mold them into a capable garrison for the city's defense.

In terms of logistics, monasteries across the region were busy transporting their autumn grain harvests to Rome:

A portion of the grain traveled over land. The rest arrived at the Port of Ostia under the escort of the fleet, before being shipped upstream along the Tiber River straight into the city.

Additionally, Basil dispatched craftsmen to inspect the city walls and defenses, including Rome's intricate sewer system, ensuring the Vikings could not exploit any hidden vulnerabilities to slip inside.

Meanwhile, in Northern Italy, across the sprawling Po Valley.

Wig was on the march. His forces had been riding hard from dawn until late afternoon, pausing for a mere two hours of rest along the way.

"How much further?"

Leif replied, "Only ten miles left to our destination. We should arrive before sunset."Wig spread a map out over the grass, calculating the distance between his current position and the Balkan Coalition Army.

Recently, Wig had mobilized his Royal Division, three infantry divisions, and eight garrison regiments toward central Italy to assault the southern towns. However, all of this was nothing more than an elaborate feint.

Ever since learning that Basil's reinforcements had arrived, Wig had abandoned any thought of laying siege to Rome. Instead, he shifted his crosshairs to the Balkan Coalition Army stationed on the northern front.

Detaching himself from the main infantry force, he led his cavalry and mounted infantry in a swift change of direction, crossing the Apennine Mountains and surging back north into the Po Valley.

The fifty thousand infantrymen left behind continued their slow, methodical march south. Their purpose was strictly to pin down the enemy's attention, not to launch a futile assault against the walls of Rome.

According to historical records, Rome's Aurelian Walls were constructed in the third century. Stretching over twelve miles, they completely enclosed the traditional Land of Seven Hills.

During the reign of Emperor Honorius, these defenses were further reinforced. The walls boasted three hundred and eighty watchtowers, meaning one stood every few dozen yards. By then, the structure towered nearly thirty-three feet high and was over thirteen feet thick.

By comparison, Constantinople possessed a double line of defense, with an inner wall sixteen feet thick and an outer wall over six feet thick.

In the year 1453, when the Ottomans besieged Constantinople, they specially cast the massive Urban Cannon, a weapon capable of firing stone projectiles weighing hundreds of kilograms. Even with such devastating firepower, the besiegers had to bombard the defenses continuously for seven weeks before finally blasting a breach in the walls.

Given the destructive capabilities of their current bronze cannons, Wig's forces could only effectively threaten conventional city walls that were roughly five to eight feet thick. If the Vikings were to deploy their cannons against Rome, two months of constant bombardment might not even yield a single breach. And even if they did break through, they would still have to face tens of thousands of garrisoned troops in brutal street fighting. The odds of victory were simply too slim.

In late September, the Balkan Coalition Army began receiving a flurry of letters from both the Papacy and Emperor Basil, urgently demanding they march south to reinforce Rome!

Hearing that the holy city was under threat, the rank-and-file soldiers were worked into a zealous frenzy. Their overwhelming enthusiasm practically dragged the coalition's high command along with them as they advanced into Northern Italy.

After a grueling three-day march, they arrived at Treviso, only to find that the occupying Viking forces had already withdrawn. Local residents claimed the invaders had fled in such a hurry that they did not even have time to take their grain.

A day later, the coalition effortlessly "recovered" Padua. They immediately dispatched messengers to Venice, requesting the Governor of Venice and the Frankish Remnants to rendezvous with them. Burdened by dual orders from both the Papacy and the Eastern Roman Emperor, the Venetian Governor dared not disobey. He personally led two thousand militia troops alongside six thousand Franks to meet up at Padua.

By October 6th, the northern coalition forces had completed their assembly. Their total military strength numbered thirty thousand men. Thanks to a generous supply of armor provided by the Eastern Roman Empire, their armor rate had reached an impressive thirty percent, and their grain reserves were plentiful. Their sole glaring weakness was a severe shortage of cavalry.

The rugged terrain of the Balkans meant that maintaining cavalry was rarely cost-effective. Venice, meanwhile, was a city built on water; its primary focus was on its navy, giving them no reason to waste vast sums of money upholding a mounted force.

The Frankish Remnants had originally boasted a force of fifteen hundred cavalrymen. However, during their desperate flight through the Alps, they had lost every single warhorse, reducing their proud riders to little more than ordinary heavy infantry.

Alfred observed the coalition's formations, quietly grumbling to his colleagues.

"This is far too reckless. We should not be marching over land. The safer route would be to use the fleet to transport the troops directly to southern Italy, and then proceed over land to assemble at Rome."

The Count of Orléans countered, "What fleet? The warships and large merchant ships have all been drafted to the western coast to tangle with the Viking navy. Only a handful of civilian vessels remain to transport the Eastern Roman warhorses and supplies. The Venetian fleet simply lacks the transport capacity; it would take them over two months to ferry everyone. If Rome falls in the meantime, who will bear the blame?"

At seven in the morning, the coalition army marched out of Padua. The sky overhead was a dull, leaden gray, hanging over them like a heavy linen cloth soaked in stagnant water. Bitingly cold winds howled down from the Alps, carrying a piercing chill.

The thirty thousand soldiers trudged slowly along the ancient Roman road. Their organization was incredibly lax; men chatted loudly as they walked, and a massive entourage of merchants and peddlers trailed loosely behind the army.

After roughly two hours of marching, the stamina and patience of the militia were completely exhausted. Upon hearing their officers' commands to halt, they immediately slumped down along the sides of the road to rest. Some pulled out chunks of black bread and nibbled on them, while a few others wandered over to the camp followers to purchase snacks and alcoholic beverages.

During the break, Alfred and a few of his peers stood with their brows knitted tightly, their eyes locked on the southern horizon. Before setting out, the coalition had pooled together all their remaining cavalry to act as scouts, ordering them to clear the path ahead and report back every half hour.

Suddenly, a few specks appeared to the south. The reconnaissance riders galloped back to deliver their report: there were no enemies ahead.

"Are you absolutely certain?" Alfred pressed.

"From here all the way to the Po River, we did not spot a single Viking. Also, the Venetian fleet has already entered the lower reaches of the river and is currently constructing a pontoon bridge. It should be completed in two days."

At nine-thirty, the coalition army resumed its march. They walked for another two hours before halting to rest around a small town.

During lunch, Alfred remained deeply unsettled. The rest of the Frankish nobility shared his underlying anxiety, maintaining at least a basic level of vigilance by abstaining from alcohol.

The Balkan nobles, on the other hand, had never crossed blades with the Serpent of the North. They viewed him as little more than an inferior knockoff of Hannibal or Attila. Their conversations were light and carefree, with some men gulping down wine until their faces were flushed red.

At one in the afternoon, the low-ranking military officers roused the dozing soldiers. The thirty-thousand-strong army set out once more. The scouts soon returned with the same message: the south was entirely devoid of enemy troops; the path was clear.

They marched for another three hours. Suddenly, a strange sound rolled across the horizon from the northwest. It started as a low, muffled rumble, before quickly swelling into a continuous, deafening roar like rolling thunder.

What was going on?

The militiamen in the rear ground to a halt, looking around in bewilderment. Their hesitation rippled forward, causing the entire army to come to a standstill.

In the distance, several tiny black specks began squirming along the withered, yellowing horizon. Soon after, more and more black dots materialized, rapidly coalescing into an endless, terrifying dark tide that surged violently toward the Balkan Coalition Army.