After capturing Genoa, Vig convened another war council.
He intended to leave a small garrison behind to hold the city while the main force pushed north into the Po Valley, destroying the scattered Frankish forces and securing a stable rear area.
To reach the valley from Genoa, the army would have to cross a region of rugged hills.
Vig expected the Franks to exploit the terrain by establishing defensive positions to slow his advance.
His solution was to divide the army.
They would march north along three separate routes.
Even if the Franks blocked one column, they could not stop the entire army.
"The intelligence gathered from our prisoners indicates that the Frankish remnant has only twenty to thirty thousand troops. Even if they commit every soldier they have, they won't be able to defeat any one of our columns."
"What do you think?"
None of the generals objected.
Their army held overwhelming superiority in numbers, equipment, training, and organization.
None of them could think of any plausible way to lose.
At the beginning of July, the seventy-thousand-man army split into three columns.
Vig personally led the central force out through Genoa's northern gate, advancing slowly along an ancient Roman road.
As they continued, the terrain grew increasingly rugged.
Dense forests stretched ahead, filled with oaks, beeches, and pines.
Occasionally dark figures flickered among the trees.
"Find the Frankish scouts.
Eliminate them."
Upon receiving the order, the two divisional mountain infantry battalions broke formation.
Operating in fourteen-man squads, they disappeared one after another into the gloomy forest like countless streams flowing into the sea.
Before long, ominous sounds echoed from deep within the woods.
Flocks of startled birds burst from the treetops and scattered into the sky.
"So many of them?"
Stroking his chin, Vig ordered every mountain infantry company attached to the infantry regiments into the forest as reinforcements.
With fresh troops arriving, the mountain infantry quickly shifted from defense to offense.
Every Viking soldier wore light brigandine armor.
Fewer than half of the Frankish skirmishers had any armor at all.
Moreover, each Viking squad carried a compass, allowing them to maintain their bearings and coordinate far more effectively than their opponents.
In less than half an hour, the sounds of fighting gradually faded.
The main Viking army resumed its march through the mountain pass.
By afternoon, the setting sun stretched long shadows across the road.
After rounding a hillside, the column came to an abrupt halt.
A stone fortress blocked the way ahead.
At least a thousand soldiers garrisoned its walls.
Outside stood a defensive ditch lined with freshly planted sharpened stakes.
"They even built a stone fortress in a place like this?"
Vig was genuinely impressed by the Frankish determination.
He silently thanked himself for bringing artillery.
Otherwise, these endless fortresses would have bled his army dry.
A long war horn echoed across the mountains.
Company officers roared commands like rolling thunder.
Within moments, the marching column expanded outward into battle formation.
Some time later, the perspiring artillery colonel finally brought up twelve bronze cannons, lining them up across an open field.
The guns opened fire on the fortress walls three hundred meters away.
By evening, Viking infantry had stormed into the fortress.
The Frankish defenders continued resisting until nightfall before finally withdrawing.
The following day, Vig encountered two more fortified positions.
His advance slowed dramatically.
Not until noon on the third day did the Viking army finally emerge from the hills and enter the heart of northern Italy—
The Po Valley.
One day's march farther north brought the army to the southern bank of the Po River.
Mounted scouts searched the surrounding area.
Every pontoon bridge upstream and downstream had been burned.
Only a handful of scattered ferries remained.
"That's enough."
Leaving five thousand men behind to capture two nearby towns, Vig led the main army in search of a suitable crossing.
On July 8, he reached a relatively calm stretch of river.
Across the water, more than three thousand soldiers waited on the opposite bank.
A yellow banner bearing a flying dragon fluttered above them.
"The banner of Wessex?"
After thinking for a moment, Vig remembered hearing from prisoners that Alfred, heir to Wessex, was serving with the Frankish army.
He was probably standing across the river at this very moment.
Seventeen years earlier, when Ragnar had appointed Vig as chancellor, Æthelwulf had also served in the royal council.
His youngest son, Alfred, had often played around the palace with Ubbe, Sigurd, and the others.
Vig had crossed paths with the boy several times.
The memory remained surprisingly vivid.
How quickly time had passed.
On the northern bank, Alfred stared at the familiar black dragon banner.
His spirits immediately sank.
Clutching the silver cross hanging around his neck, he whispered a quiet prayer before forcing himself to regain his composure.
"Hurry!
Before the Viking artillery catches up, have the men dig trenches!"
The riverside soil was soft.
Combined with yesterday's rainfall, digging progressed quickly.
After a little more than an hour, every soldier had excavated a trench roughly 0.8 meters deep.
At that moment, the Viking artillery finished deploying on the southern bank.
Separated by two hundred meters of river, the bronze cannons opened fire one after another.
The glowing iron balls slammed into the soft earth.
Instead of ricocheting, they simply buried themselves in the loose soil.
"Don't just stand there!
Keep digging!
The deeper your trench, the better your chances of surviving!"
As he spoke, a cannonball landed not far from Alfred.
After watching it for a moment, he nudged the still-hot iron ball aside with his shovel and let out a long sigh.
After more than a month of war, the Franks had developed a basic understanding of this new weapon.
The Vikings loaded a heavy metal tube with a bag of black powder and an iron ball.
Once ignited, the iron ball was hurled forward at unimaginable speed.
Whether in power, range, or accuracy, it completely surpassed trebuchets and torsion ballistae.
According to the scholars studying the weapon, the key lay in the mysterious black powder, which burned with extraordinary violence.
Following the terminology first used by Eastern Roman sailors, they had given it a name:
Viking Fire.
"If only we could obtain the formula for Viking Fire..."
As the thunder of cannon fire continued, Alfred's thoughts raced.
Eventually, he arrived at a conclusion that left him almost despairing.
Even before these new weapons had appeared, the Serpent of the North had destroyed the Frankish Empire in just two and a half years.
Even if the Franks somehow acquired the formula, it would only bring both sides to roughly equal technological footing.
Equipment was only one part of the equation.
In every other respect, the Franks still lagged behind the Vikings.
Even with the same number of cannons...
They still wouldn't win.
At noon, Viking soldiers began attempting to cross the river.
The Frankish troops dared not leave their trenches.
They could only remain under cover, firing arrows in high arcs.
The accuracy was poor.
After the first crossing was complete, the thirty small boats returned to the southern bank.
More than two hundred Viking infantrymen clustered together on the northern shore, enduring enemy arrows while waiting for reinforcements.
Once their numbers exceeded one thousand, the Viking infantry lowered their spears and charged directly toward the Frankish central standard.
Both Frankish wings remained pinned down by artillery fire.
Unable to move, they could only watch as the trenches protecting the center collapsed.
When Alfred finally ordered a retreat, both flanks withdrew as well.
The Franks abandoned this vital river crossing...
And handed it over to the Vikings.
—------------------------------
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