After a week's rest, Vig led his army across the Po River in search of the main Eastern Roman force.
He wasn't worried that Basil would avoid battle.
The Eastern Romans had concentrated the bulk of their army in Italy, leaving their homeland vulnerable. The longer the campaign dragged on, the greater the chance the Abbasid Empire would exploit the opportunity to strike.
Time favored the Vikings, not Constantinople.
According to reports from the light cavalry, Vig judged that the enemy's main force was somewhere to the southeast and slowly advanced in that direction.
April 23, 873. Dawn.
Fog.
A dense blanket of mist covered the countryside like a gray-white curtain.
Dew clung to the grass, while the hoarse cries of ravens occasionally echoed overhead.
Ten Viking light cavalrymen rode in a loose file through the fog, cautiously watching their surroundings.
Suddenly—
An arrow sliced through the mist with a shrill whistle.
The rider on the far right had no time to react before the arrow buried itself in his calf.
He grunted and tumbled from the saddle.
More than a dozen dark figures burst out of the fog.
They wore light mail or scale armor and carried two-meter light lances, their spearheads gleaming coldly in the haze.
Composite bows and straight-bladed swords hung from their saddles.
"For Rome!"
The leading officer shouted in Greek as he charged straight into the Viking scouts.
The skirmish immediately descended into brutal close combat.
Horsemen hacked and thrust at one another from only a few feet away.
The sounds of battle carried through the fog.
The first to react was another Viking patrol.
Their platoon leader listened carefully, his face changing instantly.
"Move! With me!"
He spurred more than twenty riders toward the fighting.
Almost simultaneously, a company of roughly one hundred Italian militia heard the commotion.
They were escorting wagons loaded with grain gathered from nearby villages.
The commander exchanged glances with his men before drawing his sword.
"Pauli, take twenty men and keep escorting the grain."
"The rest, with me!"
Thus, what had begun as a chance encounter between two scouting patrols rapidly drew in every nearby detachment like a magnet.
The battle expanded at an astonishing pace.
Mounted skirmishes became clashes involving hundreds of men.
Wherever one looked, blurred figures darted through the fog while arrows flew in every direction.
Bugles sounded from different quarters, calling still more troops toward the growing fight.
When word reached the Viking camp, Utgard paid it little attention.
He merely dispatched the cavalry battalion attached to the Second Field Division before calmly returning to his breakfast.
Burp.
He finished the last of his oatmeal.
Wrapping the remaining half of a lamb chop in paper, he tucked it into his pocket for lunch.
Then he stepped outside to inspect the assembly of the Second Division.
About half an hour later, a cavalry platoon leader returned, drenched in blood.
He demanded reinforcements.
"How many enemies?"
"The fog's too thick to tell," the scout replied.
"At least five hundred. Infantry and cavalry both."
Utgard cursed in Old Norse and ordered his best infantry regiment forward.
"Go—and come back quickly!"
He then hurried toward the central command tent to report the situation to Vig.
Studying the rough map drawn by the scouts, Vig concluded that many more Greeks were likely gathered near the fighting.
He decided to move the army forward and crush that force before anything else.
More Viking cavalry rode toward the battlefield.
Behind them marched Utgard's Second Division.
The fog had thinned slightly, but visibility remained poor.
Nothing beyond two hundred meters could be seen clearly.
Along the way, Utgard encountered a steady stream of wounded men falling back.
From their reports, the enemy also appeared to be reinforcing continuously.
Not wanting to take unnecessary risks, he deployed his formation early and sent his two attached mountain infantry battalions into the surrounding countryside to scout.
More than an hour later—
A deep bugle sounded ahead.
An Eastern Roman horn.
"Halt!"
Utgard immediately ordered the regimental band to stop playing the marching tune.
Sharp warning calls rang out instead.
Every unit prepared for battle.
Gradually, as though someone were pulling back a curtain, the April wind stirred the fog.
Vague silhouettes emerged.
First a few dark shapes.
Then an endless battle line.
Utgard felt a chill run down his spine.
"This is bad..."
The fog continued to lift.
Like a theater curtain slowly rising, it revealed thousands upon thousands of soldiers drawn up across the entire horizon.
Under the morning sun, dozens of crimson banners whipped in the wind.
Beneath them stretched forests of spears.
Countless helmets flashed with blinding reflections.
Where had all these men come from?
Suppressing gasps and whispered prayers spread through the Viking ranks.
The soldiers instinctively tightened their formation.
The Welsh longbowmen planted arrows in the ground before them for quicker access.
The Greeks were equally shocked by the sudden appearance of the Second Division.
They hurriedly formed their own battle lines.
The two armies stood roughly two kilometers apart.
As the last wisps of fog vanished, sunlight flooded the battlefield.
Cold winds howled.
The Vikings' black dragon banners faced the crimson standards of the Eastern Romans.
At that moment, the fate of two empires balanced on the edge of a knife.
The decisive battle could no longer be avoided.
Utgard barked,
"Ride to His Majesty!"
"Tell him we've encountered the Greek main army—at least thirty thousand men!"
"Request immediate reinforcements!"
At nine in the morning, the messenger reached the marching Viking main force.
Rather than dispatch reinforcements immediately, Vig first questioned him carefully about the surrounding terrain.
Utgard occupied the northern side of the battlefield.
The Greek army stood to the south.
To the southwest lay the site of the earlier skirmish, where both sides had already disengaged.
To Utgard's east stretched a series of low rolling hills overlooking the surrounding countryside.
Vig continued questioning him.
"Did the Second Division bring artillery?"
"They were in a hurry..."
"I think three guns."
"No... probably only two."
Vig dismissed the messenger and began considering his options.
He currently commanded sixty-three thousand troops.
Of these, fifty-six thousand were frontline combat soldiers:
the Imperial Division,
four field divisions,
and the Cavalry Division.
The remainder consisted of seven garrison regiments totaling roughly seven thousand levy troops.
According to estimates, Basil commanded approximately seventy-five thousand men.
The two armies were therefore close in strength.
By Vig's calculation, victory stood at roughly fifty-fifty.
"Pass the order."
"The mounted infantry will move immediately."
"The objective is the hills east of Utgard's position."
As time passed, fresh reports kept arriving.
The battlefield lacked the imperial Labarum, meaning Basil himself had not yet arrived.
The Eastern Roman commanders were therefore acting cautiously.
Rather than committing their entire army, they had launched only a probing attack with fifteen thousand men.
For the moment, Utgard was holding.
Meanwhile, three thousand mounted infantry had reached the hills and were driving off the few Greek scouts stationed there.
Realizing the Second Division was no longer in immediate danger, Vig revised his plan.
Instead of sending major reinforcements, he dispatched only five garrison regiments.
A bold idea formed in his mind.
He would personally lead the field army around the eastern flank of the battlefield and strike the enemy from the side and rear.
With Basil absent, there might be a chance to destroy the Greek army in one blow.
He issued one final order.
Each field division was to detach one mountain infantry battalion and force-march toward the hills, occupying every commanding height.
The Greeks must never be allowed to observe the movements of the Viking main army.
Coincidentally, the Eastern Roman commander Oriphas had reached exactly the same conclusion.
He too recognized the strategic importance of the hills.
Unfortunately for him, the Viking numbers had exceeded expectations.
The two hundred Greek light infantry stationed there had already been driven off.
"Send all remaining light infantry."
Soon, three thousand light infantry advanced in loose formation.
Their centurions kept their voices low.
"Maintain your intervals!"
"Watch your footing!"
"Watch both flanks!"
Eyes constantly scanned the slopes, dotted with low shrubs and oak trees.
The soldiers climbed carefully in a broad fan-shaped formation.
Suddenly—
A signal arrow streaked into the sky.
Almost instantly, more than a thousand figures appeared along the ridgeline.
Not ghosts.
Welsh longbowmen waiting in ambush.
"Enemy!"
"Shields up!"
The disciplined Greek light infantry reacted instinctively.
They raised their small round shields overhead.
The first volley descended like a storm.
The shields were simply too small.
Many arrows struck exposed torsos.
The Greeks wore only padded kavadion armor rather than iron.
Protection proved woefully inadequate.
The leading ranks fell like wheat before a scythe.
"Fall back!"
"Regroup in the center!"
The surviving officers screamed orders, their voices filled with disbelief.
Survival overwhelmed discipline.
The survivors shoved desperately toward the middle, trying to hide behind one another.
They discarded their cumbersome javelins and locked their shields together.
Within moments, the loose assault formation had transformed into five irregular circular shield walls.
Watching from the hilltop, Count Brecon frowned.
"The Eastern Romans aren't poor."
"So why aren't these men wearing iron armor?"
To maximize mobility, Viking mountain infantry and light cavalry wore lightweight brigandine armor.
Though considered light armor, iron plates still protected the vital chest and abdomen.
The Emperor had deliberately sacrificed secondary weapons to ensure his soldiers could survive arrows at medium range.
Looking at the battlefield now...
his decision had clearly been the right one.
At that moment, Brecon heard movement behind him.
Four mountain infantry battalions were approaching in loose marching columns.
With these reinforcements, his strength exceeded five thousand men.
His confidence in holding the hills grew considerably.
Ignoring the retreating Greek light infantry, he moved to the western slopes to observe Utgard's situation.
In the distance, over seven thousand Vikings stood packed into a massive square formation while resisting attacks from more than twice their number.
Utgard had positioned his only two bronze cannons along the front under the greatest pressure.
They fired grapeshot repeatedly.
After paying a heavy price, the enemy adapted.
They stayed beyond the hundred-meter lethal range of grapeshot.
Instead, Greek archers fired from roughly one hundred and fifty meters, targeting the artillery crews and infantry behind them.
At the same time, large bodies of Greek infantry maneuvered around both flanks.
Their armor came in three varieties:
mail,
scale,
and lamellar.
Overall, their protection was comparable to the Vikings' standard brigandine armor.
Their primary weapon was the kontarion, a one-handed spear measuring between two and a half and three meters.
During the initial spear engagements, however, the Vikings enjoyed a slight advantage.
Their two-handed spears measured three and a half meters.
Large numbers of Eastern Roman light cavalry circled nearby.
Their origins were diverse.
Some were Pechenegs.
Others Khazars.
Others Magyars.
Still others native Greek horsemen.
Initially they rode close enough to shower the square with arrows.
But the Welsh longbows outranged and outperformed their mounted bows.
After losing more than a hundred comrades, the light cavalry abandoned close-range harassment.
Instead, they remained at a distance, waiting patiently for their infantry to open a breach.
More than ten minutes passed.
Brecon noticed Utgard's formation beginning to waver.
He hesitated over whether to intervene.
At that very moment, another wave of Greek infantry attacked the hills, tying down his own troops.
Fortunately, fresh reinforcements appeared from the north.
These were the five garrison regiments dispatched by Vig.
Most were mercenaries or feudal levies.
But thanks to the empire's ample production of armor, even these auxiliary troops were now fully equipped with iron protection.
"Hollow squares!"
"Hurry!"
Their temporary commander, Rickard, had little confidence in his inexperienced soldiers.
He halted near the battlefield and reorganized the marching column into five hollow squares before advancing slowly toward Utgard.
When they were still a thousand meters away, Eastern Roman light cavalry swarmed around them.
Rickard immediately ordered a halt.
His archers drove the horsemen back with arrow fire.
From his perspective, Utgard could hold a little longer.
There was no need to recklessly risk his levies.
Simply maintaining his presence here would force the enemy to divide its attention and relieve pressure on the Second Division.
Receiving reports of fresh Viking reinforcements, the Greek general personally rode forward to observe.
He quickly noticed that these newcomers maneuvered more slowly and with far less discipline than the Second Division.
Clearly they were second-rate troops.
He decided to deal with the easier target first.
Large bodies of infantry shifted toward Rickard.
Meanwhile, eight hundred cataphracts who had just arrived deployed nearby.
The plan was simple:
crush the newly arrived auxiliaries in one decisive blow—
then turn their attention back to the Second Division.
The cataphracts were the Eastern Roman Empire's most expensive arm.
Unlike the heavy shock cavalry of Western Europe, they carried both lances and composite bows, allowing them to suppress enemies at range before charging.
They also carried double-edged swords, maces, daggers, and small round shields.
The riders themselves wore three layers of protection:
lamellar on the outside, mail beneath, and padded armor underneath both.
Even their horses wore armor protecting the head, neck, and body.
Rider and mount together resembled moving fortresses on the battlefield.
Realizing he had become the enemy's primary target, Rickard's face paled.
"Why me?"
"Is this really necessary?"
At that moment, he was completely surrounded by Eastern Roman light cavalry.
No messenger could possibly break through.
His only remaining hope lay with Brecon on the hills.
If the count could somehow send word to the Emperor...
Otherwise, five garrison regiments had no chance of surviving an assault of this magnitude.
—------------------------------
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