The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  The cry went up. ‘Kidnappers are abducting a woman. To arms.’

  Luca and Jordi did not understand the Greek voices but they recognised the intentions of a pack of angry pursuers well enough. They hastened their steps, the woman stumbling as they left the street to enter a wider thoroughfare, at the end of which, rising above the city, was the Blachernae Palace.

  Luca and Jordi were in a foreign city but they both recognised the palace where they had been feasted a couple of months before, and the bloodbath they had both taken part in when the Genoese had interrupted their celebrations.

  ‘We must get her to the palace,’ said Luca, the woman, ashen faced, nodding frantically.

  The crowd pursuing them had grown considerably, several dozen mostly men walking at a brisk pace behind them. Several were armed with knives, others with clubs, and Luca knew they would reach them in a couple of minutes or so. He also knew the woman and Jordi could reach the palace if their pursuers were diverted. He released the woman’s arm and turned to face the crowd.

  ‘Get her to the palace,’ he said to Jordi.

  ‘Not without you,’ his friend shot back.

  ‘I will divert them, Jordi. Otherwise we both die here.’

  Jordi was going to remonstrate with his friend but stopped when a trumpet sounded, stopping the crowd in its tracks. Luca smiled when he saw a dozen Varangian Guards marching towards him, axes in hand. The officer at the head of the soldiers barked a command in Greek that scattered the crowd, sending it back from whence it came. Jordi grinned at his friend.

  ‘That was a close call.’

  His smiled disappeared when two of the Varangians grabbed his arms and forced him on to his knees, two others doing likewise to Luca. The officer barked another order and two Varangians stepped forward gripping their axes with both hands, ready to lop off the heads of Luca and Jordi. Now the woman found her voice, shouting at the officer, who frowned, pointed at the two Almogavars and shouted at his Varangians, who released them.

  The woman, previously in shock and mute, issued a blistering tirade at the officer and his men, all of whom went down on one knee before her. Luca wished he could understand Greek because it was a marvel to witness élite soldiers being reduced to looking like chastised children. She then turned to Luca and Jordi.

  ‘I have just informed this insolent oaf that had it not been for your bravery, I would have certainly been robbed, and perhaps murdered. I am in your debt, as is the emperor.’

  She snapped at the Varangians, who as one rose to their feet and fell in behind her as she linked arms with Luca and Jordi and commanded them to tell her all about themselves. They did so as the armed party ambled towards the palace, the guards at the gatehouse snapping to attention as she passed them. A flustered court official in a flowing blue robe, yellow belt and red and gold hat, came from one of the towers, babbling incoherently at the woman. He also bowed his head at her, indicating she was of some importance.

  ‘Speak Italian,’ she told the man.

  Luca was impressed by the way he effortlessly changed from speaking one language to another, also making him ashamed of his own ignorance when it came to foreign tongues.

  ‘Forgive me, highness,’ said the official, ‘I had no idea you had left the palace.’

  ‘And why should you? I am not a prisoner, after all.’

  ‘You should not walk around the city unescorted, highness.’

  ‘Why was he calling her highness?’ mused Luca.

  ‘I wish to see my brother immediately.’

  Her brother turned out to be Emperor Andronicus himself, whom Luca and Jordi met when they accompanied the emperor’s sister into the opulent throne room, in the centre of which sat a middle-aged man on a golden throne. Luca stared at the man’s extremely long nose before the official who had escorted them from the gates clicked his fingers and glowered at him. Luca bowed his head and kept it bowed. The official walked over to the emperor and whispered in his ear. The room was heavy with the scent of incense, a sweet smell of lily, cinnamon and clove.

  ‘Raise your heads,’ commanded the emperor. He stroked his forked beard.

  ‘Has Constantinople become such a lawless place that a woman is no longer free to walk its streets?’ asked his sister.

  The emperor smiled at Luca and Jordi.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my sister,’ he said in flawless Italian. ‘Princess Maria is a godly woman, though rather innocent when it comes to the ways of the world.’

  ‘The emperor is quite right,’ she retorted. ‘Thinking that a woman could walk in his city without being robbed and murdered. And here I was believing it was the responsibility of his Varangian Guards to keep chaos at bay.’

  ‘If you had mentioned to the garrison commander you were leaving the palace,’ replied Andronicus irritably, ‘he would have arranged an escort.’

  ‘You are embarrassing our guests, brother,’ said Maria.

  ‘You are embarrassing me,’ remarked an exasperated emperor.

  ‘Are you not going to reward them?’ asked Maria. ‘Seeing as they rescued me from certain doom.’

  His gave her a withering look but smiled at the two Almogavars. He waved the official forward and muttered to him, the courtier bowing and hurrying from the throne room. Fierce-looking Varangians stood around the walls and next to the throne, making both Luca and Jordi feel intimidated. That and the grandiose surroundings of gold, marble and ivory. And it was the latter material which drew Luca’s eye when the official returned with a slave holding a red velvet cushion, on which rested two ivory handled daggers. They had black blades with strange wavy surface patterns.

  ‘Please accept these gifts by way of our thanks,’ said Andronicus. ‘The blades are made of Damascus steel. Have you heard of it?’

  They shook their heads.

  The emperor leaned back in his chair and wagged a finger at the pair.

  ‘The title is really a misnomer. The steel does not come from Damascus, at least not originally. It is over five thousand years old, though I daresay the manufacturing process is different from when the first blades were forged. Today, Damascus blades are produced by hammer-welding strips of steel and iron, followed by repeated heating and forging.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Maria sarcastically.

  The emperor ignored her. ‘As well as being light, Damascus steel is incredibly strong. May it aid you in your fight against the heretics, young men.’

  He gestured at the court official who waved forward a second slave, who also held a velvet cushion. On this were two leather pouches.

  ‘Money so you may buy new clothes,’ said the emperor to the pair, having noticed their basic attire. ‘May God go with you.’

  Luca and Jordi accepted the daggers and money and were ushered from the emperor’s presence. Princess Maria escorted them both to the private quay adjacent to the palace where a royal barge was waiting. She embraced them both.

  ‘May God protect you both and know that you have my thanks, and my friendship always.’

  On the barge they were served food and wine as the boat was rowed down the Golden Horn to the Bosporus. The two friends could not stop smiling as they counted the contents of the two pouches, which had been filled with silver coins. They had no idea how much they were worth and did not care, being more fascinated by their new daggers with strange blades. Had they enquired, they would have learnt each pouch contained enough money to purchase a fine horse, expensive armour, weapons and a squire so they could both fight the enemy from the saddle should they so desire.

  Chapter 7

  The Catalan Company left Constantinople in high spirits. The rescue of the emperor’s sister by Luca and Jordi was viewed as an auspicious omen. Just as they had saved a defenceless woman, so would the company save Constantinople and its empire, such as it was. Feted as heroes, Luca and Jordi basked in the adulation directed at them from every quarter. Even Grand Duke Roger, torn away from the bed of his young bride, took an interest in the two Alm
ogavars who were making a name for themselves. Much to the chagrin of Sancho, he invited them to dine with him on his galley as it sailed across the Sea of Marmara towards the Artake Peninsula. The rest of the Almogavars were following behind in other ships, though the Catalan horsemen and a thousand Alan riders made their way to Artake along the eastern shoreline of the sea.

  A large cabin had been constructed at the stern of the vessel to accommodate the grand duke when he was at sea. Containing a sizeable bunk and a rectangular table, it was large enough to accommodate several seated guests without appearing too cramped. Slaves served the four men sitting at the table with fish and shellfish caught that morning and cooked on board, washed down with wine. At one end of the table sat the grand duke and opposite was a man who had visited the city to plead with the emperor to hasten the Catalan Company to Artake. His name was Michael Cosses and he was a Greek from an ancient Roman family. Tall with black hair falling to his shoulders, unusually he kept a clean-shaven face and had blue-green eyes. He listened with interest to the story of how Luca and Jordi had saved the life of Princess Maria, raising his cup to toast the pair. Out of courtesy, he spoke Italian throughout the meal.

  ‘We will need all the brave young men we can get our hands on in the coming months,’ he said, nibbling on a piece of sea bream.

  ‘General Mouzalon informed me the situation is perilous,’ said Roger.

  Michael Cosses sipped some wine.

  ‘He does not know the half of it.’

  He smiled when he observed Luca and Jordi stuffing their faces with abandon. He found their basic manners and forthright demeanour refreshing. He took another sip.

  ‘My commission from the emperor states that I am the count of the Opsikion Theme, the prestigious military and administrative region close to Constantinople.’

  He looked at Luca, whose mouth was full of fish.

  ‘Do you know the size of my region, Black Sheep?’

  ‘No, lord,’ said Luca with difficulty.

  ‘Essentially, the Artake Peninsula, which is now very vulnerable.’

  Roger was surprised. ‘None of the mainland is under the emperor’s control?’

  ‘The cities of Magnesia and Philadelphia and the town of Tire are still under the emperor’s rule, but they are islands in a Muslim sea. The fact the armies of Islam do not have siege engines is the only reason they have not already fallen.’

  ‘You paint a grim picture, count,’ said Roger, who was picking at his food, unlike Luca and Jordi who were attacking the contents of their plates with gusto.

  Jordi stopped and looked at the count. ‘Have no fear, lord, we will retake the lands lost by the emperor.’

  The handsome duke smiled at the younger man.

  ‘There was a time, many years ago now, young Catalan, when the whole of Anatolia was under the emperor’s control, divided into themes, which provided soldiers for the imperial army and money for the imperial treasury. But now the enemy is a mere stone’s throw away from Constantinople itself. You, my brave warriors, are the empire’s last hope.’

  ‘What of your own army?’ asked Roger, becoming increasingly alarmed by the count’s revelations.

  He drained his cup. A slave rushed forward to refill it.

  ‘My own army? A thousand foot soldiers and two hundred horsemen, duke. A paltry force, you will agree. The main army has to shield Constantinople from the threat posed by Osman Bey, while Karesi Bey eats away at my domain.’

  Luca finished his chunk of bread and began to devour a wedge of cheese.

  ‘Who is Karesi Bey, lord?’

  ‘A great Muslim warlord, Black Sheep, who has a secret weapon to strike fear into his enemies.’

  ‘What weapon?’ asked Jordi.

  ‘Izzeddin Arslan, young Almogavar, a fanatic who leads an army of fanatics. Men who do not fear death, for to die in battle is to guarantee a place in paradise, or so they believe. Fighting an enemy that desires death is a daunting prospect.’

  Luca grinned at Jordi, who smiled back. Far from being intimidated by the prospect of fighting religious fanatics, they relished the prospect.

  The Artake Peninsula was a beautiful place. The fleet docked in the ancient port of Artake on the southwestern side of the peninsula, a walled city surrounded by olive groves, fruit orchards and vineyards. Beyond the cultivated land were expanses of forest containing an abundance of oak, maple, ash, aspen, elm, willow, sycamore and pines. The peninsula was fringed by spectacular white sandy beaches, with villages nestling beside waterfalls and streams. The thousands of small farms on the peninsula produced a huge amount of olives and olive oil for export to Constantinople, as well as timber to the city for shipbuilding. There was also a substantial fishing fleet operating from Artake and the villages along the peninsula’s west coast.

  The Catalan Company pitched its tents outside Artake, despite Count Cosses offering them lodgings in the city itself, which Luca discovered contained many empty homes and buildings when he was sent into the port to collect provisions for the Almogavars. The market stall holders were beside themselves with joy when they discovered he and they had money to purchase food. But the stay of the Catalan Company outside Artake was short. Two days after setting foot on the peninsula, the Almogavars marched east to take up residence in the ruined city of Cyzicus, which was adjacent to a wall that spanned a narrow isthmus joining the peninsula to the mainland.

  Earthquakes had destroyed many of the buildings in the ancient site, which was once a great trading port, and the last inhabitants had left a hundred years before when the Latin crusaders had pillaged the land. Since then, the city’s masonry had been plundered by local inhabitants to construct their homes. Stone and marble from Cyzicus could be found throughout the peninsula, as could the squared stones used to construct the wall that spanned the isthmus.

  Count Cosses had a thousand foot soldiers, which ordinarily would have been adequate to man the half-mile wall containing a dozen square towers at regular intervals. Built by the ancient Greeks and added to by the Romans, the wall was twenty-feet high, contained two gatehouses and had a wide walkway along its length, from which soldiers could shoot arrows and hurl spears at an attacker. In its heyday, it was a formidable obstacle. Sadly, its glory days were not even a distant memory.

  Luca stood with Jordi, Sancho and the count at the western end of the ruins of the wall and its gatehouses and towers.

  Sancho was unimpressed. ‘Rather than aiding us in our defence, these ruins will impede our mobility and provide assistance to the enemy.’

  The count had taken a liking to Luca and Jordi and insisted they accompany him when he visited the Almogavars. The Catalan mercenaries themselves, viewing the pair as lucky mascots, did not object to them receiving favourable treatment, knowing that when the fighting began they would be in the vanguard with Sancho Rey.

  The leader of the Almogavar council pointed at the ruins of the wall.

  ‘The length of the wall is around nine hundred paces. There are three large gaps, each one a hundred paces wide, through which the enemy will flood. In addition, the wall is at its full height in only a few places, which means a man can clamber over the rest with ease.’

  ‘We cannot rebuild the wall,’ lamented the count, ‘but we must defend it because this narrow isthmus is the one place where our paucity of numbers will not work against us.’

  Sancho turned to stare at the calm Sea of Marmara.

  ‘Does the enemy have any ships?’

  ‘Fortunately, no,’ said the count. ‘No yet, anyway.’

  Sancho nodded. ‘So, the only way they can invade the peninsula is via this isthmus. That is something.’

  He pointed to the mainland.

  ‘With your permission, lord, when the enemy arrives I would like to deploy your foot soldiers beyond the wall, to act as bait to lure the enemy to the wall where the company can engage them. I would suggest your horsemen be held back as a reserve, to plug any gaps that may occur. When our horsemen and the Alans
arrive, we will take the offensive.’

  The count was surprised. ‘Karesi Bey has many soldiers.’

  ‘It does not matter, my lord. To remain on the defensive is to endure a slow death.’

  Like the other Almogavars, Luca undertook daily training while he and they waited for the enemy to arrive, wondering if their horsemen and Alan allies would reach the peninsula first. The route marches through lush forests and along mountain paths were far from arduous, his body now accustomed to covering long distances on foot carrying weapons, water and food in a knapsack.

  The majority of the women and children were billeted outside Artake, though a fair few of the young women hauled weapons with the Almogavar men. Luca lusted after their toned bodies but Jordi warned him off trying anything untoward.

  ‘Those selected to fight alongside us are aware they are outnumbered by many men,’ his friend told him. ‘They will protect their virtue with their weapons and my father and the other captains will not tolerate them being molested. Best leave them alone.’

  ‘How do they find husbands?’ asked Luca.

  ‘They don’t. They remain single.’

  ‘Like a nun,’ said Luca.

  ‘No talking in the ranks,’ snapped Sancho.

  The weather was getting warmer, the number of daylight hours increasing as mid-spring arrived. The air was heavy with the scent of pine, but the sea breezes blowing over the peninsula made marching pleasant enough. Sweat still coursed down Luca’s neck to soak his tunic, but the straps of his quiver no longer chafed and the spear he carried was no longer a burden. He now fitted in among the other Almogavars. Just another individual among the foot soldiers of the Catalan Company.