by Peter Darman
The soldiers of Epiros had been trained well. As soon as the Almogavars had risen up from their sandy hollows they had instinctively locked shields and levelled their spears, before shuffling forward to take the sting out of the Catalan attack. But the assault was made by javelins thrown at their faces from close range, and within seconds the front-line centuries had been decimated. The first volley scythed down most of the front ranks, the second the remainder of the first rank and much of the second in each century. The third volley was followed by the Almogavars rushing forward to plunge their spears into the now demoralised, disorganised and depleted centuries.
Luca followed, the bliss he felt making his steps feel effortless as he closed on the faltering enemy unit in front of him. Either side of him screaming Almogavars were gripping the shafts of their spears with both hands, the points having been driven through the blue padded coats of the enemy, some having pierced shields first. Enemy soldiers went down. Others turned to beat a hasty retreat. And it was one of the latter Luca reached first, the soldier having abandoned his spear to unburden himself. But in turning he wasted valuable seconds, and in that short space of time Luca reached him and drove the point of his spear into the man’s back.
He heard Hector’s voice in his head, the result of endless hours of the older man emphasising the crucial elements when fighting with a spear.
‘A spear is long, pointy and heavier than a sword. It travels in a straight line, which means a lot of power can be put into a thrust. A spear moves fast and they have tremendous penetrative power. But beware.’
He thrust the point into the man’s back and yanked it back. The soldier momentarily froze before pitching forward face-first in the sand. The spear felt as light as a feather as iron determination flowed through his veins. He swung left and stabbed its point into the side of a soldier who had spotted him and was swinging left to plunge his own spear into his body. Too late. He heard Hector’s voice once more.
‘Don’t penetrate an enemy deeper than you have to. Most people are only about ten inches thick, the fat bastards excepted. You only need to drive the point into them a maximum of six inches to kill them, or at the very least incapacitate them.
‘Don’t bury your spear into an enemy, no matter how great the temptation. It takes an age to extract it. And on the battlefield, you don’t have time to loiter.’
The spearman went down, wounded, falling to his knees and then toppling over when another spear thrust from Jordi killed him. Luca, his jaw set rigid, moved on. But there was no one else to fight.
Unbeknown to the former shepherd, Thomas Doukas was already galloping away from the dunes. He had witnessed his droungoi moving forward in perfect step, only to see them ambushed by the Almogavars and put to flight. He could have tried to rally his now fleeing foot soldiers. He could have led his horsemen against the Catalans to put fresh heart into his tagma. But instead, he decided his life was worth more than three thousand lowly foot soldiers and quit the field.
Luca saw the backs of the fleeing blue-uniformed soldiers and made to follow them. Only to be grabbed roughly from behind.
‘Where are you going?’
Angry he had been denied the chance to add fresh kills to his tally of one and a half, he spun round, ready to fight whoever had dared to manhandle him. To see Hector daring him to challenge him. And with him was Sancho, whistle hanging around his neck, either side of them Almogavars forming up into a long line. No one was rushing forward to pursue the enemy.
‘There are still hundreds of horsemen out there, Luca,’ said Hector firmly. ‘They would like nothing more than to be let loose against a mob chasing their foot soldiers.’
Hector released him and grabbed his spear, examining the point, which was smeared with blood.
‘Did it get stuck?’
He handed it back.
‘No, lord,’ said Luca.
‘I didn’t waste my time, then.’
Sancho pointed at the two unused javelins on Luca’s back.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
They stayed there for over an hour, waiting for the return of Thomas Doukas, lord of unknown places, and his army. But neither he nor it made an appearance, and as the winter sun began to drop rapidly in the western sky, Sancho gave orders to retrieve the javelins.
Luca’s face was permanently screwed up with distaste as he went among the dead and extracted javelin points from bodies, or rather heads and necks. The Almogavars may have been taught to only use short thrusts when fighting with a spear, but they threw their javelins with force. This meant steel blades were embedded deep in skulls and brains, requiring Luca to place the sole of his left foot on a dead man’s face and prise the javelin point from the gore. Simply pulling would not suffice, and so he copied Jordi and moved the javelin shaft to and fro before extracting the point, accompanied by a ghastly squelch as he did so.
It was dark by the time he and hundreds of others had finished, huge bonfires on the beach providing illumination as he and they began the process of cleaning the javelin points of blood and gore. The onset of night brought cool temperatures, and Luca welcomed the evening meal of soupy stew of salted meat and legumes, sitting with his friend round a raging fire, one of many that had been lit along the length of the beach. He ate greedily from the wooden bowl, the day’s exertions and exhilarations having sapped his strength.
‘Would you like some more, Luca?’ asked the delightful Carla, soup ladle in hand.
He proffered his bowl. ‘Thank you, lady.’
She refilled his bowl from the cauldron hanging over the fire, the stew hot and thick. Carla refilled her son’s bowl before sitting next to her husband, who was displaying an almost tender side in the company of his wife. The appearance of Roger de Flor put a scowl back on his face. The knight flopped down beside the Almogavar commander and stared into the flames.
‘Today was most unfortunate.’
‘That is one way of describing it,’ said Sancho.
‘Would you like some stew, Roger?’ asked Carla.
‘Thank you, no. I have no appetite.’
‘What troubles you?’ probed Sancho.
Roger sighed. ‘I fear we will become pawns in the politics of the Roman Empire. It is surely no coincidence Thomas Doukas provoked a fight with us, knowing as he does we go to fight for the emperor in Constantinople.’
‘We get to fight the Muslims,’ said Sancho. ‘Surely the ruler of Epiros would welcome that.’
Roger shook his head. ‘This land used to be ruled by the emperor. We help him defeat the Muslims and evict them from his territory, he can then turn his attention to reclaiming other lost lands, including Epiros. I fear this is just a taster of the difficulties we may encounter.’
He looked up and caught sight of Luca feeding his face.
‘You survived, Black Sheep.’
Luca wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Yes, lord.’
‘You like fighting?’ Roger asked him.
‘It is better than swinging from a rope, lord,’ replied Luca without thinking.
‘Watch your tongue,’ snapped Sancho.
Roger looked at the imposing Catalan, his long face framed by the flames. He remembered their conversation in Sicily when he wanted to be rid of the shepherd who had started the battle between the Almogavars and Count Carafa. But the shepherd had shown courage and no army could have enough of that quality.
‘We are all exiles, Black Sheep,’ reflected Roger. ‘It is just as well you like fighting, because it will be many years before you will be able to return to Sicily, if ever.’
‘There is nothing for me in Sicily, lord,’ Luca told him.
‘Home can be overrated,’ mused Roger. ‘I was born in Brindisi but I have not been back in twenty-seven years. Like you, Black Sheep, there is nothing there for me now. My father died when I was an infant and my mother has also passed away. So, we are both orphans and exiles, and must forge our own destinies. The world does not care about us, so we m
ust not concern ourselves with the world.’
The flames crackled and spat, the wind blew and Luca wondered what fate had in store for him. He had been plucked from the shadow of the gallows, had already fought in two battles and was on the way to Constantinople, which he had been told was the greatest city on earth. That night he dreamed of glory, riches and making a name for himself.
The next day the Catalan Company sailed for Constantinople.
Chapter 5
Treasurer Timothy stood half-naked at the window of his bedroom, looking out over the Golden Horn, the stretch of sea that separated the city of Constantinople from Galata, formerly a suburb of the city but now a Genoese colony, much to the disgust of the city. It also housed a small Jewish community, which further enraged the citizens of Constantinople. The treasurer took a swig of wine and belched, the sound waking the occupant of his over-sized bed, who stirred in the silk sheets. He opened his eyes and smiled at the corpulent Timothy.
The treasurer looked at the boy, no more than fourteen years of age, or at least that had been the number written on the document issued by the slave market official. Young boys were becoming increasingly difficult to get hold of, another consequence of the shrinking of the territory ruled by the emperor. Timothy drained his chalice and smiled back at the boy. One had to take one’s pleasures when the opportunity presented itself. There was a knock at the door.
‘What?’ snapped Timothy.
‘The patriarch is here to see you, master,’ came the reply from behind the door.
Timothy suddenly felt deflated. After a night of debauchery, he was looking forward to a morning of debauchery. But the arrival of the patriarch put paid to his plans. And unfortunately for him, Patriarch Athanasius was not a man to be dismissed lightly.
‘Show him into the reception room,’ commanded Timothy. He pointed at the naked boy. ‘Stay where you are. I will be back.’
Normally a slave would assist him in dressing, but as time was of the essence he clothed himself, putting on an orange silk kabbadion decorated with pearls and rubies and a pair of soft leather slippers.
His mansion resembled a small palace overlooking the Golden Horn: three storeys of brick and stone, with marble floors throughout and walls adorned with murals and mosaics. The large central courtyard and surrounding gardens were filled with fountains of varying sizes, and all the bedrooms, which were located on the third floor, had their own balconies with excellent views over the city and the Golden Horn. Timothy stroked his chin and smiled. One advantage of being a eunuch was not having to shave, or rather not having a slave do it. He descended the ornate staircase to the ground floor where the reception room was located, a spacious, well-appointed chamber with views over the Golden Horn.
He found the patriarch standing beside a wooden chair with velvet upholstery, a young monk behind him. He stifled a laugh. What would be the reply, he wondered, if he asked the head of the Orthodox Church if he liked young boys, too?
‘Your eminence,’ beamed Timothy, ‘you bless this house with your presence. Will you not sit? Bring wine for his eminence.’
Patriarch Athanasius, notwithstanding the intricately embroidered tunic, called a sakkos, he wore, was an ascetic. Born in the city of Adrianople, he had been for many years a monk and hermit before being rewarded for his piety by the emperor. He was also fiercely opposed to any union of the Greek and Roman churches.
Athanasius handed his bishop’s staff to the young monk and took his seat, Timothy doing likewise. The treasurer clicked his fingers to usher slaves carrying wine, fruit, figs and pancakes into the room. The prelate turned his nose up at the wine.
‘It is a little early in the day for wine,’ he sniffed.
Timothy raised his full chalice to the patriarch. ‘Your health. How may I help you?’
‘I wanted to speak to you about these mercenaries you have hired.’
‘That the emperor has hired,’ Timothy corrected him.
The patriarch’s high forehead creased into a frown.
‘They are on their way?’
‘Indeed, your eminence, and you may be interested to know they destroyed the army of Epiros on their journey.’
Athanasius stroked his long white beard.
‘They can fight, then?’
‘Oh, yes, your eminence, they can fight.’
The patriarch brought his hands together.
‘There are some who believe hiring Catholics to fight for the true religion is an abomination, which will prompt God to abandon us.’
Timothy sighed. How he wished he was upstairs enjoying the tender flesh of the young male slave rather than listening to the prattling of this over-promoted hermit.
‘Your eminence, the empire is in a precarious position. Most of Anatolia has been overrun and large parts of the Balkans and Greece have also been lost. If we do not take drastic measures, the Muslims will be knocking at the gates of Constantinople itself.’
The patriarch was unimpressed. ‘Emperors have always turned to mercenaries as an easy option, which has often proved disastrous. The recent despicable actions of the Alans being but one example, lord treasurer. Emperors have hired Alans, Armenians, Bulgarians, Cumans, Georgians and Hungarians. And the results? We have the infidels breathing down our necks. Why should these Catholics, these Catalans, be any different?’
Timothy emptied his chalice and held it out to be refilled.
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, your eminence. With the defeat of our army at Bapheus, there are no reserves left to halt the Muslims.’
The patriarch closed his eyes.
‘That it should come to this. The fate of the Orthodox Church resting in the hands of Catholics.’
Timothy drank some more wine.
‘Another way of looking at it, your eminence, is that we are shedding Catholic blood rather than our own.’
Athanasius rolled his tired eyes. ‘A small consolation. I suppose these Catalans are charging an exorbitant fee.’
Timothy shrugged. ‘They are, but it makes no difference. The royal treasury is empty.’
The prelate leaned forward. ‘Then how are you going to pay them?’
Timothy smiled. ‘A small amount up front, the rest when they have completed their task, by which time most of them will hopefully be dead.’
‘That is a massive leap of faith, lord treasurer.’
‘We all need faith in these desperate times, eminence.’
‘Does the emperor know of the parlous state of his finances?’ enquired the patriarch.
‘He leaves the minutiae of royal finances to me, eminence,’ smiled Timothy.
‘And what if these Catalans are not all killed by the infidels?’ asked Athanasius.
‘Then the treasury will be asking the church for donations, eminence.’
The patriarch grabbed the solid gold cross hanging around his neck.
‘The church has no money, treasurer. Your officials would be wasting their time scouring churches and monasteries for gold. They would be better employed seizing the assets of the Jews and Genoese.’
Timothy wanted to laugh in the prelate’s face. He knew, as did everyone else, that the city’s churches were filled with gold and silver, notwithstanding the looting of Constantinople by the Latin crusaders a hundred years before. But no one would dare suggest to the emperor that the church should contribute to the upkeep of his crumbling empire. Andronicus believed if one prayed hard enough, money would magically appear. The hard reality was that the crown had to borrow money, from whoever was prepared to lend it, which included Jews and Genoese.
The Genoese were relative newcomers to Constantinople, having been granted their own quarter in the city two hundred and fifty years before. They had settled in Galata, a settlement at the promontory on the north side of the Golden Horn, facing Constantinople. They were allowed to have a trading colony in Galata as a reward for their services to previous emperors.
‘Have you been to Galata recently?’ asked the
patriarch.
‘No, eminence.’
‘Rosso of Finar is building a wall round the Genoese quarter.’
Rosso of Finar, the physically repugnant leader of what was increasingly becoming a self-governing colony, was the leader of the Genoese. A man prone to violent outbursts, he had a considerable number of soldiers under his command. And the Golden Horn was filled with Genoese trading ships, supplying Constantinople and making the Genoese rich. So rich, in fact, that Timothy had borrowed money from them to finance the passage of the Catalan Company from Sicily to Constantinople. But that was another matter altogether.
‘Did you not hear me, lord treasurer?’ fumed the patriarch.
According to the terms of the treaty they had signed with the emperor, the Genoese were forbidden from erecting walls around their quarter.
‘I suspect it is in response to the ever-increasing Muslim threat,’ said Timothy casually. ‘Let us pray the Catalans can reverse their advances before their siege engines are battering down the walls of this city.’
‘What of the Jews?’ pressed Athanasius.
Timothy was growing tired of this austere churchman who regarded self-denial as a virtue. He sighed.
‘What of them?’
‘They are the enemies of Christ,’ said the patriarch loudly.
Timothy shrugged. ‘They pay their taxes and cause no trouble.’
He pointed at the churchman’s richly decorated sakkos.
‘Is that silk, your eminence?’
Athanasius’ forehead creased into another frown.
‘I fail to see what that has to do with anything.’
Timothy sipped at his wine. ‘The thing is, much of the silk worn by the worthy of the city is supplied by Jewish merchants. Neither the emperor nor his court, nor I suspect your priests, would wish the supply of silk to dry up. You understand?’
