Spring 1419
Territory of Arretia, central Bermia
“Forward. Move it, move it. Onward, for the glory of our city.” Armatore Collardo di Callevilla rode past his troops, and the contrast between his hastily but soft voice and his encouraging words wasn’t noticed by most of his veteran troops, marching in a long-stretched column from Zena onward. Despite being though and battle-hardened men, their voices kept soft and their eyes calm in the heath of battle. And that was where they were heading to. Although the dense mist reduced their sight to mere meters, any soldier knew they were heading straight to a bitter fight. But they did not fear the communal troops of the cities of Arretia and Partenope, who had allied themselves temporarily against the city of Zena. As they stepped further, following the backs of the troops in front of them, the sounds of battle became clear, and wounded men were visible dragging themselves to the rear. But those were but few, and any soldier knew in his hart that they were winning.
Armatore di Callevilla rode back to his commander, Gouvernor Simone Boccanegra, who was surrounded by other Zenoese officers, and said to him: “That damn fog renders our sight to nil. We don’t know how much enemies are standing between us and Arretia. My boys are tearing the enemy formations apart, but we can’t pursue them when they flee.” The gouvernor smiled at him: “Don’t worry, Collardo. They can’t have more than some levies and some mercenaries here. We just have to stay close and march on in the right direction. Our worst enemy today is the mist, not those fat merchants in armour. Hey Clemente,” he said, turning to an officer on his left, “where are we now?” Armatore Clemente di Promontorio spread out a map over the armored neck of his charger, and said: “It seems we’re somewhere between Castello dell’Aquacheta and, er… the village of Ripe.” Capitano Francesco Bussone interrupted: “That must be the village my vanguard reached an hour ago. Let me see…” he bowed over the map, “…we’re half-way now. And we’ve already taken that castle in our back. It seems we can start sacking Arretia tomorrow!”
Hauptmann Holger whistled a song he and his comrades had sung back in Swadia. Somewhere in the Gevierthaufen, the large phalanx of Landsknechts standing nearby, a soldier began to sing on the melody: “Oh, du schöner Ehlerdah Wald, über deine Höhen pfeift der wind so kalt…” Holger ceased whistling, and patted the brown neck of his horse. His company, consisting of two-and-a-half Fähnlein Landsknechts, some Swadian skirmishers, and Hauptmann Holger and his small mounted staff of impoverished nobles and fellow adventurers, were standing in a forest north of Ripe and east of Arretia. The mass of pikes, held upright by the mercenaries, formed a dense forest within the real forest. An Arretian official came riding by, and said with contempt to the Swadian staff: “Who’s your commander? Or your chieftain?” Holger, dressed in simple half-plate over black with yellow slashed clothes rode forward. “It’s captain. Orders from the big merchant?” “Podesta Ezzelino Dalla Langa orders you and your gang to advance on the village of Ripe. Our troops are retreating and you must buy them some time. You and your ruffians have to hold back the Zenoese at least an hour. Did you understand?” Holger simply nodded. He turned his horse and ordered his men into march formation. While they were formed up, one of Holgers lieutenants, a young impoverished Swadian noble, growled behind his captain: “God, how I hate this effeminate creatures calling themselves men!” The older man whispered back: “Quiet, Georg; you’ll have enough chance to teach them how to fight in a couple of hours.”
They were waiting for the order to go, but they first had to let the other troops of the cities pass. When they appeared, it became obvious that it was a total rout: the whole army which the city of Arretia, together with its allies from Partenope, had sent to stop the Zenoese, came running for the safety of the forest. At their head came the most heavily armored militiamen, rich merchants in full plate calling themselves ‘Doppiosoldi’. When they passed by, the Landsknechts shouted at them: “Hure, hure!!” The mounted official asked Holger “What do they say?” “Whores.” The captain spurred his horse forward, while behind him his lieutenants grinned at the now red-faced official. “Enough time wasted. Marsch marsch! And sweep the road clear of all cowards moving in our way!” The routers quickly made way for the phalanx, scattering as it moved by. They marched southward, right into the mist.
Emile, assaltore in the army of the city of Zena, stared into the mist, watching for enemies to appear. Behind him, his comrades were looting the village of Ripe, and Emile heard the lamentation of peasants whose houses were burnt and possessions taken, and the screams of women. Emile pitied the women, and he didn’t want to be there. The communal troops had been easily scattered, and the road to Arretia seemed to lay wide open. The professional soldiers thought their job and duty done. The sentry heard the sound of drums, and raised his head. After a minute, something what appeared like a giant beast with countless spikes raising upward from it, became visible in the fog. Some moments later, he identified the formation as Swadian mercenaries, and ran back to the other Zenoeses.
“Halt!” Upon their captain’s command, the whole body of troops stopped in their track. In front of them, they saw the burning village, and in it their enemies, who were quickly gathering their forces. Soldiers dropped their loot and formed into formations. Skirmishers were dispersed among the houses, while the infantry formed a solid block in the village’s main street. Captain Holger drew his long sword, and shouted his orders: “Form up the Gevierthafen! Doppelsöldner in the second line! Shooters forward!” The handful of skirmishers, armed with blunderbusses and arquebuses, moved forward and started shooting, while the Landsknechts formed into their pike square. The precious Doppelsöldner were placed in the second line instead of the first, for Holger knew they would be vulnerable to the missiles from the Bermianese crossbows. Although his company was growing, he still was chronic short of suitable Doppelsöldner. On the beats of the drums, the phalanx moved forward, with Holger, followed by his officers, in its right flank. The skirmishers scattered to give them space, and they marched right towards the Zenoese.
Laying on rooftops and crouching behind obstacles, the Zenoese crossbowmen aimed their weapons. “Loose!” At their commander’s order, a hail of deadly bolts mowed down the first line of the approaching phalanx. In order to maintain their formation, everybody had to continue marching; the wounded who couldn’t get away quick enough, were trampled by their comrades. The next ranks, with leveled pikes, came closer to the Zenoese infantry. Their commander, a navy captain, ordered the charge. At the sight of the wall of pikes, though, most troops hesitated. But the Assaltores, shock troops destined to lead boarding assault at sea, raised their tower shields and sprinted forward, trying to avoid the points of pikes. Their example was immediately followed by the other troops, who rushed at the now stationary troop Swadians. But they couldn’t come any further. The Swadians, masters in warfare with the pike, stabbed at gaps between shields and weak points in exposed armour, for their method of wielding the pike without a shield gave superior flexibility and accuracy. The Zenoese now found out that their big shields were more of a hindrance than a help in the fight, as it was becoming a bloody push of pikes, in which the Swadians had a clear advantage. Some Assaltores managed to get through between the pikes, but were immediately cut down by the large Doppelsöldner now standing in the first rank. The two forces now became pinned against each other, with the flanks of both pressed against houses.
Ezzelino Dalla Langa, Podesta of Arretia, listened to the news of the messenger which just had arrived. It seemed his entire force, except the cavalry and some reserves, was fleeing in all directions. Castello dell’Acquacheta, guarding the way to Arretia, was taken by enemy forces, and its garrison commander, Councilman Tomasso di Bassa Ferrosa, was fleeing to the north, taking a large body of troops with him. The aging Podesta, surrounded by his escort of mounted Sergeants lamentated: “Ach, they all hath deserted me. Woe to me, and to our proud city!”
Armatore Collardo di Callevilla, followed by a fresh company, was searching enemies around Ripe, when he heard the sounds of battle, and hard Swadian voices shouting commands. He concluded that friendly forces were fighting Swadians in the village, and led his troops on a flanking move. Bringing his soldiers behind the phalanx, he advanced. They were spotted by the Swadian skirmishers, who fired a volley at them, thus alerting their leaders. Holger turned his horse around, immediately saw the danger, and roared at his Landsknechts: “Three rear ranks, turn around! Shooters, draw swords! Come on, noble Knights! Charge!” He spurred his horse forward, hastily followed by his ‘noble’ lieutenants, and rode right into the approaching Zenoese. Their advance was halted, as their front ranks were thrown into confusion by the sudden counter-attack, and the Swadian rear ranks were able to make their turn in good order. The shooters took their place before them, taking the place of the Doppelsöldner in the rear with their short swords drawn. Holger saw over his shoulder that his men were ready, and turned around, still hacking around with his long sword. “That’s enough, Knights! Turn back and break off! Follow me!” Followed by most of his lieutenants, who were still alive, he rode through the rear ranks of his company which raised their pikes, and stopped in the middle of their square. He dismounted, and his surviving officers followed suit. Attacked by enemy infantry from two sides, and protected by the houses on the other two, he was effectively surrounded. But it was a good position. As long as he had at least two ranks left, no enemy would pass them.
The heavily armored horseman, a mercenary of the city, gave his message to the captain, who looked a little upset after reading it. The Gouvernor looked at him, and asked annoyed: “What’s up, Francesco? Lost your grip on your men again?” Capitano Francesco Bussone responded “Those rats have sent new troops. Some overseas mercenaries who surprised my men in Ripe. Quite heavy losses, I read. For my men. It seems we’ve got an obstacle there…” Gouvernor Boccanegra pointed at a squadron heavy mercenary cavalry nearby, the Bermianese Hired Lances. “I’m quite prepared to remove any *obstacle* in our way, gentlemen. Maybe it won’t be necessary, but I’d rather be sure. Now…”, he raised his baton, and Armatore Clemente di Promontorio placed himself at the horsemen’s head, “…forward. Our noble city of Zena places its trust on you, noble souls. Wipe those foreigners from the field.” He pointed his baton forward, and the cavalry set off. They trotted over the muddy path, experienced human tanks clad in heavy steel.
Emile, the Zenoese Assaltore, knew he was as much in trouble as a soldier could be: trapped between a hedge of pikes and his comrades, still pressing forward. He hid his body behind his board shield, and pushed forward. He ignored the pikes going through his greaves piercing his legs, and still stumbled forward, gripping his axe ready for a slash when – or rather, if – he reached the Swadians. Another pike went through his shield, and impaled his shield-arm on it. He stubbornly tried to advance, pushed from behind, but he simply couldn’t, being held in place by the pike. He desperately tried to free himself from it, but a Doppelsoldner stepped forward and, after splintering Emile’s axe, cut the helpless soldier down. The other Zenoese trying to break through met a similar fate, and their losses began to mount quickly. Suddenly, they broke ranks and retreated. They rallied outside the village, but, being ordered to attack again by their commander, they refused to move. Meanwhile, the Zenoese at the other side of the phalanx didn’t know what was happening and fought on, receiving many casualties too.
“You must return to the battlefield immediately. Some of your soldiers are still somewhere out there!” Councilman Albertuccio da Borgoveccio stared at the speaker, and angrily responded: “I must? I *must* return to Arretia! My wife and children are there, trusting our feeble, old, worthless Podesta to protect them! I’ll take them out of that trap there before those pirates sack the cursed place. You know what they do to women?! SHUT UP. Get out of my way now, or I’ll see it as my duty of husband to gut you like a pig.” With a sad face, Messer Volpello degli Alti Crepacci, son of a wealthy merchant and horseman in Arretia’s army, moved his horse to the side. The Councilman galloped away, towards the seemingly doomed city. Volpello rode around, trying to find and rally some friendly troops. But he got lost in the mist.
The column of heavy cavalry halted at the sight of the village, seeing the Swadians driving off the second troop of Zenoese. Armatore di Promontorio noticed some of the houses were still on fire, and hesitated to order the charge. He thought the horses would be scared by the fire and spread confusion. But his men were eager for battle, and urged them to advance. Sighing, the Armatore gave in, lowered his visor and raised his sword. “Charge.”
The enemy infantry was in full retreat, and Holger used this respite to drag the wounded into the middle of the square, where the drummers and standard-bearers were too, and to reform the lines. At a shout by one of his lieutenants, he turned toward the south, and saw the mass of cavalry coming his way. Without orders, his men leveled their pikes again, and braced for the impact. The Doppelsöldner kneeled, and rested the ends of the handles of their Zweihanders on the ground. They didn’t need any encouragements; They knew they had to stand or die.
“Forward. Forward. Forward!” The Armatore urged his men forward, and kept his gaze locked at the enemies. He heard the whinnies behind him and the curses of horsemen, and he knew without looking that some horses were scared off by the fire, causing disorder in the ranks. As he still stormed forward, he saw the Swadians holding their ground, formed in a closed and fearsome formation. Other, less steadfast troops would’ve been routed at the sight of his cavalry, but the attitude of his opponents showed that they were calm, and sure of victory. He saw grinning faces above rough beards, and the next moment his horse impaled itself on a pike, and another ran through his upper right leg. He heard horses and men die, and saw only mud. Lying on the ground, he was knocked out by a stroke of a Zweihander while his men were butchered. They and their horses were impaled on pikes, some horses refused to run into them, while others ran amok riderless. Some horsemen managed to get through the chaos, but were isolated and pulled from their horses. Within a minute, a wall of dead horses and horsemen laid before the pikes, and the other cavalry couldn’t get their steeds over it. “Advance!” the Swadian captain shouted, and, to the cavalry’s terror, the wall of pikes came closer. The Swadian rear ranks still walked backwards, all on the beats of the drums. The phalanx drove the cavalry backwards, and then out of the village. Between heaps of corpses, the Landsknechts still held their ground.
Messer Volpello degli Alti Crepacci, trying to find out where he was, had just narrowly escaped from some Zenoese infantry appearing out of the fog. Now, he approached the village. He saw some houses on fire, and he spotted a few peasants hiding in some ruins. Then he saw the Landsknechts, a large square of big pikemen and Doppelsöldner, with in its middle the drummers, officers and two standard-bearers. One of the flags was the standard of Arretia, and Volpello recognised them as friendly troops. He rode towards the officers. “Hail, friends. You must be brave men to hold this place while the others flee.” Holger, whose arm was bound with his scarf because and crossbow bolt had pierced it, bowed and took off his hat. “We’ve got our orders, friend. Did you see any enemies around?” The Bermianese told the captain all he knew, and the latter said: “Right. I’m going to take the fight to the enemy. You’d better stay with us, small man.” With some shouts, he formed his company again, and, leaving the wounded with a small guard at the village, they marched south.
The Zenoese companies, pursuing a fleeing foe, one by one were attacked by the Swadian Gevierthafen coming from the north. Those parties, who were mostly smaller in size than the Swadians’, were caught by surprise, and weren’t hard to drive off. While they moved further, panic spread in their foe’s ranks, and by nightfall they had reached the ford near Castello dell’Aquacheta, the old border between Zena and Arretia. Aided by the mist as well as their stubbornness in battle, Holger’s Landsknechts had won the battle of Ripe. Only the next day Podesta Ezzelino Dalla Langa, who had fled to Arretia too, heard of the victory of his troops.