The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  He had never felt so alive, never felt so free of the crushing constrictions that had been his peasant life. He was a man reborn and reinvigorated. Every breath he took seemed to make the blood in his veins flow faster and make his reflexes sharper. As soon as his instincts had detected battle was about to erupt, he had focused on his target: a man in a stained tunic with an enormous pot belly standing a mere ten paces opposite. He held a butcher’s cleaver in his hand, a vicious weapon capable of smashing bone and slicing open stomachs, but only if its owner managed to get close to an opponent.

  Luca caught the man’s eye and winked, which prompted the fat man’s face to twist into a livid expression. Luca scratched his right ear, saw Sancho stab the Genoese leader out of the corner of his eye, plucked a javelin from the quiver he had strapped on his back while exiting the pavilion, and hurled it at the target. Normally, he would have aimed it at the man’s face, but the belly straining at his tunic was too tempting to ignore. He had already plucked a second javelin from the quiver when the steel head of the first slammed into the blubber of the fat man, disappearing into the abundant flesh on offer.

  Luca began laughing as he struck a second man in the front of his neck beside the fat man, around him Almogavars hurling javelins to create large gaps among the Genoese. The Italians had rowed across the Golden Horn looking for a fight but had bitten off more than they could chew.

  Luca threw his third javelin, into the groin of a Genoese who had raised his shield as a defence against the missiles flying through the air. He emitted a high-pitched scream and collapsed to the ground, Luca bounding forward gripping his spear with both hands, to plunge the point into his chest.

  He moved fast, Jordi on his right side, lunging left and to the front with his spear against targets that presented themselves. His eyes were everywhere: keeping watch for crossbowmen who could drop him with ease, looking for opponents to stab, and guarding his back to ensure no enemy crept up on him from behind. He stepped over the dead fat man, his feet as light as air, pivoting smartly to jab at an opponent with a sword and shield, the Genoese soldier slashing down with his blade in an attempt to splinter the shaft. But Luca was too quick for him, for the haft felt weightless in his hands. Indeed, it seemed to move according to his thoughts, and those thoughts were lightning-fast. Luca threaded the wood back through his hands so the soldier cut only air, then thrust the spear forward, letting it travel forward through his hands at speed, before grasping it firmly and lunging forward. The tip of the point pierced the soldier’s right eye, only a tiny amount but enough to send a spasm of pain through his brain. He instinctively closed his eyes, dropping his sword arm, allowing Luca to stab him in his right shoulder, an attack delivered with precision to render his sword arm useless. The soldier, now blind, staggered back. Luca, facing him, ran three paces forward, stabbed the point of his spear into the man’s throat, and then retreated smartly to stand beside Jordi once more.

  ‘They are running,’ his friend shouted in triumph.

  ‘Almogavars stand.’

  Luca heard Sancho’s command and cursed his friend’s father. He wanted to run after the fleeing Genoese, to get among them to cut down more before they reached their boats. To retain the sensation of supreme satisfaction that gripped him when he was in the pleasing embrace of combat. But the Catalans were professionals and they now formed a long line on either side of their commander, their ranks bristling with bloody spears. He growled in frustration.

  ‘Are you hurt, Luca?’ asked a concerned Jordi.

  ‘Just frustrated.’

  He nearly lost his footing with a hand slapped him hard on the back.

  ‘Your third battle and not a scratch on you.’

  He turned to see Hector behind him.

  ‘Looks like you listened to all that wisdom I imparted during training.’

  ‘We should pursue and finish them,’ said Luca.

  Hector laughed. ‘They are our allies, or should be. This is a strange land and no mistake.’

  For the loss of twenty-four men, three thousand Genoese had been killed in the emperor’s grounds on the day Roger de Flor married the young niece of Andronicus and the citizens of Constantinople gave thanks to God for the arrival of the Catalan Company, which would deliver them from the infidels.

  *****

  In the aftermath of the outbreak of violence at the palace, newly created Grand Duke Roger moved the Catalan Company outside Constantinople, having persuaded them not to cross over the Golden Horn and ransack Galata. The emperor had been appalled and had withdrawn to his private chambers to grieve for the deaths of the Genoese, leaving his son in control.

  Michael was now in his mid-twenties, having been co-emperor since his eighteenth birthday. His father had thought the idea of two rulers would both ease his own burden and allow his son to become familiar with the administration of the empire, what was left of it, and for the first few years the arrangement worked well enough. But Michael found his father’s prevarications increasingly irksome, especially in the face of the seemingly unstoppable Muslim advance.

  ‘Treasurer Timothy to see you, excellency.’

  The portly eunuch swept into the throne room and bowed to Michael.

  ‘Excellency,’ smiled Timothy, ‘I trust your father is recovering.’

  Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘He will be assuming his duties in a few days, I have no doubt. What of our Catalan friends?’

  ‘Grand Duke Roger has removed them outside the city, after he had ordered them to remove the Genoese dead from the palace and inter them.’

  ‘So, Rosso is dead.’

  Timothy assumed a relieved expression. ‘If it is not too seditious to say so, excellency, I believe his demise is most fortuitous for us.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The treasury owed a great deal of money to Rosso, excellency, which it would have been unable to pay if it is to subsidise the Catalan Company. The debt to Rosso dies with him, excellency, as it was he rather than the Republic of Genoa which loaned us the money.’

  Michael smiled. ‘How fortunate. I trust we have money to pay the Catalan Company, since I have no desire to see Constantinople ransacked.’

  ‘Yes, excellency,’ said Timothy, ‘but it may be prudent to move them to a place where they can do more damage to the enemy than to ourselves.’

  ‘Such as where?’

  ‘The Artake Peninsula, excellency,’ replied Timothy.

  The peninsula lay on the southern shore of the Sea of Marmara, southwest of Constantinople.

  ‘That would mean they would be cut off from the city,’ remarked Michael.

  ‘But Grand Duke Roger has his own ships, excellency, which will allow him and his soldiers to maintain contact with the city, and to place the Catalans on the peninsula would give heart to our beleaguered cities in western Anatolia.’

  Michael pondered the suggestion for a minute.

  ‘What does General Mouzalon say about your proposal?’

  ‘The general left the city this morning, excellency, to organise the army for a fresh offensive against the Muslims.’

  Michael gave the overweight treasurer a wry look. They both knew that the army was incapable of mounting offensive actions in the wake of the disaster at Bapheus.

  ‘You mean he is gone to keep an eye on our Alan allies who might be tempted to pillage our lands.’

  Timothy shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  ‘I will take your silence as confirmation,’ said Michael. ‘It might be wise to move the Alans south to Artake as well. To keep all our mercenaries in one place, as it were. And I want them fighting Muslims instead of our own troops.’

  ‘It shall be as you desire, excellency.’

  ‘We stand on the edge of a precipice, lord treasurer,’ lamented Michael. ‘If we fail to halt the advance of the Muslims, Constantinople will become a Muslim city and a thousand years of history and culture will be lost to the world. Impress that upon our Catalan allies.’

  Chapt
er 6

  The Turcomans – Turks – had originally hailed from the vast region between the Caspian Sea and China, a nomadic people that had moved into Anatolia and which would embrace the religion of Islam. These first Turcomans were called Seljuk Turks, and with each victory they expanded their territory at the expense of the Roman emperors of Constantinople. Indeed, they called themselves the Seljuks of Rum – ‘Rum’ signifying ‘Eastern Rome’. But just as the Seljuks had been conquerors, so were they in turn conquered, by the Mongols. Their once-great sultan in Baghdad became a mere vassal of the Mongols, which resulted in the Seljuk areas in Anatolia fracturing into a number of self-governing Muslim emirates.

  These kingdoms were called beyliks, being controlled by beys, meaning ‘chieftains’. The absence of any central authority meant individual beys often competed with each other, notwithstanding they all followed the Muslim faith. Notions of a holy war against the Christians were all very well, but no bey would willingly give up his increasing power to another, especially after they began calling themselves emir, meaning ‘high king’.

  Karesi Bey stood with arms folded staring at the city of Bergama, his new capital captured the year before from the Romans. Bergama was an ancient settlement, the first buildings being built on the steep-sided hill overlooking the rest of the city. These buildings were eventually turned into an acropolis, housing temples to the Goddess Athena, the God Dionysus and the Roman emperor Trajan, a huge library and an impressive palace. The temples had been destroyed long ago but the palace, with its courtyard and many spacious rooms, had been preserved by the Romans. Now the flag of Karesi Bey – a red banner emblazoned with a golden sword, fluttered from the emir’s new residence.

  He had always been a warrior, ever since he had accompanied his uncle on campaign when a boy, cleaning armour and being taken on tours of the aftermath of battles where he saw the twisted, mutilated bodies of the dead. This had hardened him to war, which he practised in the years afterwards as his father and uncle fought the Christians and rival Muslim beys. His uncle had fallen in battle and his father had died in middle age, leaving him and his brother to fight for the right to rule the so-called Karesi Emirate. In the deciding battle his older brother was on the verge of a crushing victory, but the intervention of a third force tipped the scales in his favour. He won the battle, his brother was slain and Karesi Bey became emir.

  His deliverance had been at the hands of ghazis – ‘fighters of the faith’ – led by a mystic who had been instructed by the Prophet Muhammad to intervene in the battle to ensure Karesi Bey became emir.

  ‘Adviser Arslan to see you, excellency.’

  The officer of the guard bowed his head when Karesi turned his gaze away from the city below. He walked from the balcony into the spacious throne room where decorators were painting over the murals depicting victories achieved by previous emperors of Constantinople. He walked to the elaborate throne and sat himself on it.

  ‘Show him in.’

  Karesi suddenly felt conspicuous in his red cashmere kaftan and white loose trousers, knowing his adviser and right-hand man frowned upon such ostentatiousness. His adviser did indeed raise an eyebrow when he walked into the chamber, nodding approvingly at the decorators painting over the scenes of apostasy. He stood before the throne and tipped his head in the mere hint of a bow. Compared to the fine attire of the emir, he looked like a beggar, and an impoverished one at that.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the theatre,’ said the beggar.

  Karesi was surprised. ‘The theatre?’

  The ancient Greek theatre at Bergama was a marvel of engineering. Sited against the sheer acropolis hillside, it was the steepest theatre in the world.

  ‘When is it going to be destroyed?’

  Karesi sighed. ‘I have no plans to destroy it.’

  The adviser’s brow creased into a glare.

  ‘Entertainments detract from devotion to God and encourage debauchery.’

  Karesi wanted to laugh but knew to do so would only incur further wrath from the fierce Izzeddin Arslan. To look at he was insignificant, being slight of build with a gaunt face, straggly hair and beard and threadbare apparel, which looked so out of place in the grand palace that until recently had been the abode of kings and emperors.

  ‘I will forbid performances in the theatre until I have given the matter more consideration,’ said Karesi. ‘But I have neither the resources nor the inclination to order its destruction.’

  Izzeddin mumbled under his breath but did not contradict the emir. But he managed a smile when he turned his angry eyes to the murals being painted over.

  ‘It is good you are removing the idolatrous images of the unbelievers, lord.’

  Karesi smiled. Izzeddin only called him ‘lord’ when he was undertaking actions his adviser approved of. Many would have dismissed the wild holy man for his insolence and carping comments, but Izzeddin Arslan was a valuable ally.

  A member of the Sufi brand of Islam, like his fellow adherents he abstained from worldly pleasures, embracing a frugal, devout lifestyle. The word ‘Sufi’ came from the Arabic word suf, meaning ‘wool’, in reference to the traditional rough woollen cloaks Sufis wore. And Karesi was conscious the holy man had saved his life after he and his followers had interceded on his behalf during the battle against his brother’s army.

  ‘Will you take refreshment?’ asked Karesi, the holy man glaring at the slave who walked forward with a silver tray on which was a beautiful gold chalice filled with wine.

  ‘Such trinkets are a distraction from our true purpose,’ remarked Izzeddin, waving the slave away.

  ‘Which is?’ probed Karesi, accepting another chalice proffered by a second slave.

  ‘To drive the disbelievers into the sea,’ hissed Izzeddin.

  Karesi knew what he was alluding to: the Artake Peninsula, the last remaining Christian foothold in his emirate.

  ‘My followers need land to settle on,’ remarked the holy man.

  Karesi’s ears pricked up. The thousands of ghazi fighters camped near his new capital made him feel like he was living adjacent to a volatile volcano. He had always considered himself a religious man, but the soldiers of Izzeddin Arslan were fanatics, and fanatics were dangerous. When they and the rest of his army had surrounded Bergama, the intention had been to starve out the Christian defenders. He had no siege engines and knew assaulting defended walls would inevitably incur heavy casualties. But Izzeddin had no such reluctance and hurled his warriors against the walls, equipped only with scaling ladders and their small round shields for protection. Hundreds had died at the hands of archers on the walls, but such was the unrelenting ferocity of the assault that the walls were breached.

  Horror ensued.

  The ghazis spared no one. Infants were ripped from their mothers’ arms and hurled against rocks. Women and young girls, usually raped before being enslaved when a city fell, were cut down without mercy. Bergama soon became filled from one end to the other with dead. The paved roads were replaced with carpets of dead as the ghazis vented their anger against the unbelievers. When Karesi entered the city, he had to use his own troops to protect those citizens and defenders still alive who wanted to surrender. He was no stranger to the face of battle but he was appalled by what he saw that day, not least because he intended to make Bergama his capital. But what use was a city without citizens?

  It took weeks to clear the city of the dead, to wash away blood from walls and streets, and repair the damage wreaked by the ghazis. He had insisted the holy warriors withdraw from the city and make camp beyond its walls, placing guards around the acropolis, which had mercifully been untouched by the ghazis, who had been distracted by slaughtering the hapless citizens of Bergama rather than seizing the heart of the city.

  ‘They cannot live in tents forever,’ said Izzeddin.

  ‘I agree, but the Christians will not surrender Artake lightly. In addition, it will take time to assemble the army, which is scattered throughout the emirate.�
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  ‘With your permission, lord,’ said Izzeddin, ‘I would like to attack Artake with the Fighters of the Faith. They succeeded against the walls of this city, and with Allah’s blessing they will seize Artake.’

  ‘You will have no horsemen and few missile troops,’ cautioned Karesi. ‘Even if the Christians are outnumbered, if they attack with their mounted soldiers, your followers will suffer greatly.’

  Izzeddin dismissed the warning. ‘Allah will be our shield, lord, against which the spears of the enemy will be useless.’

  ‘I do not wish a repeat of the atrocities committed in Bergama, Izzeddin,’ said Karesi sternly.

  The holy man bristled at the words. ‘It is the duty of believers to enforce Allah’s will.’

  Karesi tossed his empty chalice at a slave, stood and approached the holy man slowly. Izzeddin Arslan was scrawny and of medium height, whereas Karesi was tall and fearsome, especially with his saturnine face. He halted and looked the holy man in the eyes.

  ‘God is also just and merciful and would wish those who are subjected to His authority to be given the chance to convert before they are sent to hell. I ask you this. What use is a land emptied of people? In any case, the farmers who now work the land on the Artake Peninsular will be needed if your warriors are not to starve during the winter.’

  The holy man had clearly not considered this and nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘When Allah commanded me to aid you in your fight against your ungodly brother, I initially wondered why He should do so. You were, after all, but one among a number of emirs in this land formally ruled by the Seljuks. But your great victory at this city and your foresight regarding the fate of the people of Artake have shown you to be a true visionary. Praise God.’

  ‘Praise God, indeed,’ said Karesi, thankful the holy man had not launched into a long and tedious sermon.

  Izzeddin bowed his head. ‘I will head for Artake immediately, lord.’

  ‘It might be more prudent to wait until I have assembled the army,’ cautioned Karesi, suddenly concerned he might lose his adviser and half his army in an ill-considered adventure.