The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  The light faded fast and the last part of the journey was conducted in darkness. It was agonisingly slow and Luca had difficulty making out shapes around him. By this time, the Almogavars had been deployed into a line, in preparation for the morning attack, which would be launched just before dawn to hopefully surprise the enemy while they were conducting prayers.

  ‘Halt.’

  Sancho’s quiet order was conveyed along the line and Luca crouched down beside a tree, Jordi on the other side of trunk. The Almogavars and their allies were near the edge of the forest and Luca could make out flickers of yellow ahead through the trees – the enemy camp. As he sat in silence with hundreds of others, faint voices reached his ears, accompanied by occasional laughter. He was glad, the sounds of merriment would have hopefully masked any sounds coming from the tree-covered hill.

  Luca sat alone with his thoughts, which revolved around where his next meal was coming from. That and the cold that seeped into his limbs as he sat on the ground, waiting. Waiting for Sancho Rey to give the command to launch the Almogavar attack. Alarm shot through him and he reached for his belt, smiling with relief when he felt the leather pouch attached to it, the same pouch gifted him by Princess Maria in what seemed an age away. He moved his hand along the belt to caress the hilt of the dagger that had also been a gift from the princess. A weapon with a strange blade that cut through anything, though as yet no enemy flesh.

  That enemy became upper-most in his mind when he heard thousands of voices chanting ‘Allahu Akbar’ – God is the Greatest – ‘Subhana rabbiyal adheem’ – Glory be to my Lord Almighty – and ‘Sam’i Allahu liman hamidah, Rabbana wa lakal hamd’– God hears those who call upon Him; Our Lord, praise be to You – all part of the prayer sequence he had seen Ayna perform may times. He found her prostrating herself on the ground, bowing and raising her hands up all rather odd, but no odder than Christian priests reciting in Latin, a language he did not understand. The forest was filled with half-light once more and he saw Sancho, his eyes large black holes in the dimness, turn and gesture to those nearby to follow him. He glanced at Jordi who gave him a thin smile. He rose to his feet and followed the Almogavar leader.

  The army of Sasa Bey, the emir of the Germiyanid Emirate, had arrayed itself in a great crescent before the walls of Philadelphia, the city backed by volcanic cliffs and perched on a large plateau. They had erected rows of wooden stakes in front of the city and a deep ditch in front of them. All the emir’s soldiers were well out of range of any arrows or crossbow bolts shot from the city walls, and those walls were tall and strong, making the city almost impregnable. Especially so since the emir had no siege engines with which to batter down Philadelphia’s walls. But he had a greater weapon than a mangonel or trebuchet: hunger.

  The city had an unlimited supply of water, an abundance of springs ensuring its citizens would not die of thirst. But when the city granaries emptied, there would be a choice between surrender or starvation. The fertile valley was occupied by the emir, the nearest Roman army was at Artake, over a hundred miles to the north, and the Germiyanids knew that no help was coming. All they had to do was sit and wait for the city to yield.

  Luca, minutes before tired and hungry, moved quickly to leave the treeline and race across the open ground between the forest and the enemy camp, a huge sprawl of round tents of various sizes. The Almogavars, as was their custom, did not scream or holler war cries, focusing instead on reaching their target as quickly as possible.

  But not quickly enough.

  Trumpets and drums sounded the alarm as sentries who had not been saying prayers, having been given special dispensation, spotted the hundreds of soldiers exiting the trees. And they also heard the whooping and shouts of the Alans, rushing from the trees on their steeds with recurve bows in their hands. The mercenary horsemen reached the Turkish camp first, riding between tents and shooting down anything in their path. Count Michael and his two hundred horsemen plus Corberan’s fifteen hundred Spanish riders kept tight to the Almogavars to lend their support when the inevitable counterattack came.

  The Almogavars also moved through the camp, which stood between them and the thousands of Muslim soldiers that had been praying behind the rows of stakes in a mass show of piety. And to intimidate the besieged citizens of Philadelphia. Now those soldiers were rushing away from the city to deal with the soldiers that had, like ghosts, appeared from the forest. The two forces clashed in the sprawl of the Germiyanid camp. Trained to fight in small units, the Almogavars had the advantage from the beginning as the blocks of tents divided the two forces into many separate parts.

  The world suddenly became much smaller for Luca as the camp acted like a giant sieve to reduce the number of soldiers moving between rows of tents. The foot soldiers of Count Michael, trained to fight shoulder-to-shoulder like their Roman forefathers, would have become hopelessly disorganised in the maze of tents, but not so the Almogavars.

  Spear in his left hand, right hand holding a javelin, senses heightened, Luca rounded a tent and saw a man with bow nocked. The two spotted each other at the same time and the next two seconds would decide their fate. Luca threw the javelin as the Turk raised his bow to take aim, the steel point of Luca’s missile striking the man in the chest, causing him to spin to the left and shoot his arrow harmlessly into the sky. He, Sancho and Jordi raced forward to attack other archers coming into view between a row of tents, Sancho and his son plunging their spears into unprotected bellies before they were shot by arrows, Luca doing likewise to a bowman about to put an arrow in his friend

  Using the skewered archers as shields, Almogavars behind them, the trio held the writhing Turks in place as Catalans behind them hurled javelins at the remaining archers, one or two managing to hit Almogavars with their arrows before recoiling as they were struck. The rest fled. Luca yanked the spear point out of the Turk, leaped over his body and carried on, racing into a clearing where food in cauldrons was being cooked over campfires.

  Suddenly, from the front, left and right, came screaming soldiers wearing red turbans, armed with spears, axes and clubs, and protected by round wooden shields, slightly larger than the Almogavar buckler.

  ‘All-round defence,’ screamed Sancho.

  Now the Almogavars fought shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a circle as the enemy closed in on them like wolves.

  ‘Duck,’ came a gruff voice behind Luca.

  He did as commanded, crouching low with spear in his right hand, buckler in his left, fending off a Turk with an axe. A Turk who wore a surprised expression as the javelin point went straight through his neck. Luca shouted in triumph, sprang to his feet and plunged his spear point into the right shoulder of the Turk immediately behind, sending him reeling backwards. Luca’s elation was brief. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a big brute swinging a club over his head. He just had time to raise his buckler to defeat the blow, the club splintering the wood of his shield and causing him to stumble. The brute swung the cudgel up again but let out a low groan when Jordi stabbed him in the belly with his spear. The big man went down on one knee, dropped his club and died when Luca pushed his spear point through his right eye socket. Which was promptly lopped off by a screeching Turk wielding a two-handed axe.

  Luca killed him with the last of his javelins, other Almogavars throwing missiles from the circle like a cobra spitting poison. He drew his sword and prepared to fight fresh attackers. His weapon had a straight blade nearly two feet in length, a grooved wooden handle for grip, and a round pommel at the end of the handle for balance. Its point and cutting edge on both sides made it ideal for close-quarters combat, as opposed to the heavier and longer swords used by other European soldiers, or scimitars favoured by the Muslims. These weapons were ideal for slashing but the Almogavar short sword was designed for jabbing and stabbing at close quarters.

  He heard Hector’s voice.

  ‘You don’t need to lop off an enemy’s head or run him through, just put three inches of the point into him and he’ll go
down.’

  It was so now as he used his battered buckler to parry spear points and sword thrusts, and then struck like the sting of a scorpion to wound opponents.

  The enemy were now few in numbers and became fewer still when whistle blasts announced the arrival of more Almogavars at the scene, weapons smeared with enemy blood. The camp was slowly being cleared, Corberan’s horsemen forming a perimeter around it to cut down any Turks seeking to escape what was becoming a rout.

  Sancho, Angel, Marc and Hector kept their men under tight control as they swept the camp after Turkish resistance had collapsed, many of the emir’s men throwing down their weapons, falling to their knees and begging for mercy. Mostly, they were granted it as the Almogavars turned their attention from killing to eating.

  An individual suddenly ran from one of the tents and threw himself at Luca’s feet, babbling incomprehensively. He was short and portly and appeared to be unarmed. Luca pressed the point of his sword under his chin and forced him to his feet. Jordi, fit to drop, was using his spear as a support.

  ‘Shut up,’ said an equally exhausted Luca, withdrawing his sword when the man began to sob. It was pathetic. He began pointing to a nearby pot hanging over a fire and making gestures mimicking eating.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a cook,’ mused Jordi.

  Luca’s eyes lit up. He pointed at the pot and then at the man with the double chin and thinning hair, who began nodding and smiling. Luca rubbed his belly and also mimicked eating.

  ‘Hungry.’

  The portly man nodded with excitement and walked over to the cooking pot, then pointed at the group of Almogavars standing round it.

  ‘He is a cook,’ said a delighted Luca.

  They cleared the area of bodies, dumping them a short distance away between two rows of tents, and eagerly awaited the fare being prepared by the cook. No one considered he might be a poisoner who was preparing their last meal. They were all too hungry.

  He did not poison the Catalans but rather gave Luca and the others wooden bowls, into which he heaped a delicious stew made from eggplant, onions and tomatoes, stiffened by herbs and spices. It was accompanied by bread made just the day before, which Luca and the others devoured with relish. The cook also brought cheese and olive oil from other tents, which the Almogavars also wolfed down.

  The camp was bursting with food, and the field kitchens that had been left unmolested were soon being used to bake fresh bread from the abundance of flour on site. The Almogavar commanders and Count Michael soon had the camp secured and the prisoners corralled into a small section and placed under guard. It was soon discovered that the Turks used slaves to undertake menial duties, such as digging latrines, cleaning and tending to their senior officers. Luca’s cook had been one such captive, hence his eagerness to ingratiate himself with his ‘liberators’.

  Luca, his belly full and the air warm, closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. The stench of death had yet to permeate the camp, the slain all around but as yet not bloated and filled with noxious gases. The other Almogavars were also taking the opportunity to sleep on a full stomach, a rarity over the past few days. The cook was still fussing around them, taking away empty bowls and refilling wooden cups with water. Despite obviously being a foreigner and presumably Muslim, no one interrupted him. But they did open their eyes when he began babbling in an animated fashion.

  Luca sighed and opened his eyes. To see four Alan horsemen nearby, one of them pointing at the cook. Luca recognised him. He was the translator who had stood beside Arabates when he had been summoned to the meeting of the commanders by Sancho. He rose to his feet, those around him doing likewise.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said to the translator, who was dressed in a blue felt robe and yellow baggy leggings.

  The translator looked at him, his expression one of disdain as he recognised him as the low-born individual who had insulted his lord.

  ‘All slaves are to be collected and interned in the space allocated to them.’ He pointed at the cook. ‘He is not an Almogavar.’

  ‘You have the eyes of an eagle,’ said Luca, mockingly.

  The translator spoke to the Turk in his native tongue but the cook clearly did not wish to depart with the horsemen. One of the Alans nudged his horse forward, levelling his spear to point it at the cook. Luca stood between the rider and the Turk.

  ‘He stays here. We have need of a good cook.’

  The translator curled his lip. ‘Did you not hear what I said, Catalan? All slaves are to be taken to the internment area.’

  He spoke to the rider with the levelled spear, who leaned forward and placed the tip of his spear point against Luca’s neck.

  ‘I do not wish to spill more blood, but…’

  The rider stiffened in the saddle, dropped his spear at Luca’s feet and slid from the saddle, a javelin embedded in his chest. Luca turned to see Jordi with a satisfied smile on his face. Luca nodded in thanks.

  Another Alan nocked an arrow in his bowstring but was dead before he could draw it back, an Almogavar having thrown a javelin at him with such force that the steel point went straight through his heart and out of his back.

  ‘Leave now,’ Luca told the translator.

  The Alan looked around at the row of determined faces staring back at him, and the javelins in their hands. He had seen the deadly efficiency with which the Catalans handled their missiles and knew he would follow his two men to the grave if he provoked further violence. He shrugged. Who wanted to die for a Muslim slave? He turned his horse and trotted away, the other Alan following. The cook fell to his knees, clutching his hands together and thanking Luca for his intervention, or that is how the former shepherd interpreted the show of deference. Luca grabbed his shoulders and raised him up, the other Almogavars resuming their slumbers, the outbreak of violence just an inconvenient interruption.

  Sancho let his men loot and rest for the remainder of the morning before holding a roll call, at which it was revealed the Almogavars has lost a mere hundred men, Count Michael a dozen, and the Alans around a hundred and fifty, several of whom had been killed squabbling over loot after the Turks had been defeated. The enemy had lost several thousand dead and several thousand more captured, who were given to the Governor of Philadelphia as a gift. The governor himself extended an invitation to the leaders of the relief force to attend a banquet to celebrate the great victory outside the walls of his city. A detachment of horsemen attired in mail armour, helmets and shields decorated with yellow crosses on a red background rode out of the city in the afternoon to escort the captives into the city.

  Luca and Jordi spent the afternoon trying to converse, after a fashion, with the cook. They discovered his name was Ertan and that he liked to call both of them ‘efendi’, which they believed was a term of endearment. Beyond that was incomprehension.

  Sancho issued orders for parties to be sent back into the forest to cut down trees for firewood to burn the bodies of the enemy slain, the Christian dead to be interred in a mass grave according to religious doctrine. Together with the stakes that had pointed at the city, a series of huge funeral pyres was turning the Turkish dead into ash. Ertan clawed at his breast and wept uncontrollably at the sight, which Luca could not fathom.

  After they had finished stacking wood, Sancho Rey appeared to congratulate his son, and Luca, on their bravery during the battle, Roc and the other Almogavars slapping the pair on the back. Sancho pulled the two aside.

  ‘Word reached me that two Alans were killed in a dispute with you two.’

  ‘It’s true, father,’ admitted Jordi.

  ‘They tried to take our cook,’ added Luca.

  Sancho frowned. ‘Your cook?’

  Jordi pointed at the still-weeping Ertan.

  ‘We have adopted him, father.’

  ‘He’s a good cook,’ said Luca.

  Sancho held out his hand.

  ‘Captives count as spoils of war, all of which are to be given to the Governor of Philadelphia. Since you have de
prived him of a slave, I will take his value in coin and give it to the city treasurer. Open your pouches.’

  They both reluctantly gave Sancho some of the coins given to them by the emperor. They still had a substantial amount left but felt cheated.

  ‘Where are the Alan bodies?’ asked Sancho.

  Jordi jerked a thumb behind him.

  ‘We cremated them with the Muslims.’

  ‘Poor Muslims,’ said Luca.

  Sancho suppressed a smile. ‘Oh, by the way. Count Michael has told me that the governor is an old admirer of Princess Maria and would be interested to meet the pair who saved her life. So, you will be accompanying us into the city. Try not to kill anyone when you get inside. And don’t get drunk.’

  Chapter 13

  Philadelphia was a beautiful city, which was called ‘Little Athens’ on account of the magnificence of the temples and public buildings that filled it. Its ancient Greek roots were reflected in the city’s layout, its main thoroughfares intersecting at right angles to produce a symmetrical grid system. The streets were clean and litter free, the main streets being colonnaded with white marble pillars. The city was filled with many churches with domed roofs supported by heavy piers, marble walls, vaults and coloured glass mosaics. The mosaics and frescoes decorating the vaults and domes took advantage of their curved surfaces to bring the religious stories they were depicting to life.

  The city was filled with fountains, cool spring water providing citizens with clean drinking water and also used to water the municipal gardens dotted throughout Philadelphia. And also allowed the streets to be washed each day. Most cities stank as a result of rubbish dumped in the streets and open cess pits located outside the city walls. But Philadelphia was different. Its air was fresh and healthy, breezes blowing away nauseous odours. Even the citizens, though the city was far from a teeming metropolis, looked hale and well attired.

  Luca, Jordi and Sancho walked behind the mounted figures of Grand Duke Roger, Arabates, Corberan and Count Michael, with their respective standard bearers holding the banners of Catalonia, the flag of the Emperor of Constantinople, and a strange blue banner depicting a golden lion rampant wearing a crown, which was the personal motif of Arabates. The Alan leader kept glancing behind him to give Luca hateful stares.