A thunderous roar erupted as the Sultan's heavy cavalry charged. Hundreds of armoured riders, scimitars gleaming, spurred their steeds forward, hooves pounding the earth like war drums. Scarlet and gold banners snapped overhead, and the Sultan's fierce war cry rose above the clamour. The Turkish line thundered toward the gate, where three hundred Roman infantries braced behind shields and spears. Dust filled the air, steel rang against metal, and in that moment, the fate of Nikomedia hung in the balance.
If, just if, the Turkish calvaries, with their morale upright, equipment sharpened, are to penetrate through the weak defences of the Roman infantries, and stampede through the crowd of refugees, the battle for the city would be immediately deemed as lost, with nothing else that anyone - even if the emperor himself are to descend into the premise, can do anything to help.
