xymnovel Chapter 176 Encounter at Dabry Plain
Chapter 176 Encounter at Dabry Plain
Chapter 176 The Battle of Dabulai Plain (Part 3)
"Interesting—" Kehoslu whispered in Turkic, "Not a Roman legionary phalanx, nor a Latin knightly band. Chariots, shields—and those crossbows—where did this army come from? I don't even recognize the flags."
A seasoned centurion beside him squinted and said, "Your Highness, look at the cross pattern and colors on that banner—they might be Franks from overseas, or perhaps troops from that Kingdom of Jerusalem in the Levant. What are they doing here? Where is Branagh's army?"
Kehoslu thought for a moment and asked, "Didn't we capture a few prisoners? Those shirtless Latinos, did you get anything out of them?"
The centurion said with difficulty, "We've already sent a few brothers who know a little Latin or Greek, but the prisoners' accents are too heavy, and none of the brothers can understand what they're saying."
Kehoslu frowned.
A year ago, his elder brother Merrick, due to underestimating the enemy and acting rashly, attacked Antalya without consulting their father, resulting in an ambush and heavy losses. To this day, he remains a negative example for their father to use to admonish them.
The enemy force before them, though small in number, had a defensive formation that, despite the perilous situation, exuded an eerie tightness and the air of a trap.
"Father's teachings are correct," Kehosru murmured.
His father, Sultan Rum, was personally leading the main force of the Sultanate at that moment, besieging the Dolium fortress, which was located at the throat of the Anatolian Plateau leading to the western coast.
That fortress had been a constant obsession for the Sultan since the great victory at Milarepalon in 1176, a fortress that Emperor Manuel would rather fight again than dismantle. Now the best time to seize it had finally arrived—the empire was besieged on all sides and unable to look eastward.
Before setting out, the king clearly admonished his sons and generals: "Our only objective this time is Dolium. Once this thorn in our side is removed, there will be no further obstacles for our army's westward advance. As for the Roman field army, unless we have an overwhelming advantage and victory is assured, we should not engage them in prolonged combat, lest we become distracted and delay the main attack."
The Frankish army before them, though small in number, had adopted a defensive posture, relying on the river and the wagons.
Even if we could win by forcefully attacking such a position, our light cavalry would inevitably pay a heavy price.
Did this unexpected flanking force disrupt the king's grand strategy to seize Dolium?
Kehoslu shook his head.
"Send three of the fastest rider squads, with the prisoners, to immediately report back to Father and the Sultan's camp," Kehosru ordered. "Report that we encountered an unidentified Frankish wagon formation on the banks of the Sangarios River, numbering about a thousand. Their defenses are tight, and their intentions are unclear. Inquire with Father whether to engage or besiege, or ignore them. The rest of the units, maintain distance and monitor enemy movements. Without my order, no one is to enter enemy archery range, and absolutely no one is to charge the wagon formation!"
"Your Highness, look over there. Their defenses are weak on the side closer to the river," the centurion said, pointing to the gap in the river.
"Ignore him for now," Kehoslu said coldly. "The Romans and these Franks are sometimes as cunning as foxes. We'll await the Sultan's orders and then decide what to do."
The midday sun scorched the Anatolian plateau. Outside the Dolium Fortress, the camp of the Sultanate of Rum was covered with banners and dust.
Sultan Kilij Arslan II sat on a rug chair in the shade of the main tent, listening to the report from the messenger sent back by his son, Kehoslu, his gray eyebrows gradually furrowing.
He was nearly fifty years old, his face sculpted by the winds and frosts of the grasslands and the scheming of power, resembling the trunk of an old oak tree, yet his light brown eyes remained as sharp as an eagle's.
"The banks of the Sangarios River? Frankish wagons? The flag of Jerusalem?" The Sultan frowned slightly, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his seat.
This news was completely unexpected.
His strategic focus was entirely on the fortress that had plagued the empire and him for decades. The field battles on the western plains should have been handled by Branas, so why did a third force suddenly emerge?
"Bring the prisoners here," he commanded succinctly.
Before long, several Catalan prisoners, their hands tied behind their backs, dressed in rags and bearing whip marks, were pushed in.
Their eyes were filled with fear, but also with the obsequiousness and shrewdness characteristic of mercenaries.
The Sultan waved his hand, and a middle-aged man dressed in a dark robe and wearing a scholar's turban stepped forward.
He was Qasim, a scholar under the Sultan Moss, who was fluent in Arabic, Persian, Greek, and even had some knowledge of some dialects of the Latin language family.
Qasim began his inquiry with tentative phrases mixed with Latin and the Barcelona dialect.
Initially, communication was extremely difficult; the Catalans' heavy mountain accent and unique vocabulary caused Qasim to frequently frown.
But the threat of money and survival is the most universal language. When Qasim gestured for the soldiers to take out a few shiny dinars and showed the vast difference between the famous "cooperation" and "resistance," the prisoners' tongues immediately became much more nimble.
They gave their intermittent accounts: they were mercenaries employed by the "Little Prince" of Jerusalem, who had traveled by ship to Constantinople and were then ordered to go to Nicaea.
After resting for one night in Nicomedia, for some reason they turned east again —
As for the exact number of people, they only knew that the total was about 1,100, because they often had to count the campfires and distribute rations.
They specifically mentioned "one hundred northern barbarians as tall as bears" because these men always led the way, had loud voices, and were easily recognizable.
As for the crossbowmen wielding strange large bows and the Bohemians dressed like they were in iron cans, they usually stayed behind the central army. The scouts didn't have much contact with them and couldn't give an exact number, only knowing that there were quite a few.
As Sultan Kilij Arslan II listened to Qasim's halting translation, the doubt in his eyes was gradually replaced by a burning light.
The Crown Prince of Jerusalem! A minor child, leading a mere thousand men, has actually penetrated deep into the heart of Anatolia, only a day or two's journey from his main army!
He had long heard of the Roman alliance with Jerusalem, but had always scoffed at it.
Jerusalem itself is in a precarious situation under the watchful eye of the Ayyubid Sultan; what decent aid could it possibly offer? It's nothing more than a political gesture.
But now it seems that this "posture" is actually the arrival of a crown prince! Although the military force is small, his identity itself is a moving gold mine.
If the crown prince of Jerusalem could be captured alive—the ransom would be astronomical, enough to fill his treasury, make the winter more comfortable than ever before, severely damage the morale of the Crusader states, and even affect their alliance with Constantinople.
This is practically a piece of fatty meat that has run right into a knife's edge.