The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  ‘Looks like you have made another friend, Black Sheep,’ mused Sancho.

  Luca had discovered that when the Almogavar leader was displeased with him, he referred to him by his nickname, whereas when he was in his favour, he called him by his first name.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ he replied, unconcerned about the boorish Alan.

  He was far more interested in the magnificent walls that guarded Philadelphia. As befitting the important and wealthy trade centre the city had been, and perhaps would be once again, those walls were at least thirty feet in height and ten feet thick. They consisted of a core of mortar and rubble faced with well-dressed stone blocks. Stairways had been built into the walls at regular intervals to allow members of the garrison to ascend to parapets constructed of brick. In addition, semi-circular towers protruding outwards from the walls, spaced at one-hundred-yard intervals, allowed archers and crossbowmen to direct volleys of missiles against the flanks of any enemy assaulting the walls.

  The gates into the city were also impressive, the one Luca and the others walked through comprising two arches supported by six stone pillars. Waiting for the group was a colour party of fully armoured horsemen called cataphracts, each rider wearing a mail hauberk, coif, chausses and a helmet, and sitting on a horse protected by scale armour on its body, neck and head. Beneath their mail they wore red tunics fringed with gold, with red and yellow plumes on their helmets. They numbered a score, with an additional six mounted trumpeters who blew a fanfare that startled the horse Arabates was riding, nearly throwing the Alan leader. Luca smiled but Sancho jabbed him in the ribs.

  ‘Remember what I said. You will be on your best behaviour.’

  The city sat above the valley, but above the city stood the citadel, the ancient Greek acropolis where pagan shrines and statues had been replaced by Christian churches, barracks, stables and the governor’s palace. Surrounding the whole were walls with rectangular towers spaced at regular intervals.

  The governor, Ioannes Komnenos, and his family were waiting for their saviours in the spacious courtyard in the citadel, Luca feeling like the peasant he was when he stood in a line with the others to accept the applause of the governor and his family. The Komnenos dynasty had once ruled the Roman Empire, though that had been two hundred years before, but it was still a powerful and wealthy family. That wealth was displayed in the rich attire worn by the governor, his wife and their three children, all adults. They all wore silk kabbadions with gold embroideries on the collars, sleeves and hems, the women’s garments also decorated with pearls. The governor wore no sword and neither did his son, as was the custom of the court in Constantinople.

  Luca estimated the governor, tall and lean with a weathered, clean-shaven face and kind blue eyes, to be in his fifties or late forties, his beautiful olive-skinned wife with raven-black hair to be slightly younger. After the obligatory fanfare of trumpets, he stepped forward to speak to the new arrivals in turn. Luca glanced at Jordi who was ogling the governor’s daughters, both in their twenties and both having inherited their mother’s good looks. They politely stared into space as the governor spoke first to his friend, Count Michael, and then to Grand Duke Roger. Luca was mortified when Arabates next to him broke wind loudly, hoping no one would think he was responsible. The Alan grinned but Luca was disgusted.

  Governor Ioannes spoke to Sancho in Italian, having conversed with Count Michael in Greek, which he also spoke to the boorish Arabates. He laid a hand on Luca’s shoulder when he faced the young Italian.

  ‘Count Michael has informed me of your bravery in saving the life of Princess Maria,’ his voice was slightly hoarse. ‘As one of her oldest friends, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘Thank you, lord.’

  He noticed the Damascus daggers on his and Jordi’s right sides.

  ‘Being a mercenary must be very profitable these days to afford such expensive weapons.’

  ‘They were a gift from the emperor, lord,’ Luca told him.

  ‘After we saved the princess,’ added Jordi.

  The governor smiled at Sancho’s son. ‘Then they were a measly gift for the life of such a great lady.’

  The governor had a few words with Jordi before walking back to his family and inviting the visitors into his palace, the chief eunuch requesting they follow him to their allotted quarters. Arabates grabbed Luca’s tunic.

  ‘Do not think I have forgotten the murder of two of my men.’

  So, he did speak Italian.

  Luca yanked his sleeve free.

  ‘Your men need to learn more manners.’

  The interior of the palace was exquisite. Doors were decorated with sheaths of gold and silver leaf. Corridors were painted with murals of past glories, beautiful enamelled pottery stood on mahogany cabinets, and miniatures of members of the Komnenos family decorated the walls. These things were pleasant to look at, but for Luca and Jordi the true jewel in the governor’s palace was his private bathhouse.

  Fed by mountain spring water, it had three rooms – warm, hot and cold – where guests could refresh themselves. It was a far cry from jumping into a lake or a river, slaves taking their clothes in the changing room before they were shown naked into the warm room. The walls and floor were heated to make the body sweat, after which they were shown into the next room where they immersed themselves in an invigorating hot bath. Now sweating profusely, they were shown into another room where slaves were waiting to massage their bodies with oils, after which the dirt and sweat were scraped off their bodies using a curved instrument called a strigil. Their hair was also trimmed and their beards removed, for they had not shaved since they had left Artake. The final part of the bathing process involved them jumping into cold baths, which caused them to gasp but banished any drowsiness they may have felt. War seemed a thousand miles away, but was uppermost in the thoughts of the governor the next day when he laid bare the woeful position he and his city were in.

  He spoke in Greek but had provided a translator so Sancho would understand what he said. Luca and Jordi stood behind the seated Almogavar leader in the spacious meeting room, the walls of which were decorated with murals depicting the recapture of Philadelphia by the Emperor Alexios from the Turks two hundred years before. Slaves served wine to those seated at a table with heavy, carved legs, Ioannes staring at his silver, jewelled chalice.

  ‘There was a time when the doux of the Thrakesion Theme was able to supply ten thousand soldiers to the imperial army, along with great quantities of wine, olives, wheat, barley, corn, biscuit, flour and beasts of burden to keep those soldiers in the field.’

  The governor looked up and remembered that neither Sancho nor Arabates were familiar with the organisation of the empire, so explained that a theme was a province of the empire, administered by a governor called a doux, and a military commander called a stratopedarches. He undertook both roles, seeing as little of the once-great Thrakesion Theme remained under the emperor’s control.

  ‘With the shrinkage of the theme’s territory came a reduction in the number of soldiers it could muster,’ continued Ioannes, ‘since the theme’s soldiers are recruited from its landowners.’

  ‘How many men can you raise, lord?’ asked Sancho.

  ‘A thousand at most,’ came the blunt answer.

  Roger raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Of those, half must remain in the city to guard against a surprise attack,’ said Ioannes.

  ‘Five hundred men,’ lamented Roger, ‘is not a large number to add to our own forces. The emperor has tasked us with relieving Magnesia and Tire as well as this great city.’

  Ioannes took a sip of wine, observing the standing Luca and Jordi.

  ‘As far as I know and bearing in mind I have not heard anything from its governor in over a month, Magnesia still holds out, though for how much longer I do not know. As for Tire, it is in a similar perilous condition.’

  ‘Time is of the essence,’ said Count Michael.

  ‘We will march first to Magne
sia,’ declared Sancho, prompting smiles from the pair behind him. Ioannes pointed at them.

  ‘With wolves like these under your command, I have no doubt Mehmed Bey will be running for the hills.’

  Roger wore a blank expression. ‘Who is that, my lord?’

  ‘The ruler of the Aydin Emirate, duke,’ the governor told him. ‘Just one of the Muslim warlords who now infest this once-great land.’

  ‘Thank God they do not have siege engines,’ said Roger.

  ‘Even if they did, they would only use them as a last resort,’ Ioannes told him. ‘They do not wish to destroy the towns and cities in this land but desire to possess them, just as they have done to countless farms, villages and towns throughout Anatolia.’

  ‘After first killing the inhabitants,’ said Arabates.

  Ioannes shook his head. ‘They are not like the Mongols.’

  ‘Who are the Mongols?’ asked Sancho.

  Ioannes laughed. ‘What would I give to be able to ask that question? The Mongols are a godless people from the east who slaughter everyone who does not immediately yield to them. The Turks, in contrast, offer to preserve the lives of Christians in the lands they conquer, and even respect their religion, up to a point. But they build mosques to replace churches, levy additional taxes on Christians in their domains, and bar non-Muslims from holding positions of power.’

  ‘They are soft,’ mocked Arabates.

  ‘They are clever,’ Ioannes corrected him, ‘for they know that in time the Christians under their control will either convert to Islam or depart their lands, never to return.’

  ‘Never to return?’ said Roger.

  Ioannes emptied his chalice. ‘I will be frank with you, grand duke, seeing as your great service to me and this city deserves honesty. Two hundred and thirty years ago, the empire suffered a great defeat at the hands of the Turks at a place called Manzikert. Prior to that battle, Anatolia was the nursery of the empire’s armies. After it, the empire suffered perpetual shrinkage and decline at the hands of the Turks.’

  ‘There have been many defeats since that clash,’ said Count Michael, ‘though Manzikert was a hammer blow, second only to the treachery of the Latin crusaders a hundred years ago.’

  ‘When the Pope’s soldiers sacked Constantinople,’ mused Roger, ‘that was a black day for Christendom. And yet, my lords, all is not lost. We have won three great victories against the Turks, and God willing, we shall win many more before this campaign is done.’

  ‘How far away is Magnesia?’ asked Sancho, bored by tales of Roman history.

  ‘Forty miles to the west,’ Ioannes informed him, ‘near the port of Izmir, Mehmed Bey’s capital.

  ‘This Mehmed Bey must now be in a weakened position,’ said Roger, ‘seeing as we have just destroyed his army.’

  Ioannes gave him a kindly smile. ‘Alas, grand duke, you have just destroyed the Germiyanid army of Sasa Bey, who is another emir.’

  ‘We will need replacement spears and javelins before we can march to relieve Magnesia,’ said Sancho. ‘This emir, this Mehmed Bey, he has a large army?’

  A slave refilled the governor’s chalice. ‘He can field around ten thousand men.’

  ‘Then it is better if we strike first as opposed to waiting for him to march through the valley to attack us,’ stated Sancho.

  The Almogavars, Catalan horsemen and Alans emptied the Turkish camp of all food before they marched west on the second morning after their arrival before the city. The tents were left standing as the Catalan Company would be returning to Philadelphia after relieving Magnesia, afterwards striking south to relieve the town of Tire. Their food bags full to bursting and equipped with replacement spears and javelins from Philadelphia’s armouries, the Almogavars were in high spirits as they marched through the lush valley. It was dotted with farms and villages, all of which they skirted and did not molest, Corberan’s horsemen ensuring the Alans, who had already claimed the hundreds of captured horses for their own, did not plunder the countryside. Count Komnenos had joined the expedition with a hundred of his magnificent cataphracts, two hundred more lightly armed horsemen, and a similar number of squires and servants to attend him and his armoured riders. They were all mounted, but they and the rest of the relief column were preceded by the aged Archbishop of Philadelphia, behind him three of his priests holding icons of Jesus, the Virgin Mary and Emperor Basil. The arrival of the Catalan Company before the walls of Philadelphia was interpreted as a miracle by the archbishop. His request that he and a coterie of his priests be allowed to join the expedition with holy icons was gladly welcomed by the pious governor. The presence of the icons stiffened the resolve of the emperor’s soldiers but slowed the column to a crawl.

  It should have taken two days to reach Magnesia, but when the company and its Alan allies made camp among the trees on a hill above the valley at the end of the first day, the column had advanced a mere ten miles. It would take a further three at least to reach Magnesia, by which time any scouts or spies of the enemy would have alerted the besiegers of the approach of the company, thereby wrecking any hope of surprise, especially so since the Turkish-held town of Salihli guarded the approach to Magnesia from the east. The Turks were known to have developed a signalling system of beacons and flags in the valley to warn of any threat to the port of Izmir. The town, nestled on the southern slopes of the valley, was small but would have to be invested to prevent the garrison commander sending out parties to attack the relief column.

  Sancho Rey, never the most patient of men, wanted to strike fast and quickly to utilise the Almogavars to maximum effect. He had no interest in trailing behind priests swinging incense burners and holding icons aloft. He therefor devised a scheme to rid him and his men of the priests, the fractious Alans and Count Komnenos and his horsemen that required a small army of servants to maintain them and attend to their every need.

  ‘We are going over the hills to bypass the town and strike directly for Magnesia,’ he told his son as Jordi, Luca and Roc sat round a campfire eating bread cooked that morning in Philadelphia. ‘We will leave just after dawn tomorrow. This is Romanus, a native of these parts, who will show us the way. Make him feel at home, Luca. Like you he was a shepherd in a former life.’

  Romanus looked like a beggar in his dirty tunic and leggings, though he was wearing a pair of stout leather shoes. Roc passed him a leather flask filled with wine and offered him a place beside the fire, which he accepted.

  Luca pointed at himself. ‘Shepherd, like you.’

  ‘Shep-herd,’ said Romanus slowly. Italian was obviously a foreign language to him.

  Jordi repeated the sentence in Catalan, which elicited a similar confused look from the shaggy haired Roman.

  ‘Count Komnenos informed me Romanus is familiar with the Cogamus Valley, having worked in these hills all his life,’ said Sancho.

  Luca looked at the sombre Roman. They were probably the same age, both being lean and sinewy on account of the hard life of a shepherd – an over-weight shepherd did not exist. He and Jordi did their best to make the newcomer welcome but the inability to converse with him was an insurmountable barrier, and so he and they merely sat and watched the flames of the fire before falling asleep. Luca was woken to stand guard during the night and before the first rays of the sun had lanced through the forest canopy, he and the others were being led through the trees by Romanus, Sancho by his side and nearly four thousand Almogavars following. The horsemen were left behind to make a loud show of noise and colour before the walls of Salihli, to divert the enemy’s attention away from the real relief force that was snaking its way over the hills to arrive at the camp of Mehmed Bey before the walls of Magnesia. The Almogavars, rested and rejuvenated, maintained a cruel pace in their eagerness to achieve maximum surprise, descending the mountainside to the immediate south of the city, which was surrounded on three sides by a plain through which the River Gediz meandered.

  To find no enemy army anywhere in sight.

  But the s
ight of hundreds of Almogavars descending the range of hills behind the city was enough to scatter the people working in the fields and in the vineyards and orchards surrounding Magnesia. They abandoned their tools, wagons and animals to flee back to the city, Luca bemused by their reaction at the appearance of their saviours.

  ‘This is most odd,’ growled Sancho, holding up a hand to halt the long column behind him.

  Romanus turned, grinned at him and pointed at Sancho.

  ‘Magnesia.’

  Sancho ignored him but pointed at Luca and Jordi.

  ‘Fetch Marc, Angel and Hector.’

  They did as they were told, running back up the slope to search for the other council members and division commanders. The Almogavars sat down to drink from their water bottles in preparation. For what? There was no enemy army before the walls of the city and no sign that a siege had ever taken place.

  ‘The Turks may have packed up and left,’ suggested Marc.

  ‘Perhaps the governor destroyed them just as we did at Philadelphia,’ opined Angel.

  Sancho discounted the notions, making a sweep with his arm.

  ‘This valley has not been touched by war in a long time. I see no ditches, traces of an encampment or large areas of dug-up earth to indicate mass graves.’

  ‘Perhaps the Turks captured it before winter,’ said Hector, ‘and we are the ones who will be besieging it.’

  Sancho looked at the impressive city of white stone and the high walls that surrounded it, stout round towers at regular intervals along their length and four huge gatehouses giving entry into Magnesia. Count Michael had told him that the city had been founded by veterans of the Trojan War two thousand years before and had subsequently become an important Greek and then Roman trading centre. And when the Latin crusaders had taken Constantinople in the last century, Magnesia was for a brief time the capital of the Roman Empire, housing the imperial mint and imperial treasury. He could see soldiers on the walls and in the towers, the sun reflecting off their helmets and spear points. He could also identify flags fluttering in the morning breeze, small squares of red and yellow.