Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 254: Entirely Surrounded

The Grand Council Chamber of Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

Emperor Basil the First stared blankly at the massive map of the known world painted across the domed ceiling.

Though Basil was a man in the prime of his life, possessing the legendary vitality that had allowed him to violently seize the Byzantine throne, the last few weeks had aged him a full decade.

This rapid physical deterioration was in stark, terrifying contrast to Vanguard Commander Bjorn, the man actively dismantling Basil’s empire from the east. According to the panicked, half-mad spies who had managed to flee the Anatolian slaughter, the Viking warlord looked like a man thoroughly enjoying a leisurely autumn hunt, radiating an aura of youthful violence despite the immense logistical burden of an overseas campaign.

When Basil had first launched his heavily armored Cataphracts across the Anatolian plains, it was supposed to be a glorious, highly opportunistic land grab.

The Abbasid Caliphate was entirely distracted by the migrating Tang expeditionary force, leaving their richest frontier cities ripe for the picking. It was a flawless, traditional military strategy that should have secured Basil’s legacy as a brilliant, conquering emperor.

Instead, he had unknowingly marched the pride of the Byzantine military directly into an industrialized meat grinder.

The invincible Roman heavy cavalry had been completely eradicated in a single afternoon. They had been instantly vaporized by high-explosive, rifled artillery fired from an impossible distance.

Since that horrifying day, the geopolitical reality of the Mediterranean had completely collapsed.

They had aggressively counter-attacked with a level of mechanized brutality that defied all human comprehension.

The economic situation was equally disastrous. Constantinople relied heavily on the eastern trade routes flowing through the Levant to fund its massive standing armies and lavish palaces.

But the moment the Viking ironclads dropped anchor on the coastline, those routes were permanently severed. The Iron Empire simply blew up any merchant vessel that didn’t immediately fly the Lion Banner.

If the absolute destruction of his elite cavalry wasn’t bad enough, the wealthy, highly fortified provincial capital of Caesarea had been completely reduced to a smoldering, cratered ash heap. The psychological terror inflicted by that single, merciless bombardment had completely paralyzed the remaining Byzantine garrisons.

Furthermore, the fractured Christian kingdoms to the far west were actively cheering for the Iron Empire, viewing the steam-powered northerners not as conquerors, but as divine instruments sent to punish Constantinople for its centuries of arrogant taxed dominance over the Mediterranean theater.

No matter how Emperor Basil paced his opulent chambers, or how many sleepless nights he spent consulting his most brilliant, highly educated tacticians, he simply could not formulate a counter-strategy against an enemy that fought with exploding iron and supersonic lead.

Negotiating a favorable peace treaty was entirely out of the question. The Iron Father had made his demands crystal clear: absolute surrender, the immediate dissolution of the Byzantine monarchy, and the complete integration of the empire’s population into the northern industrial labor force.

To Basil, submitting to a man who wore wolf pelts and worshipped machines was a fate far worse than death.

While Basil was silently suffocating under this mountain of geopolitical despair, the doors of the council chamber creaked open. The Supreme Domestikos, the highest-ranking general of the surviving Byzantine infantry, stepped into the room.

The general’s face was completely devoid of color, looking like a man who had just witnessed the gates of the underworld swinging open.

"Speak, Domestikos." Basil commanded.

"Tell me exactly how much more of my empire has been swallowed by the smoke today."

The Domestikos bowed stiffly, "My Emperor, I bring dire tidings from the western approaches of the city. The Viking Vanguard has bypassed the outer Anatolian forts entirely. They simply destroyed the primary gates with a single volley of their... their thunder-tubes... and continued marching."

Basil squeezed his eyes shut, "And where is this mechanized detachment now?"

"They have cut off the primary retreat route for our Second Infantry Division," the Domestikos reported.

"Our men are currently trapped in the narrow valleys just fifty miles from the capital. They cannot push forward to reinforce the city walls, and they cannot retreat. They are entirely surrounded."

Basil opened his eyes, staring blankly at the map. "They have two options, then. They can surrender to the Viking commander, or they can attempt to break the encirclement and fight their way home."

The Domestikos swallowed hard, "I fear, my Emperor, that neither option is viable. You know exactly what kind of man leads this Vanguard detachment, do you not?"

Basil did not answer immediately. He knew perfectly well who Vanguard Commander Bjorn was. He didn’t need his general to spell out the grim reality, but he forced himself to maintain a facade of cold control.

While King Ragnar often spoke of building a better future and protecting the common man, his commanders were ruthlessly pragmatic. They were currently fighting an overseas war of rapid expansion, and they did not have the food, the manpower, or the patience to manage tens of thousands of Byzantine prisoners of war.

The concept of ’honorable surrender’ was entirely subjective in the eyes of the Vanguard.

If a localized Arab village submitted peacefully, they were integrated and protected. But if a professional, standing army attempted to surrender only after they were completely surrounded and outgunned, Bjorn was highly likely to view that surrender not as an act of genuine submission, but as a cowardly convenience.

Furthermore, the brutal, unadulterated massacre of Caesarea had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Viking forces were more than willing to utilize their high-explosive artillery on highly concentrated targets simply to make a geopolitical point.

Therefore, the trapped Byzantine Second Infantry Division was essentially caught between the anvil of certain death and the hammer of absolute annihilation.

If they fought, they would be ripped apart by supersonic shrapnel. If they surrendered, they were highly likely to be lined up and executed by repeating muskets to save the Iron Empire the trouble of feeding them.

The Supreme Domestikos looked at his Emperor, "What are your orders, Majesty? Do we send riders to negotiate a parley? Do we beg for their lives?"

Emperor Basil the First stared at the flickering map on the ceiling for a long moment.

A sigh escaped Basil’s lips.

"There will be no parley," Basil commanded. "Send a specialized messenger pigeon to the trapped division immediately. Tell the commanders that they are hereby ordered to fight until the very last man falls."

The Domestikos gasped, "But Majesty! That is a death sentence for twenty thousand loyal men! They cannot possibly break the Viking lines!"

"I am entirely aware of that fact, General!" Basil roared, finally losing his tenuous grip on his composure.

"If they surrender, they will likely be slaughtered anyway, and their cowardice will stain the history of this empire forever! But if they charge the Viking guns, if they force the enemy to expend their precious explosive powder to kill them, they will die as martyrs of Constantinople!"

"Any officer who attempts to raise a white flag is to be immediately executed by his peers!"

"They will charge the Iron Empire, and they will choke the Viking guns with their own corpses! There shall be no surrender, and there shall be absolutely no retreat! Is that completely understood?"

The Supreme Domestikos could not formulate a single word of protest. He simply bowed his head.

"It is understood, my Emperor," the general whispered, slowly backing out of the grand chamber.

Left alone in the silence of his opulent throne room, Emperor Basil collapsed back into his chair.

He covered his prematurely aged face with his trembling hands, fully realizing that he had just condemned thousands of his own men to a brutal death simply to preserve a fraction of his shattered pride.

***

The Anatolian Valley, Outskirts of the Byzantine Capital

The heavily armored Byzantine Second Infantry Division, which had been permanently trapped in the narrow mountain pass, was completely eradicated. They had chosen to blindly follow Emperor Basil’s foolish, desperate orders to charge the Viking gunlines rather than peacefully throwing down their weapons.

Vanguard Commander Bjorn stood upon a small, grassy hill overlooking the smoking valley, shaking his head.

Thus, the legendary, ancient military might of the Roman legacy lay shattered across the dirt, effortlessly ripped apart by the volley fire of Bessemer steel repeating rifles and the devastating, high-explosive impact of mobile mortar shells.

What’s more, their fallen bodies were a tragic testament to the sheer stupidity of medieval autocracy. While the Iron Empire operated on the firm belief that every single human life was a highly valuable labor resource meant to build factories and lay railways, the Byzantine Emperor clearly viewed his own loyal men as disposable meat.

These brave, traditional soldiers had been violently pressed forward into a mechanized meat grinder by an arrogant ruler who was entirely unworthy of the immense power he wielded.

Moreover, because the Iron Father, King Ragnar, had specifically designed his military doctrine around preserving life and maximizing industrial output, Bjorn found it incredibly difficult to harbor any genuine, dramatic hatred for the fallen enemy.

He simply felt a deep annoyance at the terrible waste of potential manpower.

Stopping near the center of the valley, Bjorn noticed the sacred banner of the Byzantine Empire.

"This is incredibly high-quality silk..." Bjorn murmured to himself, entirely ignoring the symbolic weight of the ancient flag.

"Otherwise, it would have torn completely during the artillery barrage. The textile factories back in City Titan could absolutely reverse-engineer this weaving pattern."

At that exact moment, Captain Ulf, a towering Viking Grenadier, jogged over to his commander. Ulf looked at Bjorn with a highly curious, raised eyebrow before asking a completely mundane, everyday question.

"Commander, the steam-boiler on the fourth transport tractor is running a bit hot. Do you want me to vent the primary pressure valves?"