The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  The sun was rising in a clear sky to herald a hot summer’s day, and to highlight the town of Tire nestled at the foot of the Bozdaglar Mountains directly opposite to where the Almogavars waited in the trees. Between them and the small walled town stood a forest of tents and a besieging army. The ominous sound of war drums echoed across the valley, indicating the Aydinids were already attacking the town.

  The battle to save Tire was about to begin.

  Chapter 14

  The tactics were simple: the Almogavars would form a hollow column once they exited the trees, with the crossbowmen inside the formation, ready to shoot at any enemy soldiers trying to break the column or stand in its way. Luca licked his lips as he strained at the leash, wanting to sprint across the valley to get to beleaguered Tire as quickly as possible. But, like his night-time trek through the hills, the reality would be different. Luca could cover the three miles in fifteen minutes, even carrying a full equipment load, and so could most of the others kneeling at the treeline, waiting for Sancho’s order. But retaining formation would add at least five minutes to that time, more if they had they had to fight their way through to the gates.

  Romanus opted to stay with the Almogavars, despite Sancho’s efforts to get rid of him, forcibly pointing in the direction from whence they had come. But Romanus stood his ground. Sancho threw up his arms.

  ‘Very well, this is as good a place to die as anywhere.’

  He walked out into the sunlight and four hundred others followed, Sancho Rey setting a rapid pace as he put himself at the tip of the column, Luca and Jordi flanking him and behind them two files forming each side of the column – an outer file of Almogavars; an inner one of crossbowmen. And one native guide armed only with a knife.

  Everyone instinctively crouched low as they paced across the lush grass, a vivid green in the early morning sun. Sancho knew Tire had three entry gates – north, west and east – and so aimed for the eastern gate, which would take him and his column around the great camp planted directly in front of the town. Unlike the one before Philadelphia, this one was entrenched, being surrounded by a small ditch and rampart, with soldiers pacing up and down the latter. Those guards soon spotted the drab brown column snaking across the valley towards the town. Luca noticed the guards leaving the ramparts, to no doubt alert their officers to the presence of the relief column. He and the others subconsciously increased their pace, breaking into a run to reach Tire as quickly as possible. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, knowing it was inevitable Turkish horsemen would be appearing to either charge the Almogavars or, worse, stand off and shoot volleys of arrows at them. It was a race against time and Sancho was determined to win it.

  The Almogavars moved past the camp and saw the town ringed by enemy soldiers, among them a multitude of maroon banners with a black circle in the centre. The eastern gate was already under attack, as were the walls either side of it, archers shooting up at figures on the battlements and others ascending scaling ladders. He smiled. If the archers were directing their arrows against the defenders, it meant their horses were safely corralled in camp. But they could still turn around and shoot their missiles at the Almogavars. But with the whole Aydinid army committed against Tire along the entire extent of its walls, it would take time to re-orientate it towards the Almogavars.

  A frantic banging of kettledrums and blowing of trumpets recalled the troops on the scaling ladders and stopped the volleys of arrows being shot at the defenders. A thickening mass of Turkish soldiers began to deploy immediately to the front of the Almogavars, around a hundred paces away.

  ‘Into them,’ hollered Sancho, plucking a javelin from his quiver.

  Luca also pulled a javelin from behind him and waited until Sancho threw his before launching his own. He saw the closed gates behind the Aydinid soldiers, who were now closely packed with spears levelled to form an unbroken wall of shields and spear points.

  It takes skill to determine the right moment to throw a javelin while running at an enemy.

  Each Almogavar could hit a small target – a face, for example – at a range of twenty-five yards, though Sancho threw his javelin at around forty yards from the enemy, the steel head smashing into the head of an enemy soldier immediately in front of him. Luca threw his own javelin a second afterwards, the metal point striking an Aydinid soldier in the left shoulder, just above his small round shield. He pulled a second and hurled it directly at the face of dark-skinned man a mere ten or so paces from him, screaming in triumph as the steel point went straight through his right eye socket.

  The Aydinid line buckled when the Almogavars smashed into it, the arrowhead formation flattening to allow more than a handful of Catalans to hit the stationary enemy, stabbing with their spears against a foe stunned by the ferocity of the assault they were subjected to. Perhaps they did not expect the Christian soldiers to close on them, thinking a row of levelled spears was a sufficient deterrent. But at the point of impact those spears had disappeared, their owners felled by a brutal javelin volley. And before those behind them could step forward to seal the gap, the Almogavars were among them.

  Luca thrust his spear into the belly of the man behind the one he had killed with a javelin, more javelins thrown by those immediately behind him adding to the chaos and carnage. The Aydinid had been frozen with fear, his shield hanging loosely by his side and useless. He doubled over after Luca extracted the point from his guts, jabbing it forward into the face of a third Aydinid, causing him to shriek in pain and recoil away. He stepped over the two dead men and stabbed the third trying to flee from him in the back, the point easily penetrating his tunic. Around him there was pandemonium as the Aydinids crumbled and attempted to get out of the way of the Almogavars stabbing at them with their spears and short swords, crossbowmen adding to the confusion with aimed shots that cut down more Turks.

  Romanus was shouting up at the walls as Sancho, Jordi and Luca broke through the crumbling enemy line to reach the gates. Arrows were being shot from above the gates, by the garrison, adding to the enemy’s desire to be as far away from the Almogavars as possible. And then the gates began to creak open, just a few inches at first.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Luca, ‘open the gates.’

  Jordi added his voice to the appeal, echoed by dozens of others as the Almogavars began to crowd around the gatehouse. Sancho grabbed one of the gates and pushed it, Luca, Jordi and others doing likewise to assist the garrison. As they did so Almogavars flooded past them into the town.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Arrows slammed into the timbers of the gates, shot by enemy archers. When the Almogavars had been battling the enemy at close quarters, they had been too close and intermingled with Aydinids to give the Muslim archers clear shots. But now the Islamic soldiers were scattering out of the Catalans’ way, allowing the archers to shoot at the Almogavars. But now the gates were fully open and the Catalans were flooding into the town, in no time running out of harm’s way. Luca ducked behind the gate as two arrows hissed past him, Sancho also ducking low and scrambling behind the other gate. He and his son helped the soldiers of the garrison close it, Luca doing likewise with the other gate, to the sound of arrows thudding into the thick wooden beams. When the gates had been closed, Sancho turned and raised his spear in the air, prompting cheers from the Almogavars. Luca gave Jordi a grin.

  A grim-faced man in a dazzling scale-armour cuirass, a shining helmet and a long-sleeved blue tunic edged with red and gold marched up to Sancho and removed his helmet.

  ‘I am Nikephoros Bryennios, governor of Tire. I welcome you to my town and invite you and your men to assist me and my own soldiers to defend it against the host assaulting it.’

  Curt and to the point, and spoken in perfect Spanish, he bowed his head, put his helmet back on his head and returned to the battlements to supervise the defence.

  ‘You heard the governor,’ Sancho called to his men huddled round him. ‘Pair up with a crossbowman. Move!’

  The relief colum
n’s appearance had temporarily interrupted the Aydinid assault. But now the Catalans were inside the town and the gates had been shut, the Muslims once again focused their attention on taking Tire. Drummers recommenced their incessant noise and once more the battlements became the focus of the struggle.

  Luca and his crossbowman companion, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and lank black hair, hurried up the stone steps leading to the battlemented walkway, which was wide enough to allow two men to pass each other with ease. The battlements were around five feet in height, the gaps in the wall between them some three feet in width to allow an archer or crossbowman to shoot down at attackers. And there were many attackers.

  A host of scaling ladders had been placed against the wall, some of which had been pushed away by the defenders, sending their occupants crashing to the ground. But the garrison was spread thinly along the walls, and where there were gaps the enemy was about to scale the walls and reach the battlements. But the Almogavars tipped the balance in the defenders’ favour.

  Luca and his companion headed for a section of the battlements that was empty, soldiers with teardrop-shaped shields either side stabbing with their spears down at attackers, and archers in towers shooting at Aydinids on ladders. The crossbowman stopped, brought the stubby stock of his weapon to his shoulder and pulled the trigger, the bolt shooting through the air to hit a soldier scrambling over the battlements. The bolt struck him and swept him off the wall like a brush sweeping leaves.

  ‘The next one’s yours, Black Sheep,’ said the crossbowman, placing his foot in the arming stirrup of the crossbow to begin the process of reloading his weapon.

  Luca rushed to the gap in battlements against which the top of the ladder had been placed and saw two hands and a helmet appear in front of him. He waited a few seconds before stabbing the soldier in the chest, toppling him from the ladder. He stepped forward to take a look below and recoiled when a pair of arrows hissed by him, one deflecting off his helmet.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ warned the crossbowman. ‘Their archers are just as good as we are. Get your shield up to cover me.’

  The small shield seemed totally inadequate in the face of the arrow storm being directed at the walls, but Luca held his in the gap to allow the crossbowman to shoot down at those on the ladder. It took around fifteen seconds to reload his weapon, but each bolt knocked an enemy soldier from the ladder, which he and Luca then shoved away from the wall to send it and its remaining occupants crashing to the ground.

  ‘Behind you,’ shouted the crossbowman in alarm.

  They may have dealt with one ladder, but there were many planted against Tire’s battlements and there were too few defenders to guard every section of wall.

  Luca spun, shield in his left hand, spear in his right, and jabbed the point into the enemy’s left thigh. The Aydinid was wearing mail armour and carrying a shield, both of which protected his left side when he jumped down from the rampart. But his legs were vulnerable and the injury to his thigh was enough to make him sprawl on to the walkway. Face down, he was out of the fight, at least temporarily, giving Luca time to jump forward, twist and thrust his spear point into the groin of the Aydinid following. His face contorted in agony, he collapsed backwards, tumbling down the ladder, one of his feet getting stuck in a rung and preventing anyone else reaching the battlements, at least from that particular ladder.

  The Almogavars and garrison were spread thinly, and soon more and more Turks were clambering on to the ramparts, to be killed by Catalan spears or swords. The crossbowmen were shooting at men on the walls now, Almogavar shields and weapons covering them when they reloaded or the enemy got too close. Luca saw a yellow and red flag fall from one of the towers, to be replaced by a maroon standard with a black circle in the centre.

  Another Turk came over the battlements. The crossbowman shot him. But then another, a spearman, sprang on to the walkway. Luca jabbed his spear point at his face but the Turk stepped back out of range, Luca stepped forward but was forced to stop when the crossbowman shot a bolt right past him. He spun and saw a Turk staggering on the walkway before collapsing, another armed with an axe behind him. He dropped his spear, turned back to face the front, plucked his one remaining javelin from the quiver, hurled it at the spearman’s face, picked up his spear, spun, ducked low and impaled the axe man on the end of it as he ran forward.

  Highly trained professional that he was, the crossbowman went about his work in a methodical manner, relying on Luca to keep the enemy away as he reloaded his weapon, shot it and placed his foot in its stirrup to begin the process all over again. The bolts in Luca’s bag were nearing their end, however, and so was the garrison of Tire and its Catalan allies as more and more Turks reached the battlements. The walkway was choked with dead and injured, which impeded the enemy’s progress, but did not halt it.

  ‘I have no more bolts.’

  Luca glanced at the crossbowman with his now useless weapon and knew their lifespan was shortening by the second. Either side of them lay dead enemy soldiers, but more were readying themselves for a final attack, which would sweep them aside. Above the din of drums, shouts and cries came a new sound – multiple trumpet blasts coming from beyond the town. The Turks on the walls suddenly became uninterested in the defenders and began to clamber back down the scaling ladders. Luca and the crossbowman, amazed and surprised, just looked at them as they did so, energy suddenly draining from their limbs as the realisation they would not die that day dawned on them.

  When the last Turk had left the battlements, Luca rushed to the wall.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ the crossbowman warned him. ‘They still have a small army of archers on the ground.’

  Luca kept low and peeked over the stone rampart. To see a most wondrous sight.

  He jumped up and could not help but smile at the splendid view the walls gave him of the sprawling Turkish camp immediately to the front, and the Christian horsemen charging at it from the east, the sun at their backs and banners fluttering among their ranks. In the vanguard were the magnificent cataphracts of Count Ioannes, behind them the other horsemen of Philadelphia and Count Michael. On the left wing were Corberan’s horsemen, and on the right flank of the relief force a mass of whooping and hollering Alans.

  The Aydinid army had been fully committed to the assault against Tire, thousands of soldiers ascending scaling ladders or shooting arrows at the defenders on the walls. The mounted relief force was now riding into the gap between the town and the enemy camp, to kill as many Turks as possible before they could seek sanctuary inside their fortified camp. It was a race against time, a race the Turks lost.

  Luca and others on the walls stood and cheered when nearly three thousand horsemen charged into the great mass of enemy soldiers trying to withdraw to their camp, the Alans for once proving their worth as they shot their recurve bows with abandon at the throng, the cataphracts and Catalans going about their work with lances, swords and maces, cutting down everything in their path. Luca had never seen anything like it, his jaw dropping in admiration and awe at the terrible spectacle unfolding in front of his eyes.

  An intact formation of foot soldiers cannot be broken by horsemen, for a horse will not gallop straight at a wall, be it of stone, brick or human flesh. Horse archers can ride around the formation and attempt to shoot it to pieces, but if foot soldiers keep their nerve and stand in their ranks, they become like a stronghold. But if horsemen get among foot soldiers, they can do murder. It was so now, as thousands of Turks were cut down, shot or skewered. So many were killed that the Almogavar foot soldiers following closely on the heels of the horsemen enjoyed only meagre pickings when they reached the scene of the slaughter.

  The Catalan Company had been hired to save the cities of Philadelphia and Magnesia, plus the town of Tire. In the space of three months they had routed three Turkish armies, relieved the town and both cities, though for some strange reason Magnesia and its suspicious governor were not threatened by the Muslims, and re-established Roman r
ule in western Anatolia.

  Luca felt an immense sense of pride in the achievements of the Almogavars, of which he was a member, together with feeling privileged at being allowed to join such a formidable organisation. In that moment, when the Turks were being put to the sword, he gave thanks to God for setting him on the path he was now treading alongside Jordi, Sancho Rey, Hector and the thousands of other Almogavars who were reversing the decline of an ancient empire.

  Chapter 15

  Thousands of Turks lay dead before the walls of Tire, their scaling ladders still propped up against its defences, thousands of horses still corralled in their camp. A camp now being thoroughly looted by the Alans, Arabates’ horsemen dismounting to search tents and wagons for anything of value. Their chief had placed guards around the camp to ensure no Almogavar or Roman gained entry, counts Michael and Komnenos and their men riding into the town to greet the governor and attend a church service to give thanks to God for the great victory they had won. Grand Duke Roger joined them, partly to celebrate the triumph but also to pray for soul of Corberan of Navarre, who had been killed in the initial charge, an arrow severing his windpipe. His distraught horsemen had been sent to scour the countryside for stragglers, to either kill them or bring them back as captives, to be sold as slaves.

  Sancho Rey, however, was in no mood for piety. He led his Almogavars back out of the town to link up with the captains who had accompanied the horsemen.

  Hector offered him his hand. ‘Still alive, then?’

  ‘Still alive. Have you taken a roll call?’