The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  The plan was to reach Philadelphia as quickly as possible. Count Michael had assured Grand Duke Roger that the city was large and would have adequate supplies to feed his soldiers, notwithstanding it was under siege. Having no siege engines and scant knowledge of siege warfare, the Turks had only loosely invested the city, or so his spies had reported. That was before the dreadful winter, of course, so the Catalan Company might be marching to its doom if the city had already fallen. But such was the high spirits of the mercenaries, especially the Almogavars after their crushing victory at the wall, that no one considered defeat or even withdrawal.

  Notwithstanding their coarse appearance and apparent indiscipline, the Almogavars adhered to a strict routine. One day was given over to a long march that covered around thirty miles. But on each second day the morning was given over to foraging for food, a multitude of small parties being sent out in all directions to collect greens – mainly hardal, kenker and turpotu – as well as berries such as elderberries, gooseberries, mulberries and wolfberries. The latter was regarded as a mythical food capable of prolonging life if ingested in large quantities. After a morning searching for food, the Catalan Company covered an average of only ten miles on the afternoon to allow stamina reserves to be replenished.

  Luca sat with his back against a pine tree chewing on some fresh roots plucked from the ground that very morning, Jordi doing the same. The Almogavars had left the road to make camp in a forest of pine the road cut through, sentries having been placed around the perimeter to warn of any enemy approach. There were grumblings in camp concerning the absence of Arabates and his Alans, with many voicing the opinion he and they had deserted to the enemy. Luca was unconcerned. The days were warm, he tingled with the prospect of fighting the Muslims once more, and he had a beautiful woman to return to when the campaign was over. The company was a few miles north of the Turkish-held town of Soma, which Grand Duke Roger intended to bypass to strike directly for Philadelphia.

  ‘Who will you marry now?’ he asked his friend.

  ‘No one I have not seen before the marriage ceremony, that is for sure,’ said Jordi.

  ‘You had a lucky escape with the count’s daughter,’ agreed Luca.

  ‘Not so lucky for her, though.’

  ‘We will find you a good Muslim woman for you, Jordi, like Ayna.’

  Jordi’s eyes lit up. ‘You struck gold there, my friend. You will marry her?’

  Luca spat out a piece of dirt he had been unwittingly chewing.

  ‘Your mother insists that I should, and in truth she makes me happy.’

  ‘What about her religion?’

  Luca shrugged. ‘What about it? She worships Allah and I pray to God. It has not got in the way so far.’

  Jordi looked serious. ‘Ayna will have to convert to Christianity before you can marry her.’

  Luca nodded. ‘I doubt she will object. I care little for the church and I suspect she is of the same opinion.’

  They stopped talking when Sancho Rey appeared, the big man pointing at them both.

  ‘Guard duty for you two, and no talking when you are keeping watch.’

  They both jumped to their feet, grabbing their spears and shields and slinging their javelin quivers on their backs. There was a full moon so visibility was not a problem as the sun dropped and night enveloped the land. There was no wind so any sound carried great distances, the laughter and revelry coming from where Count Michael was entertaining Corberan and his small number of knights travelling through the trees to make Luca smile. So much for keeping quiet.

  He nodded to Jordi to his right and Roc, the large Almogavar who was a friend of Sancho, on his left, both standing behind trees to make themselves invisible to any approaching the camp but allowing them to peer round the trunk into the blackness of the forest. Luca focused on his hearing but heard no sounds. It would be a long two hours.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’

  He may have heard the Muslim battle cry at the wall, though if he had he would have certainly ignored it. But now the same cry cut through the night air, immediately followed by wild cheering as the enemy attacked.

  ‘Fall back,’ called Roc, already taking to his heels.

  Luca momentarily thought of fighting where he stood, intoxicated by the surge of energy rushing through his body like a mighty torrent. But then he remembered his training, hearing Hector’s words in his head.

  ‘One man alone is weak and vulnerable. But one thousand standing shoulder-to-shoulder is an unbreakable wall.’

  He ran back towards the campfires, already horns and whistles being sounded to call the Almogavars to arms. And behind him, a mass of wraith-like figures came running, stumbling and cursing from the blackness of the forest.

  ‘Rally, rally.’

  Schhwaff. Schhwaff.

  Arrows flew through the night air, too close to him for Luca’s liking. He saw Jordi out of the corner of his eye and then a thick line of Almogavars to his front, spears levelled and shields tucked tight to their bodies.

  ‘Let them through.’

  He heard Sancho’s gruff voice and saw a gap opening in the wall of Catalans, the Almogavars framed against the dull red glow of the campfires behind them. There was no great clearing where they had camped, only trees irregularly spaced and broken branches, moss and bushes on the forest floor, which had been cleared for firewood and tinder.

  The professional soldiers surrounding Karesi Bey regarded Izzeddin Arslan and his ghazis with indifference, mild contempt or open hostility, believing them and him to be dangerous zealots who were of dubious military value, and an outright threat to the day-to-day affairs of the emirate. His warriors had captured Bergama for the emir, it was true, though the price had been dreadful, but now the wealthy and powerful of the emirate wanted him and his fanatics gone.

  Izzeddin knew he was both despised and feared, and also knew his ghazis were of little value against professional soldiers. But he also knew that faith could overcome many deficiencies, such as lack of military training, if the opposition could be weakened before battle was joined. And what better way to reduce the effectiveness of trained soldiers than to make them fight in a forest, in the dark? Like Karesi Bey, he had been following the progress of the Catalan Company closely. But unlike his emir, he was determined to wipe out the infidel mercenaries rather than allowing them to march through Muslim lands. For just as Allah had cleared Arabia, Egypt and the Holy Land of infidels, so had He promised Anatolia to the faithful.

  Luca stumbled to the rear of the now dense line of Almogavars and embraced his friend.

  ‘So much for a quiet night,’ said Jordi.

  Arrows, shot inaccurately and high, thudded into tree trunks around them, at the same time that a mighty roar came from in front of the Almogavars to signal the ghazis were about to engage them in hand-to-hand combat. The Almogavar front rank stood with left leg extended, the end of each spear wedged against the right foot and the shaft held at an angle of forty-five degrees to the front. The men in the second rank held their spears upright and made ready to unleash their javelins against the oncoming enemy, sergeants blowing whistles to unleash the flurry of missiles.

  Luca experienced a new sensation during battle: alarm. Disorientated by the limited visibility and shouts and cries bombarding his ears, he was unsure what to do. Jordi shook him.

  ‘Javelin, Luca. Form up in the rear of the line.’

  Shrill whistle blasts rent the air, followed by screams and groans as javelins found their targets. But the ghazis did not press their attack, retreating back into the darkness of the forest to regroup. Fighting at night demands great discipline and organisation, two attributes alien to the religious warriors. But their Sufi leaders rallied them with chants of ‘Allahu Akbar’ and reformed them in the darkness, out of sight of the Almogavars.

  Sancho was walking rapidly up and down the line, issuing orders, while behind him and the Almogavars, Corberan’s horsemen and Count Michael’s soldiers were extinguishing the fires to
plunge the forest into pitch-black darkness to deny the enemy archers any sight of targets. Silence descended on the scene, Luca straining his eyes trying to make out shapes behind him and on the flanks. As far as he could discern, the Almogavars were drawn up in a line four ranks deep, he and Jordi being in the fourth line. He hoped the Catalan horsemen were guarding their rear.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Kneel,’ whispered Sancho. ‘Keep your shield up as a defence against arrows.’

  He did as commanded, as did hundreds of others around him. Jordi was on his right, though he could hardly make him out. It was so very dark and so quiet.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’

  He tightened the grip on his spear shaft and a few arrows flew through the air, but no attack was launched against the Almogavars. Then there was silence once more, which did nothing to calm Luca’s nerves.

  ‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

  The forest was suddenly filled with the Muslim war cry, which seemed to be coming from every direction, the night playing tricks on the hearing. Then there was a series of sharp cracks from the Catalan ranks as the crossbowmen shot their bolts into the darkness, in the general direction of the Turks. There were only around two hundred Almogavar crossbowmen and so even if all their bolts found a target, it would make little impact on the thousands of ghazis lurking in the forest. But at least it cheered the Almogavars.

  Luca and hundreds of others sat in stony silence as the forest reverberated with the Muslim war cry, the din rising in intensity as the ghazis whipped themselves up into a frenzy. It was a testament to the discipline of the Almogavars that they remained stoic in the face of such intimidation, each man alone with his thoughts as he considered what the dawn, just a short time away, might bring. Luca knew the enemy would launch their attack just as dawn was breaking, when their archers would be able to identify the Catalans and lend their support to the ghazi assault. All that was left was to wait. Wait for the dawn, and the inevitable spilling of blood.

  Luca shivered. Not because he was afraid, the nervousness having left him, to be replaced by a calm determination, but because the temperature had dropped. The dawn was about to break. Because of the thick canopy blocking out the sun, light was slow to return to the forest. But agonisingly slowly, he began to identify shapes around him: the kneeling figure of Jordi, the white teeth of his friend when he gave him a reassuring smile, the forest of spear shafts being held vertically to the left and right and in front of him, and the imposing figure of Sancho Rey standing with his back to the enemy.

  ‘Almogavars, forward!’

  His voice sounded louder than normal when it broke the silence, immediately followed by dozens of whistles being blown as the order to attack was relayed to four thousand Almogavars. And then the Catalans were on their feet and walking forward, breaking into a quick pace to cover the space between them and the enemy ahead. An enemy that responded in kind, holy men shouting their encouragement and then the whole ghazi force screaming ‘Allahu Akbar’ as it surged forward. Sancho’s quick thinking had negated the enemy’s advantage in archers. But the Turks still had a substantial numerical advantage.

  In the half-light the two sides closed on each other, the Almogavars maintaining their steady pace, parting to pass trees in their path before closing ranks again. The first rank gripped its spears with both hands, the second and third holding javelins ready to throw. The fourth, having no sightline to the enemy, formed a de facto reserve. The ghazis swept forward like a tidal wave, bereft of discipline and cohesion but infused with religious fervour. They carried an assortment of clubs, spears, axes and a few swords, most carrying a round wooden shield, all without head protection.

  For twenty years the Almogavars had plied their deadly trade in Sicily, fighting commoners and nobles alike, defeating richly clad aristocrats on warhorses and slaughtering well-armed and equipped foot soldiers. They did not have better weapons than those they encountered, and always had a paucity of crossbowmen compared to the foe. But they were quicker than the enemy when it came to assaults, feints and retreats, handled their weapons with a dexterity far greater than opponents, and possessed a discipline unknown among the retinues of the Christian lords they had fought.

  That discipline came into play now as a screaming horde rushed towards the Almogavars, the ghazis hollering their blood-curdling war cries, their only desire to impale themselves on the spears of the infidels to gain their entry into paradise. They were impaled, but on the steel tips of hundreds of javelins thrown by the second and third ranks of the Catalans, which cut down hundreds of Turks. A second and third volley cut down more and then the Almogavars were among the ghazis, thrusting their spears into olive-skinned faces, the second rank also bringing their spears to bear to turn the Catalan line into a giant saw that began to chew the ghazis to pieces. It was another easy victory and Jordi grinned at Luca in triumph. The dawn had broken to herald another glorious chapter in the history of the Catalan Company, and Luca had not even dipped his weapons in enemy blood.

  ‘They’re behind us! Have a care!’

  Seconds after hearing the warning, Luca instinctively turned. To be confronted by a wild-haired demon with bulging bloodshot eyes screaming as he swung an axe at his head. He thrust his spear forward into the man’s face, the demon emitting a high-pitched squeal as the metal point entered his left eye socket. The axe tumbled from his hand to land at Luca’s feet.

  ‘Luca, on your right.’

  Luca heard Jordi’s call, let go of the spear and just as Hector had taught him, pulled his sword from its scabbard, swung his shield to the right and manged to catch the spear point aimed at his chest on the metal boss of his buckler. Roc on his right rammed his own spear through the naked torso of the holy warrior, whose face contorted into a vision of agony as Roc buried the metal point in his flesh.

  ‘Leave it,’ ordered Roc as Luca went to retrieve his spear, still lodged in the eye socket of the now prostrate and dead ghazi. ‘Close ranks.’

  The ghazis were now in front, behind and on the flanks of the Almogavars, hacking and stabbing at the infidels. Any commander worth his salt would have withdrawn the holy warriors and let his archers pepper the Catalans with arrows. Izzeddin Arslan was many things but he was no military mastermind. He existed to enforce the will of Allah and if that meant that a thousand, a hundred thousand should die, then so be it. His warriors had taken a circuitous route from the town of Soma to descend on the infidels from the hills, nightfall masking their approach, and now they had the unbelievers surrounded. He was not entirely devoid of common sense, though, having been instrumental in luring away the Catalan horsemen.

  ‘Where are our horsemen?’ called Luca in frustration, ducking low to allow the man behind him to hurl his javelin over his head into the fat belly of a ghazi.

  ‘Dead, most likely,’ grunted Roc, fencing with a pair of Turks armed with clubs who were intent on reducing his large head to a pulp.

  The Almogavars were now in a rough hollow rectangle among the trees, all sides two ranks deep, the ghazis swarming around it like angry hornets.

  ‘Keep formation. Keep formation.’

  Sancho Rey was bellowing at the top of his voice to his men. He had no need to urge them to keep the enemy at bay because they were more than holding their own. The risk was over-confidence: the urge to race forward after winning a single duel and in doing so shatter the formation that the enemy had failed to break.

  The ghazis were tiring now, their attacks no longer the frenzied affairs of early morning. Luca was sweating and panting, accrediting it to the stress of battle. But a neutral observer would have informed him he had been fighting for over three hours, during which time the sun had risen and was warming the earth from a cloudless sky. The forest floor was littered with dead, the maimed and wounded having crawled away to either die in another place or be helped back to Soma when the battle was over. But the battle went on.

  It had descended into a desultory affair: tired
, exhausted men standing a few paces apart eyeing each other, trying to summon up the energy and courage to once more face death in the face. One or two ghazis would suddenly dash forward against the unbroken Catalans, swinging axes and swords or jabbing spears. To be stopped in their tracks by an unbroken row of spears and bucklers. The ghazis, wary of Catalans adept in the use of spears, javelins and swords, became increasingly unwilling to press their attacks. And their dead comrades forming an unbroken carpet round the Almogavars created a further disincentive to attack.

  Luca glanced at Jordi, both of them soaked in sweat but as yet unhurt. His friend gave him a wan smile but said nothing. They were both thinking the same thing: the Catalan horsemen must have been overrun and slaughtered in the first ghazi assault. Their thoughts were interrupted by a small group of enemy warriors shuffling towards them with leaden steps, shields tucked tight to their bodies and spears levelled. Luca slipped the sword back into its scabbard and reached behind with his right hand, feeling the number of javelins in his quiver. One. Two. Three. He not yet used one.

  His arms, legs and back ached. In battle his limbs became as light as feathers; but when the fury of combat abated they cried out for rest.

  He was not alone. Even the best soldiers tire in battle, and if the Almogavars were approaching the end of their endurance, the ghazis were in a far worse condition. They had failed to rout the Catalans in the first attack, and subsequently had made little impression of the hedgehog-like rectangle that had formed in response to their assaults. Tired, thirsty, their limbs bleeding and their bodies drained of energy as a result of hours of futile attacks, they became listless, leaden. Until the trumpets sounded.

  Luca saw them before he heard them, pointing them out to Jordi as they came from the road a short distance away to enter the forest, the sun glinting off spear points, swords and helmets before they rode under the canopy of vegetation. The horsemen moved swiftly among the trees, cutting down many ghazis before the religious warriors realised what was happening.