The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  Luca stepped over him and the Almogavars forged on, step by step, the hundred paces that made up the gap suddenly turning into the widest chasm on God’s earth. He felt no pain in his left arm, just energy pumping through his body to keep his reflexes sharp.

  The ghazi flood had abated now, the Almogavars having staunched the flow like tourniquets applied to a gaping wound. But there were still hundreds, if not thousands, of enemy warriors on the landward side of the wall, pressing forward to follow their comrades into the gaps. Like human saws, Luca and Jordi worked their spears in unison, jabbing the points at targets lightning-fast, one striking a shield, the other going over or under the obstacle to find flesh. Either side of them Sancho and other Almogavars were doing likewise, the ghazis having no answer to the speed and accuracy of the spear thrusts. And then Luca shouted in triumph as a ghazi went down and the black eyes of Hector were staring back at him.

  ‘Seal the gap, seal the gap,’ pleaded Sancho, wheeling right to block the flow of enemy warriors trying to infiltrate through the wall. Luca and Jordi did likewise, more and more Almogavars filling in behind them to thicken the Catalan barrier of human flesh that was slowly plugging the gap.

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Hector, stabbing his spear at an olive-skinned face, the point glancing off the warrior’s cheek.

  ‘And you,’ smiled Luca.

  ‘Duck,’ shouted someone behind them.

  They did so. Luca saw a sequence of brown blurs and saw javelins slam into enemy warriors only feet from him. A second and third volley reaped a cruel harvest erecting a wall of dead and dying in front of him and the others.

  ‘Ground spears, ground spears.’

  The order was relayed up and down the line. Luca placed the end of his spear shaft against his withdrawn right foot, his left leg forward, his spear facing the enemy at an angle of forty-five degrees. The men in the second rank behind stood holding their spears horizontally, Almogavars trying to find their footing among the enemy dead that littered the ground around them. Behind the second rank were two other ranks ready to hurl javelins at the enemy should they try to breach the wall of spears that now filled the gap.

  That now filled all three gaps in the wall.

  The first phase of the battle was over.

  Only disciplined troops could have achieved what the Almogavars did that day: half attacking the flanks of the enemy flooding through the gaps to sever the Islamic torrent, then sealing the gaps, and the other half forming a line facing away from the rear of the wall.

  ‘Now is the time, count,’ said Grand Duke Roger as a great mass of ghazis, now disorganised, leaderless and uncertain what to do, faced Michael Cosses’ foot soldiers and horsemen.

  The count spun in the saddle and gave the order, a pair of trumpeters sounding their instruments to signal the charge. Two hundred horsemen levelled their lances and the Roman foot soldiers suddenly broke formation and spread into lines, levelling their spears preparatory to charging into the enemy mass.

  The dreadful realisation they were surrounded soon began to dawn on the ghazis trapped behind the wall, whose resistance suddenly collapsed. Well-trained soldiers could perhaps have retraced their steps to force a way through the gaps they had attacked through, especially as thousands of their kinsmen remained on the other side of the wall. All that separated them from salvation were two thin lines of Almogavars. But all the ghazis saw were well-armed horsemen and foot soldiers about to cut them down, while behind them was an unbroken wall of spears. Their faith suddenly deserted them and they began to throw down their meagre weapons and submit to the mercy of the Romans.

  The Count of Opsikion held up a hand. Roger beside him pulled up his horse and the lancers likewise reined in their mounts as trumpeters sounded recall. The count’s foot soldiers also shuffled to a halt and silence descended on the battlefield.

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ said Jordi, tapping an ear to ensure his hearing had not failed.

  ‘Me neither,’ agreed Luca, focusing on the stationary mass of ghazi warriors to their front, who appeared to be doing nothing aside from standing and waiting. But for what?

  The frenzied stabbing and thrusting of only minutes before had given way to an unnerving calm and quiet, interrupted only by the pitiful groans of wounded men unable to move, their lifeblood seeping into the earth, others calling out for their mothers before they lapsed into unconsciousness and death took them. For the first time in the battle, Luca was nervous.

  ‘Why don’t they attack?’ he uttered to no one in particular.

  ‘Easy,’ said Hector beside him. ‘They will use their horse archers to soften us up before launching another attack. Don’t forget to use your shield for cover when it starts raining arrows.’

  Like the others, Luca’s shield was strapped to his back. But it suddenly seemed very small to hide beneath. Hector’s words did nothing to soothe his trepidation.

  *****

  ‘Holy one, now is the time to shower them with arrows.’

  Izzeddin Arslan did not look up at the commander of horse archers in his blue felt robe and white turban, instead focusing on the lines of bristling spears now filling the gaps in the ancient wall, the gaps he had sent thousands through to their deaths. Allah was obviously displeased with him. He had allowed his army to be polluted by the kafir riders that accompanied Mahmud of Caesarea, or perhaps it was not yet time for the peninsula to fall to the righteous.

  ‘Holy one,’ pressed the horse archer.

  ‘Be silent!’ hissed Izzeddin.

  He turned his gaze away from infidel spears to catch the eye of the commander of his bodyguard, waving him forward. The mail-clad officer left his phalanx of élite foot soldiers to stride across to Izzeddin, snapping to attention before the holy man.

  ‘Give the order to withdraw,’ said Izzeddin. ‘We will march back to Bergama.’

  The officer saluted, turned on his heels and paced back to his men, issuing orders to his subordinates who left the ranks to convey the holy man’s desire to the hundreds of élite ghazis who waited under the afternoon sun.

  The commander of horse archers was incredulous.

  ‘You are conceding the field to the infidels, holy one?’

  Izzeddin took one last look at the Almogavars defending the wall, sighed and began pacing away from the Artake Peninsula.

  ‘All is as God wills it.’

  Chapter 8

  The aftermath of battle is never a pretty sight, and the clash at the wall of Cyzicus was no different. The few Almogavar wounded were taken to Artake to receive treatment; the Muslim injured were killed, either strangled or had their throats slit depending on the predilection of those ordered to put them out of their misery.

  Grand Duke Roger and Count Cosses were delighted, though for different reasons. For the commander of the Catalan Company, the capture of five thousand prisoners meant a tidy profit when they were shipped to Constantinople to be sold in the slave market. For the Count of Opsikion, it was the first taste of victory against the Turks in a long time, and one to savour. For years he had been steadily pushed back towards the sea and had expected the battle for the Artake Peninsula to be his last, after which his bones would lie in a forgotten grave and Karesi Bey would complete his conquest of his theme. But in the space of a morning everything had changed. Now he could dare to envisage reclaiming the emperor’s territories, with the assistance of the strange, fierce Almogavars.

  ‘Make sure they are all disarmed,’ Sancho called to his son and Luca, who were among the guards detailed to keep a close eye on the captives as they dumped their weapons in carts, which would take the spears, swords and daggers to Artake.

  Translators had been found among Michael Cosses’ men to instruct the captives to pick up their spears and other weapons and form orderly queues to deposit them in the carts. It was now late afternoon and Luca felt tired, hungry and thirsty as he watched a sullen line of captives shuffle with heads down towards one of the carts. Count Michael had sent rid
ers to the city to fetch wagons, together with food and wine to celebrate the great victory. Luca uncorked his water bottle and took a sip of the tepid liquid, his eyes wandering over the bedraggled prisoners, soon to be slaves.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ said Sancho behind him, marching up and down the line to stress to his men they should remain vigilant.

  ‘They look beaten,’ said Luca.

  ‘Oh, they are beaten. But they are Muslims and they would jump at the chance to kill a Christian.’

  ‘Even if it meant their own death?’

  ‘Especially if it meant their own death. They seek a courageous death as a way to enter paradise. They are dangerous fanatics. You did well today.’

  He felt his chest swell with pride and any fatigue suddenly left him. He turned to face the broad-shouldered Catalan.

  ‘Thank you, lord.’

  The hard visage of the Almogavar showed no emotion.

  ‘We might make an Almogavar of you yet. Eyes front.’

  Sancho strode away, leaving Luca to observe the captives. They certainly did not look like fanatics in their shoddy attire, unkempt beards and hair and grimy faces. He wondered if they would be washed and issued with new clothes before being paraded in the slave market.

  He went to take another swig from his water bottle but stopped, aware of a pair of dark brown eyes on him. Eyes belonging to an alluring beauty who held out a hand in a pleading fashion. She was dirty, dressed in baggy leggings and tunic and carried a spear. Her thick black hair tumbled to her shoulders and her face was smeared with dirt. She may have looked like a poor wretch but there was still a sensual attraction about her. Luca blushed. She held his eyes and he offered her his water bottle.

  She held his gaze as she stopped and raised the water bottle to her full lips, taking gentle sips. Another captive went to grab the container but Luca whipped out the sword at his hip and held the point to the man’s throat. Jordi rushed forward to push the man back, likewise pulling his sword and looking menacingly at the man, who slunk away.

  The woman handed him back the water bottle.

  ‘Tesekkür ederim,’ she said.

  Luca had no idea what she was saying but he beamed at her anyway, her eyes meeting his for a final time before she shuffled away. Jordi nudged him in the ribs.

  ‘She should fetch a good sum in the slave market.’

  A wave of sadness washed over Luca at the prospect of such a beauty being reduced to a slave, though his spirits were lifted when food and wine began to arrive from Artake. Count Cosses ensured the Almogavars were feasted well that night, fish caught that morning being cooked over campfires and washed down by wine from casks arranged in a long line, along with carts filled with bread and cheese. Luca and Jordi basked in the aftermath of victory, making ridiculous toasts that appeared profound and unbreakable as an excess of wine took hold. Luca gave no thought to the thousands of captives who were tethered together to ensure none escaped, though Grand Duke Roger ensured they were issued with food and water to ensure none expired before they were loaded on his ships in Artake harbour, which would take them to Constantinople.

  Having fallen into slumber after a bout of eating and drinking, Luca was in a subdued mood in the morning, as were the other Almogavars. Count Michael had sent mounted patrols beyond the wall to warn of the return of the Turkish army. But they had returned with news that the enemy had seemingly vanished into thin air. He had posted guards on the ruins of the wall as a precaution, allowing the Almogavars to celebrate their victory.

  Luca woke with a headache, Sancho kicking his side.

  ‘Get up. Roll call in five minutes.’

  He washed his face and retrieved his spear from a nearby stand of weapons, a bleary-eyed Jordi doing likewise.

  ‘My guts feel like they are about to drop from my arse,’ he complained.

  Luca laughed, the pair of them walking slowly to where the Almogavars were forming up.

  ‘Move!’ shouted Sancho, prompting everyone to pick up the pace and fall into line. Within minutes a hollow square of Almogavars had been formed. Facing inwards, each of the four captains – Sancho, Hector, Marc and Angel – stood in front of each side of the square. Grand Duke Roger strode into the square to address the company.

  ‘Yesterday, we won a great victory over Islam.’

  The Almogavars rapped the end of their spear shafts on the ground in recognition. The grand duke raised a hand. He looked remarkably fresh and clean, his clothes immaculate, his hair and beard well groomed. No doubt, his feast the evening before with Count Michael and sundry priests and dignitaries had been a more organised and sober affair compared to the Almogavar festivities.

  ‘When our horsemen arrive,’ continued the grand duke, ‘we will leave Artake to take the fight to the enemy. Just as we achieved victory in Sicily, so shall we triumph in Anatolia against the enemies of God.’

  The Almogavars raised their spears and cheered long and hard. They had tasted nothing but victory since their great victory over the French during the Sicilian war, and every one of them, including Luca, believed they could do the same in the service of Constantinople’s emperor. Indeed, in Sicily they had been fighting Christians. How easier would their victory be against inferior infidels?

  After being told the day was theirs to enjoy and being dismissed, Luca wandered over to where the prisoners were being organised for the short walk to Artake where they would be loaded on ships to take them to Constantinople. The overseers were Count Michael’s foot soldiers who had taken no part in the battle the day before, aside from beating a hasty retreat to the wall to entice the enemy to launch an attack. Hundreds were pushing and shoving the hapless prisoners, using their spear shafts to beat individuals for no apparent reason. Lines of despondent captives, wrists bound, were already trudging away from the wall, heading for the city of Artake.

  One figure suddenly ran from one of the lines, darting between two guards and heading straight for him. He remembered Sancho’s words, plucked a javelin from the quiver on his back and took aim. And lowered the weapon when he realised it was the black-haired beauty he had given his water bottle to the day before. She threw herself at his feet and began babbling incoherently.

  ‘Kurta beni, usta.’

  She repeated the phrase over and over again, Luca not understanding what she was saying but immensely pleased she had run to him. Moments later the two guards she had darted between arrived, both looking like they were about to commit murder. Luca moved quickly to place himself between the young woman and them. They were well armed with spears and swords, and protected by shields, helmets and mail armour. One pointed at the woman and spoke something in Greek. Which Luca did not understand. He repeated the words, this time more loudly and forcefully.

  ‘Kurta beni, usta.’

  He heard the words behind him and gripped his javelin, ready to throw it at the throat of the soldier gesticulating and now shouting. He reckoned he could kill him and injure the second at least before they could respond.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  He heard Hector’s voice and smiled at the soldiers.

  ‘Why are you aiding an escaped slave, Luca?’

  His smile disappeared. One of the soldiers pointed his spear at Hector, which was foolhardy at best. The Almogavar stood beside Luca, the woman continuing to utter the same words.

  ‘Can’t you shut her up?’ said Hector, pointing at the soldiers. ‘You two, bugger off.’

  The commotion had not gone unnoticed, and within minutes a mounted officer had arrived to investigate, as had Grand Duke Roger and Sancho Rey. The latter spoke to Hector to ward off any violence.

  ‘These are our allies, Hector.’

  The mounted officer spoke to Roger in Greek, who conveyed his wishes.

  ‘The woman is under Count Michael’s jurisdiction.’

  Luca gave him a blank look, not knowing what the word meant.

  ‘It means she is his property, at least until she and the others are sol
d in Constantinople.’

  ‘She is his property, lord?’ asked Luca, wondering when a captive actually became a slave.

  ‘Yes, now kindly release her to these men.’

  ‘Do as the grand duke commands,’ snapped Sancho.

  Luca glanced at the sultry beauty, now clutching his ankles and still repeating the three-word phrase. A thought flashed through his mind.

  ‘I would like to buy her, lord?’

  Roger frowned at him but Sancho roared with laughter.

  ‘What with?’

  But they had forgotten that the emperor himself had rewarded Luca and Jordi for saving his sister. He unfastened the pouch attached to his belt and opened it.

  ‘I have money, lord.’

  The grand duke said a few words to the officer, who barked a command to the two soldiers, who returned to their duties with the other slaves. Grand Duke Roger jumped down from his horse and took Jordi’s pouch of money, his eyes widening with surprise.

  ‘A princely sum for the life of a princess. God smiles on you, Black Sheep.’

  He pulled a couple of coins from the pouch and handed them to the officer, who raised a hand in salute and wheeled his horse to the right before cantering back to the lines of slaves.

  Roger looked at Luca. ‘Do you know how much money is in this pouch, Black Sheep?’

  ‘No, lord.’

  ‘Enough to buy a hundred slaves,’ said Roger, who took a couple for himself. ‘As the slaves were going to be sold on my behalf, I am just cutting out the middleman. You understand?’

  Luca did not. ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Well, she is yours now, Black Sheep.’

  With that he walked over to his horse and regained his saddle, riding away from Luca, a bemused Hector and a frowning Sancho. Hector slapped Luca on the back.