We
welcomed new member Eric Hall, who has penned the following report of the
DBM game hosted by Jeff and Neil:
The
Battle
of Palamas - A.D. 400
As
told by the monk Gildas, ambassador for the Bishop of Alexandria with the
barbarian allies of his most holy majesty the Emperor Arcadius.
Exegi
Monumentum Aere Perennius
“I
have raised a monument more durable than bronze.”
Such
were the prideful words the Roman Prefect Niellios, general to the false
western magnate Stilicho, had carved on the watchtower at Palamas, in
Thessalia, after his forces repelled the barbarian alliance of the
mercenary Dux Herberti the Hibernian on those pleasing but bloody plains.
I,
Gildas, ambassador and scribe to the Bishop of Alexandria beheld these
things and report to your grace.
On
the fifth day of the fifth month, in the year 400 after the birth of our
Lord, the second army of the invasion force of Stilicho under the General
Niellios was camped outside Palamas near the old Imperial watchtower and
around the rich villa of the famous horse trainer Jockius.
That
false Roman, the Vandal Stilicho, was again laying waste the fine lands of
Greece to draw out those Lords of the Visigoths who had set their
standards before the throne of his majesty Arcadius, in return for lands
to the fifth generation in the wealthy parts of
the northern plains.
Arcadius
had commanded the Visigoth Dukes under his favour to resist this latest
invasion by Stilicho.
Hoping
to shame them into battle and defeat them, so that he could press his
claim as guardian of the Eastern Emperor, as well as of the Western one,
Stilicho succeeded more than he at first hoped.
For
the Visigothic lords, grown away from war after 10 years of settled peace
in their new homes, contracted instead with the roving mercenary general
and exiled Pictii King Herberti the Hibernian and his savage
barbarian bands to find and destroy the Roman armies.
The
Approach
The
land around Palamas is horse pasture with orchards and gardens near the
villas, lines of low and
rolling hills, patches of ancient woodland, and the battle plain is cut
with a small brook, which dives into a rocky gorge between the watchtower
and the villa.
Your
servant, Gildas, thinking not of the danger to his own poor body, climbed
up and stood high on a bluff on the left of the barbarian line with the
hearth guard of Herberti as the sun made a proper height and the morning
dew had almost burned from the grass. It was a clear day, and the scent of
dogswood, a sacred plant, hung in the air.
The
blue men of the Pictii are a brave sight to see, but from a distance.
Nay, not even Noxios the Alexandrian hermit savoured so strong as these
warriors, from a land where it is said even the children drink a water
which burns like fire, and men eat only the full intestines of their
sheep.
Around
and about me, the warbands of the Pictii advanced in their sloping run
over the hill, and straight for the Roman right wing.
Recognising
him from my travels to Roma two years before, I could see on the rising
ground in front, where the Roman troops were deploying, the distinctive
tall green plumes on the helmet of the experienced Greek general Philo.
Renegade! Had he not taken the salt of Arcadius before?
To the right, I saw spread out before me the rest of Herberti’s
army. The stern, secretive, and aloof Heruls marched towards the
Imperial watchtower on the low hill in the centre, their thundering noble
cavalry galloping behind, headed for a gap which Niellios seemed to have
missed in his line between the watchtower hill and the brook.
Beyond
the brook, the wild Saxon wyrd warriors of Wandering Weiyen raised their
wailing warcry and waited for no one in a mad rush forward. The
advancing Roman line, still marshalling from camp, could not reach the
garrison in the villa of Jockius before the first Saxon wave hit.
On
the far right of the barbarian line, the Visigothic paymasters had sent a
contingent under the wily Duke Dieter, to ensure their money was being
well spent. The Duke, alas, had chosen a battle front full of farmed
land next to the villa and the heavy Visigoth horses were making poor
progress through the close vineyards and orchards.
But
the bold Barbarian advance had already been compromised the night before
at the war meet of the mercenary chiefs when Duke Dieter, reluctant to
commit all his countrymen before he saw the fighting skills and temper of
Herberti’s bands, had proposed a long right flank march by half his own
forces, around the Roman left flank.
Herberti’s
spies had told him that the Roman left was strong in regular legionary
foot and horse and under command of the fanatical schismatic General
Kristos.
Hearing
this, the Ostrogothic commander Eiricus , yelling that what was good for
the western Goths was good for the eastern Goths, took his own large
warbands in a long march off around the Roman right flank.
King
Herberti, seeing that his reduced forces must win by terror what they had
lost in numbers on the field, gave his only command of the fatal day:
“Charge, and I’ll kill any bastard’s son who doesn’t!”
Alas, your grace, Niellios had by now had time to deploy along a line of
hills connecting his left and right flanks through the watchtower at the
centre of his line.
Behind
the thin but determined lines of the Western legions, large numbers of
cavalry Alae could be seen in reserve, ready to charge down any of our
warriors who hacked through the lines.
It
was only later that I heard from a good Christian officer of the Palatina,
who I saw next day searching the field, that Niellios, at first sight of
our clamouring hosts, had profaned God and complained that the rules of
War were not always fair. The Lord must have heard him. He
works in mysterious ways.
The
Battle
As
the sun rose toward
noon
, Favour seemed to smile on our warriors. On the left, the wild
Pictii smashed into the troops of Philo, hacking down legionary and
auxiliary alike. Not even a charge by what looked
like Guard cavalry in their red cloaks could throw back the incensed men
of the North.
Philo
could be seen clearly, sending rider after rider back to Niellios in the
centre and asking for aid, as all could discern in the distance an ominous
dust cloud, which could only be the bands of Eiricus, Stilicho’s main
army being three days march away.
But
Niellios himself was pinned by the brave Heruls who now flung themselves
at the watchtower, as cruel darts from the Roman artillery swept away not
one, but two or three warriors at a time.
On
our right, the Saxons rolled ever onwards but one band, unable to resist
the possibility of loot, went straight for the defended frontal gates of
the villa, hurling themselves in barley besotted rage against the barred
oak doors.
It
was on the far right that the seeds of defeat first began to show.
The Visigothic knights, struggling nobly through the vines but hacking
uselessly at the gnarled runners with their swords, spotted running
towards them thousands of Roman archers. Seeing their death
approach, caught in a horseman’s trap, their courage counselled stay,
but their hearts said turn.
Meanwhile,
in the centre, the Herul nobility had also found that Roman resources were
larger than they thought. Looking to ride straight through the gap
in Niellios’s line they saw to their dismay squadrons of
Honorii horse gallop round the foot of Watchtower hill and deploy,
ready to charge. God forgive me that I could not warn them, seeing
it as I did from my height.
Yet,
the Lord still seemed to look down kindly on his unshriven children as the
first Ostrogoth warriors of Eiricus burst out of the woods on Philo’s
flank, just after the time of the midday prayer.
No
sight could have been better for the Pictii as their long fight had
exhausted them. Herberti could be seen in the thick of it, roaring
for more of his beloved Iberian beer and hewing around him.
Little
did it strike the Pictii, besieged as they were, that Eiricus’s advance
was weak and confused as the plundering Ostrogoths had emptied the cellars
and kitchens of Palamas town on their circuitous route to the battle, and
now many straggled through miles of brush and pathway.
Yet
still, on the Saxon flank a great cheer went up and I saw the first wisp
of smoke rising from the villa and Saxon helms along the walled roofs.
The Roman garrison had been massacred and their fellows in the pastures
beyond could not help them as Roman and Saxon slaughtered each other in
piles along the meadows.
The
day was growing old, and in the light breeze of the afternoon much Roman
galloping about was seen behind the lines, but the courage of Herberti’s
warriors had failed to cower the professional men of the legions.
Time
was running out, and the Visigoths who had marched off on the flank the
evening before were nowhere to be seen. Their infantry warriors on
the far right flank were stuck behind the battling Saxons, and many a
Visigoth knight was laid over the vines with a Roman arrow in his neck,
victims of their untutored advance into the farm lanes.
God
had taken his hand away that day from the throne of Arcadius.
Niellius
had released some lumbering cataphractii to help the hated Greek, Philo
against the Ostrogoths.
But
Fate struck where it hurt most. Herberti was swigging down a massive
draft, when a flight of arrows from the hill caught him in his middle and
felled the bravest of the Picts. Bloodied, wounded, dying, his men
could take no more. I saw a crew of their strongest warriors with
his eldest son lift the King and carry his corpse from the field.
The Pictii melted away into the woods from whence they came.
The
Ostrogoths’s courage failed before it had arrived, as they saw the Picts
retreat. A charge down the hill by Roman skirmishers was enough to
break their spirit, and the first wave fled, tumbling Eiricus from his
horse and destroying all the remaining cohesion and force of their
advance.
Opposite
the watchtower, the Herul fight had run its course, disdaining flight, the
harsh warriors from the mists died where they stood. Their noble
horse were too late and too occupied to help, and finally fled the field
in despair. Only their Chief, whose barbarous name remains
unwritten, was left standing as the light started to fade, mourning his
lost men, before turning and slowly walking away
The
Romans on the watchtower ridge, themselves exhausted, watched in respect
and let him go.
As
the evening set in, I could see the flames from the villa lighting the
scenes of horror in the fields opposite where Roman and Saxon had finally
fought themselves to a standstill. Nearby, the Visigothic bands
milled around, as if they could not believe the defeat of their army and
the loss of their mercenary gold.
On
a hill far off to the right, I saw for an instant a blue standard flash.
Perhaps it was the fresh Visigothic army. If it was, they did not
come closer to the fields where more shades than men now wandered.
In
the night, the last barbarians left the lines to the Roman victors and I
was taken by roving saggitarii as I wrote these words by the light of a
poor candle from a brother at the church in Palamas.
These
things have I seen and reported truthfully to your Grace and given into
the hands of the Saxon man Ranald to deliver to you.
May
you live and prosper, and remember your servant Gildas, now awaiting the
judgement of the Vandal Stilicho.
May
God have mercy on the dead. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.
Napoleon
in Europe
What
was originally planned to have been a six player game, was played with
four due to two of James' chums being incapacitated following a late night
in a tavern. The player nations were thus Britain (James), Austria
(Trevor), Russia (Andrzej) and the Ogre of Europe himself (Franklyn);
Prussia, Spain and the Ottomans being open to persuasion, all nations
neutral at the start of play, April 1802.
Britain
seeking to extend its influence overseas swiftly sent its armies to
bolster the forces of Norway, Denmark and the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.
Russia invaded Finland and got a bloody nose, meanwhile, France and
Austria manoeuvred their forces and eyed each other warily across their
common borders.
May
1802 saw Russia continue its move westward, subjugating Sweden with ease.
Britain declared war on France and blockaded France's fleets in port.
Meanwhile France's land forces steadily gathered in central Europe.
In June, due to a diplomatic misunderstanding over spheres of interest,
Russia declared war on Britain and invaded Norway and Denmark, easily
overpowering the meagre British forces stationed there. The end of
June saw all nations frantically building up their arsenals in preparation
for the inevitable pan-European war.
With
Russia in Denmark, close to French interests, France declared war on
Russia, much to the surprise of the other nations, as Russia was at war
with France's sworn enemy, Britain. Shortly thereafter Russia
invaded East Prussia and Hanover, thereby sending Prussia into the British
camp. At this point, France was at war with Britain and Russia.
Russia was at war with Britain, Prussia and, of course, France.
Austria was allied with Britain. Thus the stage was set for Europe
to once more be set aflame.
Britain,
through diplomatic overtures, had persuaded the Kingdom of the Two
Sicilies to join its ranks, thus garnering for itself a sizable allied
force, with which it proceeded to move north to give support to Austria.
Meanwhile back channel discussions had resulted in Britain and Russia
overcoming their differences and so it was that France now found itself
facing the combined might of Britain, Russia, Austria and Prussia.
To forestall the link up of the disparate Allied forces, France launched a
pre-emptive strike on Berlin, only to be caught unawares by the size of
the defending Prussian forces; the battle ended in a narrow defeat for the
French, who fell back to lick their wounds.
In
the following months the Russian armies marched to join forces with the
Austrians in Vienna while the British sent an expeditionary force to
Hanover, there joining the sizable remnants of Prussia's proud army.
With the noose fast closing, the Grand Armee that had formed in Burgundy
played its trump card, swiftly force marching to catch the combined Prusso-British
army wrong footed in Baden-Wurttemberg. If this force could be
soundly defeated, Napoleon could then turn south to deal with the Russians
and Austrians at his leisure. And so, the curtain rose on the
greatest battle of the war to date.
Although
greatly outnumbered, and having been out-scouted by the French cavalry
leaving their dispositions open to Napoleon's full view, the Allies had
managed to secure their right flank on dense woods while commanding the
hills in their centre, on which they had deployed their artillery.
The Prussians held the left and the British the right, with a large mixed
cavalry force in reserve, including the famed British heavy brigades.
Whilst greatly outnumbering the Allies in horse and foot, the French
lacked artillery support, the want of which would be sorely missed in the
ensuing battle.
From
the outset, the French targeted the Allied right where the lack of
defensive terrain would leave the British sorely pressed to meet the
French attack. Wave after wave of of French foot and horse were
thrown against the British who, though hard pressed, stoically held the
thin red line. In the centre the Allied batteries bombarded the
French position and easily repulsed the only half hearted attack launched
against them by the French. But it was on the Allied right where the
battle was to be won or lost; the Allies were forced to commit their
reserve which barely managed to stem the impetus of the repeated French
assaults. Due to the mounting losses, both sides were forced to
withdraw infantry from other positions to feed the cauldron that was the
Allied right.
It
looked to be anyone's fight when, during a lull in the battle, the
Prussian artillery moved from the centre to support the right. A
well placed barrage against the lone French infantry brigade sheltering in
the woods sent them reeling backward in retreat; hurrah! The battle
was won and Napoleon was thus forced to sue for peace. Immediately
thereafter, the victorious Allies held the congress of Vienna where they
each annexed once of France's minor subject nations. Peace once more
returned to Europe, but it would last no more than a year, with a France
resurgent seeking to redress the humiliation of its earlier defeat.
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